Tread Softly

by Richard Laymon

  "What's wrong?" Julie asked.

  "I don't know." He got out. He crouched by the front tire, stood up, and stepped around to the other side. He crouched again. Then he stood, and stared through the windshield at Julie.

  "Oh, no," she muttered. A chill, sick feeling spread through her. She scurried across the seat and climbed out of the car.

  The front tire was flat.

  "This one over here, too," Nick said. He sounded grim.

  "How could it happen?"

  He walked slowly toward her, holding out his hand. "Look."

  She peered at the small, dark object resting on his palm. "What is it?"

  "Part of a valve stem."

  "I don't get it," she muttered.

  "Both front tires. Somebody cut off the valve stems."

  "Oh, Jesus! While we were ..."

  Nick answered with a nod.

  Chapter Thirty-six__________

  Julie's legs went weak. She leaned against the side of the car. She felt crawly with gooseflesh. As she rubbed her arms, her eyes searched the darkness. The narrow, moonlit road looked deserted. There were no streetlights, no parked cars. Bushes along the guardrail looked like silent, watching men.

  Nick patted her arm. "Don't worry."

  "Who's worried?"

  Leaning into the car, he shut off the headlights. He came out with the keys, and swung the door shut. Julie followed him to the trunk. "Can you change the tires?" she asked.

  "I've only got one spare." He removed the tire iron.

  "Then what's that for?"

  "Just in case." He shut the trunk.

  "Oh, man," Julie muttered.

  "Let's go."

  "Where?"

  "To a telephone. We've gotta call the auto club." He took her hand, and they started down the road. They looked over their shoulders as they walked.

  "There won't be a public phone," Julie said, "till we get to Ventura Boulevard."

  "Probably not."

  "I'm really sorry I got you into this, Nick."

  "It's not your fault."

  "Oh, yeah? It wouldn't have happened if we'd stayed at the movies. Me and my great ideas."

  He squeezed her hand. "It was a great idea. It was . . . No matter what happens, I'll never regret it."

  "No matter what happens. Oh, wonderful. What are you expecting?"

  "I don't know. This is all part of it, though, isn't it?"

  "The curse, you mean?"

  "I guess that's what I mean."

  "Oh, man."

  Striding around a bend, they came upon a steep, narrow drive. To one side of it, half hidden behind bushes, stood a mailbox. The number on the box was 21; the name, FISH.The lane slanted up the slope, curving, disappearing in the darkness. "It must be a driveway," Julie said. "Should we give it a try?"

  "Call from someone's house?"

  "If we don't, we've got an awfully long walk ahead of us. What time is it?"

  "Ten-thirty-five."

  "We couldn't possibly get to Ventura by eleven. Dad'll start going crazy."

  "Guess we'd better do it then."

  With a final look at the bleak, deserted road behind them, they started up the driveway. Trees blocked out the moonlight. The night was full of familiar sounds: an airliner, the honk of a car, a man's shout, a door slamming. But they all came from far away, as if they belonged to a different world. Only the chirping of crickets came from nearby. And their own noises: the scuff of their shoes on the concrete, their heavy breathing.

  "This is one long driveway," Nick whispered.

  "It's almost like we're back in the mountains."

  "No packs, at least."

  Julie looked back. Nobody there. The road they'd left was out of sight, hidden beyond a bend in the driveway.

  Nick dropped behind her. He pressed his hand to her back, and pushed as she walked. "Oh, that's better."

  "Glad to be of service."

  They trudged around a curve in the driveway, and Nick's hand fell away. He stepped up beside her. They stood motionless, breathing hard, staring at the house.

  With its rough stone walls and steep tile roof, it looked vaguely foreign to Julie.

  "Hansel and Gretel time," Nick whispered.

  She gave his arm a soft jab.

  Except for a single post lamp along the walkway to the door, there were no lights. A monstrous, ancient Cadillac was parked near the garage.

  "What do you think?" Nick asked.

  "We came this far."

  "It doesn't look very . . . inviting."

  "Let's give it a shot, Hansel."

