After Midnight

by Richard Laymon

  “None.”

  “What about heading over to a motel?”

  “At this hour?”

  “Most of them over by the highway are open all night. You might have to ring a bell, or something, but…”

  “I’m not going to any motel. Are you kidding? I’m probably ten times safer staying right here than if I try to drive over to one of those places at this hour. Anyway, haven’t you ever heard of Norman Bates?”

  “You’ll be fine if you don’t take a shower.”

  “I’ll just stay home and take one.”

  Tony was silent for a few moments. It made me wonder what he was thinking about. Then he said, “Look. Why don’t I come over there? Just so you won’t be alone in case this guy decides to try something.”

  His suggestion didn’t come as a huge surprise. Still, it made me feel uneasy.

  “I don’t think so, Tony. Thanks for asking.”

  “I realize we don’t know each other very well.”

  “We don’t know each other period,” I pointed out. “You called the wrong number and we’ve been talking for about five minutes. Now you want to come over?”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “Maybe you are and maybe you aren’t. Maybe this whole thing’s a set-up. It’s pretty convenient, you just happening to call here when you did.”

  “I dialed the wrong number.”

  “Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t.”

  “Jeez,” he said.

  For a few moments, he was silent.

  Then he said, “Anyway, it’s getting pretty late. I’d better hit the sack. Good luck with your intruder, Alice. It was nice talking to you. Pretty much. Bye.”

  He hung up.

  5

  EXIT

  After that, I put down the phone and crept through the darkness to the sliding door.

  The other side of the glass was smeared where the stranger had licked it, where he’d rubbed it with his wet face. It looked like a dirty car windshield after you’ve run wipers across it.

  I found a clean place next to the mess his face had made, and peered out as if gazing over his shoulder.

  The warnings from Tony made me nervous. Maybe the stranger would sneak back.

  Maybe, next time, he wouldn’t let a door stop him.

  Not that it had actually stopped him, this time.

  I could still picture him writhing against it.

  Trying my best to ignore the image, I must’ve spent about ten minutes pressed to the glass. I had to make sure the coast was clear. But I couldn’t get the awful picture out of my mind.

  If he’d still been there—the glass gone—my right breast might’ve been pushing against his bare chest. He could’ve been squirming against me, rubbing me, spurting on me.

  I finally stumbled backward to get away from the door.

  The moonlight showed what he’d left on the glass.

  It made me feel sick. Trembling, I turned away. I shut the curtains, then found my purse on the couch and made my way to the other door. I opened it and stepped into the hallway. This time, I was glad to see the foyer light.

  This time, too, I wasn’t afraid of being seen.

  That’s not quite true. The idea of being seen frightened me; it just didn’t stop me. I walked swiftly down the hall and into the living room. Almost nothing showed on the other side of the glass wall. Just darkness. But the glass gave back an image of me.

  Me, striding across the carpet, my purse swinging by my hip, the robe flowing around me, my legs flashing out long and bare as if the robe were an exotic gown with a slit up its front.

  I looked like the heroine of a gothic romance.

  Or a madwoman from a horror movie.

  Especially when I reached up with both hands and lifted the saber off its hooks above the fireplace.

  The saber felt good and heavy.

  I stepped away from the fireplace, turned toward my dark image in the glass, and watched myself slash the air a few times.

  Was he watching?

  With the wall of glass in front of me and the foyer light behind my back, I could probably be seen clearly all the way from the edge of the woods.

  I raised the saber high.

  “You want me, pal?” I asked. “Come and get me.”

  I swung the blade a few more times.

  I felt powerful and excited. I looked pretty cool, too.

  But then I started to feel stupid and silly and even a little scared, so I turned away from the glass and hurried toward the foyer.

  Normally, I would’ve left the house through the sliding door in the den. That was just my habit. It probably started because the den was where I spent most of my time, after dark. I’d be in it for hours watching the big-screen television, so I generally felt comfortable there and didn’t want to wander through the huge, empty house to get out. So simple just to use the door that was there, slip outside, slide it shut and hurry over to the garage.

  Not tonight.

  I just couldn’t. Not after what the stranger had done on the other side of it.

  Somebody will have to clean that up, I thought.

  Not me. Not tonight, anyhow.

  Standing in the foyer, I wondered if there was anything I needed. I had my keys inside my purse. Since I planned to come back first thing in the morning, there was no reason to take my swimsuit, towel, oil, paperback, etc.

  The doors were locked. I’d turned off all the lights except for those that were supposed to remain on all night.

  I suddenly remembered the air conditioning.

  Serena and Charlie usually turned it off before retiring—except when the weather was terribly hot.

  When I was in command, I often forgot about the thing and left it going all night.

  Since I’d just now thought of it, I rested the saber against my shoulder and marched up the hallway. At the thermostat, I flicked the switch to the Off position.

  “What a good girl am I,” I whispered.

  Then I wondered which door to use.

  Not the den door, that was for sure.

  Serena and Charlie’s bedroom had a sliding door. So did the living room, and the dining room beyond that. But all those doors could be seen from the back yard, the pool and the woods. If the stranger was watching, he might see me leave the house. He might even see me go to the garage.

