After Midnight

by Richard Laymon

  Erased.

  Backing away from the car, I looked around. So far, so good. I headed for the driveway ramp, walking fast.

  Erased?

  Why did that word stick in my head? Should I erase something? Was there an incriminating note that needed to be…?

  The tape!

  I chugged my way up the driveway.

  That’s it! The audio tape on Serena and Charlie’s answering machine!

  How could I possibly have forgotten about that? It had Tony’s message on it, all that stuff he was trying to tell Judy.

  The dead man’s voice on a tape in Serena’s home.

  My God, how could a detail like that slip my mind?

  At the top of the driveway, I hurried over to the sidewalk. Once more, I’d made it away from the parking lot undetected. Plus, I’d erased the mileage from the tripometer and I’d remembered the lost detail—the message tape.

  Simple enough to get rid of that.

  I added it to my mental list of things to do at home.

  Erase it right away, tonight, as soon as you get back. Bring in the saber, then erase the tape. Maybe destroy it entirely, just to be sure. Burn it.

  Leaving Tony’s apartment building behind me, I walked to the corner of the block. There was no traffic in sight. I jogged across the street, then slowed to a long, easy stride.

  Pace yourself, I thought. It’s more than seven miles. That’s a pretty good hike.

  Should take less than two hours, though.

  What if Tony taped the call?

  I felt a flutter deep inside.

  If he did…

  He didn’t, I told myself. Nobody does that.

  Most people don’t, anyway. It would be a very strange, abnormal thing to do. Illegal, too, unless you tell the other person about it.

  But if he did record it, he’s got my address on tape. My voice and my name, too. The minute the cops search his room, they’ll find out everything.

  BUT PEOPLE DON’T TAPE THEIR CALLS!

  Of course they don’t. And only a fool would return to Tony’s in order to destroy a tape that doesn’t even exist.

  But might.

  I’d have to actually go inside the building, break into his room…

  I’ve got his keys.

  But the risk! For nothing! For a tape that doesn’t exist.

  I continued walking, determined not to go back for the non-existent tape.

  And I wouldn’t have gone back, either.

  I would’ve kept on walking home, but all of a sudden, from thinking about tapes and answering machines and telephones, something popped into my mind that made my insides go cold and squirmy.

  Redial.

  10

  THE THIRD KEY

  SHIT!

  I had to go back again.

  Almost nobody tapes their own telephone conversations, but damn near everyone has a redial button.

  After our talk, Tony’d had no time to make another call. He’d probably dropped everything, grabbed his gun, rushed out to his car and sped over to guard me.

  So a touch of the redial button on his phone would place a call to Serena’s phone.

  Unless the cops were very stupid or careless, they’d pay me a visit within hours of finding Tony’s body.

  I had to take care of the redial.

  I turned around and headed back.

  This is crazy!

  But what choice did I have?

  When you kill someone, you’ve got to clean up afterward. Not just the body and gore, but the rest of the pieces, too. Tripometers, telephone messages, redials, the whole nine yards.

  It sucks big.

  If you don’t take care of every detail, you go down.

  Not me.

  When I was about to cross the last intersection before Tony’s building, a car turned onto the road a block to my right. I lurched backward fast, heart slamming. Before the car even got close, I found a good place to hide behind a clump of bushes. I crouched there, gasping for breath, sweat pouring down my face and trickling down the nape of my neck. Tony’s shirt clung to my back and sides. The seat of his jeans felt damp against my butt.

  Waiting for the car to pass, I picked up the front of the shirt and wiped my face.

  And wished I were back home so I could jump into the swimming pool.

  That suddenly made me picture the prowler in it, drifting on his back, and how the moonlight glinted on his body.

  His gorgeous body.

  Stop that! I told myself. He’s a disgusting pervert! And this is all his fault. If he hadn’t come along, Tony would still be alive. I wouldn’t be here in the bushes, hot and miserable and hiding like a criminal. And I wouldn’t need to break into Tony’s apartment in the middle of the night.

  The car passed me and kept on going.

  I stayed hidden for a while.

  Cars have rearview mirrors.

  When it was out of sight, I stood up, plucked the clinging clothes away from my skin, and returned to the street corner.

  I stared at Tony’s building.

  Talk about pressing your luck.

  I felt like running away.

  But the details had to be taken care of, or I’d be sunk.

  I started to cross the street.

  What’ll I do when I’m inside?

  1. Find Tony’s telephones. (Remember, he might have more than one.)

  2. Make a few random calls on any phones I find to make absolutely sure redial won’t give away Serena’s number. (Also, if the cops manage to check Tony’s phone records, there’ll be calls originating from his place after the one to Serena. That should help.)

  3. Check around to make sure there’s no tape recording of his call. If there is, take it. But there won’t be.

  4. How about leaving his wallet and keys in his room? That way…

  No, I’d better keep them. No telling where my fingerprints might be. And what if I should need his keys again, later on? Keep that stuff and get rid of it later.

  Anything else while I’m in his room?

  Just be careful about fingerprints and stuff.

  And don’t get caught.