  They walked to the door. There didn't seem to be a bell, just a brass knocker shaped like a fist. Nick lifted it, and rapped three times. Quickly, he propped the tire iron against the doorframe. Julie wiped her sweaty hands on her skirt. "Sure hope they have a phone," she whispered.

  They waited. No sounds came from inside the house.

  "Should we try again?" Julie asked.

  "Maybe they're asleep."

  She lifted the heavy knocker and the door swung open, pulling it from her hand. She flinched. The brass fell with a clamor.

  A man looked out at them. He was not old and gnarled, as Julie had somehow expected. He appeared to be about forty. He was bald, and very fat. His blue kimono, sashed at the waist, was shiny in the glow of the foyer lamp. It reached nearly to his knees. His legs were bare. He wore dark socks. He stared, and said nothing. He was frowning slightly, but seemed more curious than angry.

  "I'm sorry we disturbed you," Nick said. "Our car broke down, and we were wondering if we could use your phone."

  With a nod, he gestured for them to enter. Julie followed Nick over the threshold, and shut the door. The man walked ahead of them, limping slightly. He entered a dark room off the foyer, and turned on a lamp. He waved them in.

  The shadowy room looked, to Julie, like a parlor from a century ago. Her eyes took in the Persian rug, the overstuffed, plush sofa and armchairs adorned with doilies, the pedestal tables cluttered with figurines, the shelves of leather-bound books. She saw no telephone.

  She breathed through her nose to avoid the room's musty smell.

  The man swept a hand toward the purple sofa, as if inviting them to sit down. Julie glanced at Nick. He shrugged. "Sir," he said, "do you have a telephone we might use?"

  His bald head nodded. He motioned for them to be seated.

  What's going on? Julie thought. The man's odd behavior and the old-fashioned look of the parlor were making her uneasy. Why doesn't he say something?

  She followed Nick to the sofa. She sank into its cushion and sat forward, rigid, gripping her knees.

  The man smiled and nodded. Turning away, he bent over to turn on the portable television. The rear of his satin kimono rode up. Julie glimpsed bare rump. She looked at Nick. He shook his head and rolled his eyes upward.

  Stepping back, the man stared at the television. It made a loud humming sound. The voices filled the room, and a black and white picture fluttered onto the screen. The man faced Julie. He smiled. "May I offer you tea?" he asked in a high-pitched voice.

  So he can talk, she thought.

  "We'd rather use your phone, if we may," Nick said.

  His head bobbed.

  "I'd better call Dad first," Julie said. "Tell him we'll be late."

  The man lowered himself onto a chair near the end of the sofa. He folded his hands on his lap, and stared at her. He seemed very pleased, almost eager about something. He squirmed a bit.

  "May I use your phone?" Julie asked.

  He pointed at a curtained-off archway across the room, just to the left of the television. "In there?" Julie asked.

  He nodded. She pushed herself off the sofa and went to the archway. Sweeping the curtain aside, she peered in. By the dim light from the parlor, she saw a small alcove, apparently a passageway into another room. A curtain hung at the other end. Against the wall was a rolltop desk. She spotted the black shape of a telephone on its work top. A floor l
amp stood beside the desk.

  Reaching under its shade, she switched on a bulb. She let the curtain fall across the entry, took a single step to the desk, and picked up the phone. As she dialed, she heard voices from the parlor television.

  Poor Nick, she thought, sitting out there with that weirdo.

  The phone rang three times before it was picked up. "Hello?"

  "Hi, Dad. It's me."

  "Julie? Where are you? What's wrong?"

  "We had some car trouble. Everything's fine, but we're kind of stuck."

  "What happened?"

  "We got a couple of flats."

  "A couple of flats?" He sounded shocked.

  "Yeah. We're gonna call the auto club, but I thought I'd better let you know we'll be late."

  "Two flat tires? Did somebody let the air out, or what?"

  "The valve stems were cut off."

  He was silent for a few moments. "The auto club won't be able to fix that. They'll have to tow you."

  "I was afraid of that."

  "Look, I'd better come pick you up. The car can wait till morning. Where are you calling from?"

  "We're at this guy's house." She remembered the mailbox at the foot of the driveway. "His name's Fish. He's up in the hills just south of Ventura Boulevard."