  And know where to find me.

  I decided to leave by the front door.

  First, though, I had to pee. The guest bathroom was just off the hall on my way back to the foyer, so I went in. I’d given little Debbie a Winnie the Pooh nightlight for her second birthday, and there it was, spreading a soft glow through the dark.

  I didn’t touch the switch for the overhead lights.

  Late at night, it’s always best to avoid turning on lights. At least if you’re in a room with windows. The sudden brightness, where a moment earlier the windows had been patches of empty black, announces you to the world, gives away your exact location.

  The bathroom had a pair of high, frosted windows that were clearly visible from nearly anywhere outside the front of the house.

  So I settled for the light from Pooh bear.

  With the door open and the lights off, I placed the saber and my purse on the rug just in front of the toilet. Then I took off the robe, draped it over a towel bar, and sat down.

  Too bad I’d already shut off the air conditioning. Not because I suddenly felt hot, but because I was so noisy. Without the air going, the only sound in the house seemed to be me.

  Talk about giving away your location!

  Leaning forward, elbows on my knees, I could see out the open bathroom door. I kept watching. I half expected someone to drift by in the hallway, or come in.

  The thoughts gave me gooseflesh. Prickly bumps sprouted all over me, the way they do sometimes when I try to squash a really awful spider in the corner of a ceiling and it gets away and falls on my bare arm.

  I felt crawly all up and down my body.
/>   Nobody showed up in the doorway, though.

  Finally, I got finished. I was reluctant to flush, but did it anyway. In the silence, the noise of the flush was like a sudden roar.

  So loud that anything might’ve happened somewhere else in the house: phones might’ve rung; somebody could have shouted out my name; the stranger might’ve smashed the glass of a window or door.

  At last, the noise subsided.

  I put the robe on, belted it shut, then crouched and picked up my purse and the saber. In the doorway, I stopped. I leaned forward, easing my head into the hall, and looked both ways.

  Nobody.

  Of course.

  I stepped out and walked quickly to the front door.

  Getting it unlocked and open would’ve been tricky with my left hand, since I’m a righty. So I switched the sword to my left hand. With the blade resting against my shoulder, I used my right hand to unfasten the deadbolt, turn the knob, and pull the door open.

  It swept toward me.

  For some reason, the porch light was off.

  It shouldn’t have been off.

  And nobody should’ve been standing on the front stoop, but someone was.

  A tall, dark figure reaching for me.

  I shrieked.

  Through the noise of my outcry, he said something. I couldn’t hear it, though. Still shrieking, I swung the saber at him.

  A left-handed, feeble try.

  He staggered backward to avoid the blade.

  It missed him, but he stumbled off the edge of the stoop and fell backward. He landed on the grass. A whoomp exploded out of him; the impact with the lawn must’ve knocked his wind out.

  I leaped over the threshold, ran across the stoop and hopped down. Stradling his hips, I raised the saber high with both hands and swept it down as hard as I could.

  It chopped his head down the middle, cleaving his face in half. It split his head open most of the way to his neck, but his jaw stopped the blade.

  He thrashed and gurgled between my feet.

  My saber was stuck, either between a couple of his lower front teeth or in the bone of his jaw. I shook it and tugged it. Instead of coming loose, it jerked his head this way and that.

  At last, it came out.

  I was all set to give him another chop, but he’d quit moving.

  He looked pretty dead.

  Pretty isn’t a great choice of words, under the circumstances. Anyway, there was no good reason to give him another whack.

  I felt too shocked and worn out to do much of anything, so I just kept standing over him, his hips between my ankles. I had the sword clutched in my right hand, but held it off to the side so blood wouldn’t rub off or drip on me.

  I stood there for a long time.

  Staring down at the body.

  It was lit by the dim glow from a lamp near the driveway.

  It wore a short-sleeved plaid shirt, blue jeans and loafers. No socks.

  It sure wasn’t my prowler.

  I figured it was probably Tony.

  6

  DISCOVERIES

  My guess was right.

  When I finally recovered enough to move, I stepped away from him, put my saber down on the grass, then crouched beside him and searched the pockets of his jeans.

  He had a comb and handkerchief in his left front pocket. A wallet in the left back pocket. In the right front, a leather key case and some coins. In the right back, a pistol.

  A pistol!

  Had he come here planning to stand guard and protect me?

  Or to use the gun against me?

  I put his things into the pockets of my robe, but the gun was too heavy. It felt like a hand tugging down on my pocket. Afraid it might ruin the robe, I took it out and carried it.

  Back inside the house, I shut the door. I sat down on the cool marble floor of the foyer and inspected my findings.

  The white handkerchief looked clean. I didn’t study the comb very closely; combs can be gross. He had eighty-five cents in change. Six keys in his leather case. Thirty-eight dollars in the bill compartment of his wallet.

  The wallet was full of stuff, but I won’t bore you with a list. I’ll cut to the chase, as they say. It contained two foilwrapped condoms—meant for me?—and a driver’s license that identified him as Anthony Joseph Romano.