  What if he has a roommate?

  That idea gave me a scare, but only for a few seconds. Tony was twenty-eight years old. Apparently, he’d just moved into the new place because of Judy. He’d loved her so badly. They’d spent so much time together at his old place that he just couldn’t stand to be there without her.

  A guy like that doesn’t have a roommate.

  Probably.

  The danger would be from tenants of other apartments who might notice me in the building’s entryway and corridors.

  Nobody’ll see me. Not at this hour of the night.

  What about security cameras?

  As I approached the front stairs, I spread the collar of my shirt and lifted it, pulling the shirt up to hide most of my face.

  You didn’t do this in the parking lot, stupid.

  Fear slammed through me again.

  Had there been security cameras in the parking lot?

  I didn’t know.

  I hadn’t noticed any, but I hadn’t been looking, either.

  Instead of climbing the stairs to the front doors, I made a third trip to the parking lot. This time, I searched high and low for video cameras.

  I was awfully damn shaken up.

  What the hell would I do if I found cameras?

  I didn’t have the slightest idea, but I’d probably be sunk. There I’d be on video tape somewhere, delivering Tony’s car in the middle of the night—even wiping it for prints!

  I felt sick inside just thinking about it.

  Thank God, there didn’t seem to be any video equipment down there.

  As you might’ve already noticed, the parking lot didn’t have a gated entrance, either. Anyone could’ve driven or walked in, as I proved. Frankly, the lot had no security whatsoever.

  Nor did the rest of the building, as I soon found out.

  This might surpris
e some of you. You might even think I’m lying. Because if you live in a place like Los Angeles or New York City, you probably think every apartment house in the world has security measures like a Wells Fargo bank.

  But you’re wrong.

  In Chester, we did have plenty of buildings designed to foil criminals. But we also had some that were wide open—ungated, unguarded, uncameraed, and virtually unlocked. They were usually older places that didn’t charge you a fortune in rent.

  They aren’t only in Chester, either.

  I’d lived in a few of them, myself, before coming to town and moving in over Serena and Charlie’s garage. They weren’t so bad. You had to worry about prowlers, but at least you had your freedom. You weren’t locked in a cage, and your every move wasn’t caught on video tape. There’s a lot to be said for that.

  Even if you aren’t doing something bad.

  If you are up to no good, a lack of security is splendid.

  After finishing my search for video cameras, I didn’t even bother going back outside. I just trotted up a stairway near the front of the parking lot, came to an unlocked door, opened it and found myself inside the foyer.

  The foyer and corridor were dimly lighted.

  I saw no one.

  Nor did I hear any sounds from the rooms as I sneaked down the corridor looking for apartment 12.

  Everyone’s asleep, I thought.

  God, I hope so.

  I felt like a wreck. My mouth was dry, my heart slamming, my whole body dripping with sweat. I was panting for air like a worn-out dog. And shaking like crazy.

  The nasty green carpet silenced my footfalls.

  But every so often, a board creaked.

  What if somebody hears me?

  What if a door suddenly opens?

  A door wouldn’t even have to open—each had a peephole. Someone might look out at me and I’d never even know.

  I felt sick with fear.

  If anybody sees me, it blows the whole deal.

  What’ll I do?

  Pray it doesn’t happen.

  At last, I came to number 12. As quietly as possible, I reached into the right front pocket of my cut-offs and pulled out Tony’s key case. I unsnapped it.

  Of the six keys, two belonged to Tony’s car.

  Four to pick from, but one of them didn’t really look like a room key. It might go to a padlock, or something.

  So I selected a key from the remaining three.

  You can’t fool around with a bunch of keys and not make some noise. They clinked and jingled, sounding awfully loud in the silence.

  When I finally had the key pinched between my thumb and forefinger, I couldn’t hold it still. My hand shook so badly that the tip kept scraping around on the face of the lock, and wouldn’t go in the hole.

  At last, it went in.

  But just the point of it. I tried to force it in the rest of the way, but it wouldn’t go.

  When that sort of thing happens, sometimes you’ve got the key upside down. So I turned it over and tried again.

  No luck.

  Wrong key.

  With more clinking and jingling, I fumbled about for key number two.

  By the time I had it ready, my hand was shaking worse than ever. The key bumped and scratched against the lock, and kept missing the hole. I used my left hand to hold my right hand steady. That didn’t help a lot, but it helped some. Enough.

  I made it to the hole.

  This time, the key slid in all the way.

  Yes!

  But I couldn’t turn it.

  Shit!

  No matter how hard I twisted the key, all it did was rattle deep inside the lock somewhere. It wouldn’t turn. The damn thing seemed to be frozen in an upright position.

  Letting the bunch of keys dangle, I looked at my hand. I had a red imprint on my thumb and forefinger.

  I wiped my hand dry on the front of my shirt, then tried again. This time, I twisted the key so hard that I started to worry about breaking it.

  So I quit and let go again.

  What the hell is wrong? I wondered. The key fit. It had gone in all the way. Why wouldn’t it turn?

  Maybe it’s the wrong damn key.

  But it fit!