  "What the hell are you doing up there!"

  "Well . . ."

  "Never mind. We'll discuss it later. What's his address?"

  "Twenty-one something. Hang on a second, I'll ask." She set down the receiver, stepped away from the desk, and hooked back the curtain.

  The man smiled over the top of Nick's head. He was behind the sofa, leaning over its back, a thick arm squeezing Nick's throat. Nick's face was deep red. He was kicking and struggling.

  "No!" Julie cried out. Lurching into the parlor, she glanced from side to side. She needed a weapon. Nothing looked right. With a yell, she flung the television off its stand. It crashed to the floor.

  The man's face twisted. He let go of Nick. He stared at the smoking, sizzling remains of the TV as Nick dropped onto the sofa, rolled, and tumbled off. The man's lips moved, but no words came out. His narrow eyes shifted to Julie. Roaring, he threw himself over the sofa.

  Julie spun around. She dashed through the curtain, through the alcove, into the dark room beyond.

  The man, still roaring, followed.

  Scott, clutching the phone to his ear, yanked open the counter drawer. He jerked out a telephone directory.

  "What is it?" Karen asked.

  "I don't . . . Quick, look up 'Fish.' " He thrust the book at her.

  Karen slipped it down on the counter. Her hands shook badly as she raced through the pages.

  " 'Fish,' " Scott said. "A man's name."

  She found the F's, flicked the pages until she found Fi. She traced the columns with her fingertip. "God, there's a couple dozen Fishes."

  "It's twenty-one something. The address."

  Half the entries seemed to be for food: Fish Diner, Fish Kitchen, Fish Market. "Here! Fish, Marvin, Twenty-one Vista Terrace. Tarzana."

  "Gotta be it. Write it down. Tanya!" he yelled.

  As Karen scribbled the address on a notepad, Tanya came rushing into the kitchen. Benny was close behind her. They both looked alarmed.

  "Julie!" Scott called into the phone. Then he hung up and tugged a Thomas street atlas from the drawer. "Julie's in trouble," he told Tanya. "I want you to call the police. Send them to this address."

  Karen ripped off the note and pressed it into the girl's hand.

  "Tell them it's an emergency."

  "What's going on?" Benny asked.

  "Stay here with Tanya." He looked at Karen. "Will you come with me?"

  "Of course."

  "Gotta find that street on the map," he said. He gave her the Thomas guide. "Meet you at the car," he said, and dashed from the kitchen.

  Karen hurried outside. Her car was parked at the curb, but she figured he would want to take his Cutlass. It was in the driveway. She tried the passenger door. Locked.

  Scott came running from the house, a pistol in his hand.

  The man whipped the curtain aside and Julie, standing at the wall, swung the chair down as he lunged through the archway. The edge of the seat smacked his head. His legs buckled. His knees hammered the floor. He clutched the top of his head, and ducked. Julie raised the chair high and swung it down with all her strength. The wooden legs slammed across his back. Squealing, he fell facedown. He rolled over as she lifted the chair again. His knees were up, his kimono open.

  "Pig!" Julie shrieked, and drove the chair down.

  He caught two of its legs, wrenched it from her grip, and hurled it away.

  Julie leaped for the curtain. As she shouldered through it, a kick pounded her ankle. Her feet tangled. She fell sprawling into the alcove. She scurried over its floor, thrust herself up, and staggered through the curtain to the parlor. Nick was lying motionless in front of the sofa.

  She crouched, grabbed the broken television, and hurled it as the man's shape bulged the curtain. It struck him at knee level. He cried out. He tore the curtain down and tumbled into the room. In the lamplight, Julie saw that his bald scalp was bleeding badly. His face was a red, dripping mask. As he got to his hands and knees, she kicked. She'd lost her sandal. A shock of pain streaked up her foot, but the man yelped and grabbed his face. He fell on his side and started to roll away from her. He was on his back, whimpering and holding his face. Julie jumped. She brought her knees up high and shot her legs down, driving both feet into his soft bare belly. His breath whooshed out. She windmilled for a moment, then fell, hitting the floor flat on her back. She lay there stunned, fighting for breath, terrified that the man might recover before she could.