  His date of birth was two years earlier than mine, which made him twenty-eight. The photo must’ve been taken a few years ago, because he hardly looked old enough to be out of high school. He had short blond hair, freckles across his nose, and a friendly smile.

  It made me feel bad, looking at him.

  Knowing I’d killed him.

  He’d probably driven over here to protect me. Nothing more sinister than that.

  He thought he was being a good guy.

  Like they say, “No good deed goes unpunished.”

  I felt rotten about killing him, but not particularly guilty. It wasn’t my fault he paid me a surprise visit and got his head chopped open for the trouble. I hadn’t invited him over.

  He should’ve minded his own business.

  Not only had he gotten himself killed, but he’d put me into a horrible situation.

  What was I supposed to do now?

  I stopped looking at his photo, and checked the address on his driver’s license. 4468 Washington Avenue, Apt. 212. (Sounds like a real address, doesn’t it? I made it up.) I knew the general area. It wasn’t far from here. Less than ten minutes. After hanging up the phone, he must’ve grabbed his pistol and hurried right out to his car…

  No.

  He probably hadn’t come here from the Washington Avenue address. He’d moved to a new place because of all the memories. That’s one of the reasons he’d tried to phone Judy—to let her know his new phone number.

  Unless he’d made the move a couple of months ago, the address on his driver’s license almost had to be wrong.

  I gave the wallet another search. Sure enough, tucked into the bill compartment was a folded slip of paper with an address scribbled on it in pencil: 645 Little Oak Lane, Apt. 12. (But not really.) This was probably his new address.

  I put the paper back where I’d found it, set the wallet aside, and picked up the pistol.

  It was a small, stainless steel .22 automatic with a black plastic handle. The fine print in the steel told me that it was a Smith & Wesson.

  The safety wasn’t on.

  I dropped the loaded magazine into my hand, then pulled back the slide. Tony didn’t have a bullet in the chamber. I shoved the magazine back up the handle until it clicked into place, then worked the slide, watching through the port to make sure it fed in a round. Then I thumbed the safety on.

  After that, I just kept sitting there.

  I didn’t have the energy to get up.

  Besides, get up and do what?

  Deal is, I didn’t know what to do next. So I just sat there, staring.

  I’ve gotta do something, I kept telling myself.

  What’s the best course of action if you’ve just butchered an innocent man?

  The answer probably seems obvious to you: call the cops and tell them the whole truth about everything.

  Or fudge a little, maybe. Claim that he was holding the pistol when I opened the door. To make that version work, I would only have to take the gun outside and put it into his hand.

  Which hand? That always trips up the criminals on TV. They stick the gun into the right hand of a lefty.

  I’m a tad smarter than that.

  Tony’d been carrying the weapon in his right rear pocket. Also, he’d reached for me with his right hand.

  Reached for me? Maybe he’d been reaching for the doorbell button.

  In either case, the evidence seemed to prove him a righty.

  Not that it mattered. I had no intention of planting the pistol on him.

  I had no intention of calling the cops, either.

  Right now, you’re probably thinking, Oh, you stupid idiot! A guy you’ve never seen before
in your life showed up in the middle of the night with a gun! It’s a clear case of self-defense! Call the cops right now! Fess up! They probably won’t even charge you with anything!

  Wrong.

  Calling the police might be smart for you to do, but you’re probably one of those people who’s never gotten in trouble. A good, upstanding citizen.

  If I were you, I probably would call the cops and admit everything. And I’m sure it’d turn out hunky-dory.

  But I’m not you.

  I’m me, alias Alice.

  I could’ve gotten away with calling about the prowler. I might have actually done it, too, if the phone had been handy. It would’ve been safe. My troubles were several years earlier and in a different state. Cops coming over to save me from a prowler wouldn’t even know about me or what I’d done.

  But if they came to investigate Tony’s death, they’d investigate me.

  They’d run my prints.

  Find out who I am.

  After that, I wouldn’t stand a chance.

  So Tony had to go.

  Tony and his car, if he’d driven one here.

  Obviously, I had a long night ahead of me. But I stayed sitting on the marble floor for a while longer, wondering what to do first, where to start.

  Finally, I decided to start by changing my clothes.

  No matter what I might end up doing, I didn’t want to do it wearing Charlie’s robe. I liked the robe too much. It was bound to get bloody if I kept it on.

  Whatever got bloody would have to be destroyed.

  For that reason, I couldn’t wear clothes belonging to Serena or Charlie. I wasn’t eager to sacrifice any of my own clothes, either, but figured it had to be done.

  Which meant a trip to my place above the garage.

  Now that my mind was made up, I stuffed Tony’s hanky and comb and everything else into the pockets of my robe. Everything except the pistol. I held on to that.

  Then I went out the front door again.

  I didn’t plan to go back inside the house until everything was taken care of, so I locked the door and shut it after me.

  Just for the hell of it, I went over to the porch light, reached up and gave the bulb a twist.

  It turned easily.