  Sure. Okay. It’s the right size to go in the hole, but not completely right.

  Obviously not right enough to unlock the door.

  I jerked it out, turned it over, then tried to stick it back in.

  This time, it would only go halfway in.

  I muttered, “Shit,” yanked it out, then fumbled for the third key. And dropped the whole case. It landed on the carpet in front of the door with a quiet thump and a loud jangle.

  I crouched and grabbed it.

  Then stood again, holding my breath and glancing up and down the corridor.

  Nothing happened.

  I took a deep breath, sighed with relief, and got back to work.

  Having dropped the case, I’d lost track of the third key.

  All three “door” keys—including the two failures—looked pretty much alike.

  So I picked one at random.

  As I aimed it for the lock hole, the door swung open in front of my face.

  11

  APARTMENT TWELVE

  A young woman inside the room frowned out at me. Maybe “frown” isn’t the right word, since she didn’t seem angry. She looked concerned or confused.

  God only knows how I must’ve looked.

  I felt as if the floor had dropped out from under me.

  What’s she doing here?

  Nobody’s supposed to be here!

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I…I must have the wrong apartment, or…”

  “This is twelve,” she said, then glanced at the number on the door as if to make sure of it.

  She must’ve just gotten out of bed. She had a crease on her cheek, her short blond hair was mussed, and she wore wrinkled pajamas.

  She was probably two or three years younger than me.

  And beautiful.

  Not exotic, glamorous beautiful.

  Wholesome, girl-next-door beautiful, like an Iowa cheerleader.

  I would’ve given my left arm to look half as good as this gal.

  “Where are you trying to go?” she asked.

  “Maybe I’m in the wrong building.”

  She shrugged.

  “Is this 645 Little Oak Lane?”

  Why hadn’t I said 465? She would’ve told me, “Oh, no, this is 645. I’m afraid you do have the wrong building.” And that would’ve been the end of the situation.

  But I was curious, for one thing. I wanted to find out what was going on.

  For another thing, the damage was already done. She’d seen me.

  And I didn’t know what to do about it.

  After hearing the address, she nodded and looked more confused than before. “You seem to be in the right place, but…”

  “Doesn’t Tony live here?” I asked.

  “Tony?”

  “Yeah, Tony.” I tried to remember his last name. “Romano.”

  “What?” Now, she seemed confused and surprised. “Tony Romano?”

  “Is this his apartment?”

  “No. This is my apartment.”

  “But you know him, don’t you?” I asked.

  “Sure. Do you?”

  “He gave me this address.”

  “What for?”

  “He said he lived here. And that…I should come over tonight. He gave me his keys. See?” I held up the key case in front of her. “I was supposed to let myself in. And wait for him.”

  “Huh?”

  I shrugged.

  “But he doesn’t live here,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This isn’t his place. It’s mine. He lives over on Washington Avenue.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure, all right. I used to spend half my life over there. Why on earth did he give you my address?”

&
nbsp; “I don’t know.”

  But I suddenly had a pretty good idea how I’d gotten the wrong address—and who she was.

  “Are you Judy?” I asked.

  “Yeah?” She said it softly, like a question.

  I put on a big smile. “You’re Tony’s girlfriend!”

  “Not anymore. But yeah. We were…” She shrugged.

  “It’s nice to meet you. My name’s Alice.” I held out my hand, and she shook it.

  “Hi, Alice,” she said.

  “So, why did he give me your address?” I asked.

  “I have no idea. It’s weird. But Tony can be weird, sometimes. Why don’t you come on in? Maybe you should call him, or something.” She opened the door wider and I stepped into her apartment.

  Only a single lamp was on. It didn’t do a very good job. It cast a yellowish light that left corners of the living room in shadows.

  I looked around and didn’t see anybody.

  From the looks of the furniture, Judy wasn’t exactly rich. She had an old armchair, a sofa with threadbare cushions, a few lamps and small tables, and bookshelves against most of the walls. The shelves were crammed with books, mostly paperbacks.

  After shutting the door, she said, “Tony does oddball stuff, sometimes.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

  “Isn’t that one of his shirts you’re wearing?”

  I forced a smile.

  Wearing his jeans and shoes, too.

  She wasn’t likely to recognize them, though. Most blue jeans and brown loafers look pretty much alike. Besides, I’d customized Tony’s jeans.

  “I’m just borrowing his shirt for the night,” I told her. “Mine got spilled on.”

  “So you saw him tonight?” She didn’t sound suspicious, just curious.

  “Yeah, we had dinner together.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “He really misses you.”

  She winced slightly. “I miss him, too. Sometimes. Not that I’ll ever go back to him. Would you like something to drink? A Pepsi or a beer or something?”

  “Okay, sure.”

  “How about a beer?”

  “Great!”

  Being careful not to touch anything, I followed her into the kitchen.

  She turned on a light and went to the refrigerator. The top of her kitchen table was hidden under a computer and piles of books and papers.

  “So, how do you know Tony?” she asked.

  Without even pausing to think, I said, “We met at a bar. The Cactus Bar and Grill.”