  Finally, she pushed herself up. The man was still on his back. His knees were up. He was hugging his stomach and wheezing.

  Nick was rolling over.

  He's alive!

  Julie got to her feet. She flung aside the fallen curtain, and lifted the television. Staggering toward the man, she raised it high. Her arms trembled as she held it above his face. She stared down at him. "No," he gasped. "Don't. I'm sorry. I couldn't help it."

  Her arm muscles shuddered with the weight.

  He pressed his hands to his bloody face, and started to sob.

  Twisting sideways, Julie dropped the television. It crashed to the floor just above his head. "Leave us alone," she muttered, and went to Nick.

  "Here it is," Karen said. "Vista Terrace. Go right on Ventura to Avenida del Sol. Then it's a left."

  Scott turned a knob, and the ceiling light went off.

  Karen held the atlas on her lap. She grabbed the dashboard with her other hand as the car skidded around a corner. "They'll be all right," she said.

  "I shouldn't have let them go."

  "You couldn't have known."

  "Goddamn it!"

  "Nick's with her. They'll be all right."

  She saw a stop sign ahead. Scott didn't slow down. As he sped toward the intersection, Karen spotted headlights to the right. "Look out!"

  He accelerated, the thrust of the car shoving her against the seat. Light glared through her window. A horn blasted. She hugged her head. Then the brightness was gone, the noise of the horn fading behind them.

  "Scott!"

  He didn't answer. He was hunched over the steering wheel, speeding up the center of the deserted road.

  Karen tried to keep her voice calm. "It won't do Julie any good if we get ourselves killed."

  "Fucking curse."

  ''It's on us, too, Scott.''

  Julie flung open the front door. Dropping to a crouch, she snatched up the tire iron. She rushed into the parlor and gave it to Nick. The man was lying facedown now, holding his head and crying softly. "If he tries anything, beat the crap out of him."

  She left Nick kneeling beside the man, and hurried into the alcove. The phone was beeping loudly. She pushed its plungers, lifted the handset off the desk, and got a tone. Q
uickly, she dialed.

  It rang once. "Hello?" Benny's voice.

  "It's me."

  "Julie! Are you okay?"

  "Is Dad there?"

  "No. He's on the way to pick you up. The cops are on the way, too."

  "They know where we are?"

  "Yeah."

  "How long ago did Dad leave?"

  "I don't know, five minutes? What happened?"

  "Some nut tried to kill us."

  "It's the curse."

  "Brilliant deduction, Bonzo." She hung up.

  They sped west on Ventura Boulevard, Scott weaving through the traffic. He accelerated to make it through a yellow light, but was forced to stop at the next main intersection because the cars ahead of him blocked the way. He pounded a fist on the steering wheel. "Come on, come on, come on," he muttered.

  Tilting the atlas to catch the light from the streetlamps, Karen drew a finger along the thick line of Ventura. "Avenida del Sol," she said, "should be two blocks up."

  "I make a left," he said.

  "Yeah. Then it's a few blocks. We'll come to a Y. You stay to the left. It'll run into Vista Terrace."

  "Which way on Vista?"

  "Left again. It doesn't go the other way."

  The traffic began to move. He stayed in the left-hand lane, hissing through clenched teeth, pounding the wheel and muttering about the slowness of the car ahead.

  "The police are probably there by now," Karen said.

  "God, I hope so."

  The car sprang out as if escaping, and swung across three lanes of oncoming traffic. The force of the turn shoved Karen against her door. Horns blared. Then they were speeding along Avenida del Sol. The residential road was dark except for a few streetlamps. There were no cars approaching. Scott steered up the center line.

  "Don't let them see the gun," Karen warned.

  "Huh?"

  "The cops. If they see you with the gun, they might shoot."

  Julie flinched as a clamor resounded through the house. "I'll get it," she said. Pushing against Nick's shoulder, she rose from her knees and rushed out of the parlor.

  In the dim foyer, she grabbed the doorknob. She hesitated. "Who is it?" she called.