I’ll be damned, he thought.
Window grates. Half a dozen of them leaning against the wall.
Somebody – maybe Glendon Morley – must be planning to fix the place up. Take the boards off the windows. Put up the wrought-iron bars, instead, to keep the vandals out.
Raising his light, he saw that grates were already in place on the living room’s three side windows.
On the inside though.
What kind of fool …?
Behind Dexter, a floorboard creaked.
He spun around, gasped, and raised his pistol.
Clara, still bent and peering out her window, was so worried she could hardly bear it.
Dexter must’ve found the house open, just as she’d feared. Otherwise, he would’ve shown up long ago.
He’s in there, this very second. Even with her eyes wide open, Clara could imagine him climbing those long, dark stairs, going into the very bedroom where they’d found James Sherwood with his eyes carved out – so they say. The real story never did come out, but she guessed that most of what she heard was true. Poor Dexter. Why, she wouldn’t set foot in that house for a million dollars.
Bad enough, just living next door. She’d have moved away, long ago, if she’d had the money to spare.
How could he go in there? Well, it was her fault. She’d asked him to.
Damnation, she wished she’d rung up the station house instead of Dexter.
Oh, thank goodness!
She breathed a deep, shaky sigh of relief as she saw him walk around the far end of the veranda.
Nobody in tow.
Must’ve been a false alarm, after all. What took him so long, though? He must’ve found the back door open, and gone in to search the place. Whoever made that noise probably ran off before Dexter got there. Either that, or hid real good. She didn’t much like the idea of that.
He waved to her.
Clara gestured for him to come on over.
He nodded, his Stetson tipping forward, and Clara left the window. She hobbled across the living room, opened the front door, and stepped halfway out to hold open the screen for him.
Dexter walked slowly through the darkness, his head down.
‘Didn’t find him, huh?’ she asked.
Dexter didn’t answer. He didn’t look up.
‘Dexter, what’s wrong?’
He shook his head.
As he climbed the porch stairs, Clara reached to the wall and flicked on the overhead light.
Blood! All over his uniform shirt and trousers as if a bucketful had been dumped on his head.
‘Oh my Lord!’ Clara gasped. She covered her mouth.
Dexter took off his Stetson and grinned at her. For an instant, she thought he’d put on a Halloween mask to scare the daylights out of her. Then she knew it wasn’t a mask. It wasn’t Dexter at all, inside that blood-soaked uniform.
A bare foot kicked her cane away.
With a tiny gasp, she fell against the man. He flung her inside the house.
Her head smacked the floor.
Whimpering, she opened her eyes.
The front door swung shut, and the man stood above her.
2
Eric Prince woke up, that night, with a straining bladder. He climbed from bed, and made his way to the shut door.
A straight-backed chair was propped under its knob, a precaution he always took when he went to bed in the deserted house. Though fifteen, and too old to be afraid of staying alone, he liked the secure feeling that came from having his door barred.
As he removed it, he wondered vaguely if his mother was home yet. He had no idea what time it might be. When he opened his door, though, he saw that the hall light was still on.
Mom would’ve turned it off.
She must still be out. Eric’s worry came back, the same worry that fluttered in his stomach every time Mom went out on a date – that he would wake up, in the morning, and she would still be gone. He’d wait and wait, but she would never come back.
Maybe she had run away with a handsome stranger she met in a bar. Eric would get a postcard, a week later, from a distant city.
Or she’d been killed in a car accident.
Or the worst of all – a worry that started after he read an old paperback called Looking for Mr Goodbar – she’d met a terrible man on one of her dates, and he had slaughtered her.
Chief Boyanski would come to the house. ‘Son, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.’
Then Eric would be alone. An orphan. Nobody, in all the world, to take care of him. Maybe he could be like The Little Girl Who Lived Down The Lane, and stay alone in the house …
These thoughts upset him, driving his grogginess away so that he was completely awake when he pulled open the bathroom door and saw a naked man urinating. Eric jumped back, yelling. The startled man flinched.
Eric ran for his room, clenching his muscles to keep his own pee inside. He was almost to the door when his mother stepped into the hall.
She blinked in the brightness, and tied the belt of her threadbare flannel robe. Her hair was mussed. She looked confused. ‘Eric, what’re you doing up?’
‘There’s a man in the john!’
‘Oh. That’s only Sam.’ She smiled sadly. ‘He must’ve given you quite a scare, huh?’
Eric nodded.
Down the hall, the toilet flushed.
‘Sounds like he’ll be right out,’ Mom said.
‘Who is he?’
‘A friend.’
She’s naked under that robe.
Eric looked away from her. ‘Night,’ he said, and went into his room. He shut the door and stood in the darkness.
‘Damn,’ he heard a man say. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Mom. She sounded depressed. ‘Something like this was bound to happen, sooner or later.’
He heard them walking away.
‘Maybe I’d better leave,’ the man said.
‘No, don’t. Please.’
‘Shouldn’t you have a talk with him?’
‘It’ll wait. This wouldn’t be a good time, anyway.’
He heard the soft bump of a shutting door. If they were still talking, Eric couldn’t hear them.
He opened his door. The hallway was deserted and dark. He walked silently to the bathroom, and locked it in case the man came back. Standing over the toilet, he freed himself and started to urinate.
The man had stood right here, naked, just like he owned the place. And he had such a big thing. Had he really been putting it into … Sure he had. The thought of it made Eric feel sick, as if he’d swallowed a milkshake too fast.
He flushed the toilet.
He walked back to his bedroom, and opened the door. Without stepping inside, he shut it. The noise sounded loud in the stillness.
As silently as he could, he left the house by the back door. He hurried through the chilly, wet grass alongside the house. Mom’s VW in the driveway. A bigger car was parked at the curb.
Eric stared at that car for a long time, wondering about the man who owned it, the man in bed with Mom even at this moment. Fucking her. It sounded so dirty and exciting, like jacking off only a hundred times better. He’d day-dreamed a lot about doing it, and imagined it was the neatest thing in the world especially if the girl was someone beautiful like Miss Bennett, or Aleshia Barnes. Even if the girl wasn’t beautiful, it’d be great just getting to see her naked, getting to touch her breasts. He could hardly imagine what it would feel like to touch someone’s breasts. They must be so smooth …
He looked down. His penis was poking erect through his pajama fly. He slid his fingers down it, trembling. Then he quickly covered it. This was no time to get all horny.
He rushed to the VW, and ducked beside it. Peering over the hood, he saw that the windows of Mom’s bedroom were dark. He crept to the rear of the VW. Squatting beside it, he looked both ways. The road was clear, and he saw no activity at any of the nearby houses.
No ex
cuse to wait.
He dashed down the driveway to the rear of the other car and ducked behind its trunk. On hands and knees, he dug into the curbside debris. His fingers pushed through soggy leaves, twigs, something slippery that writhed away. And then he found a triangle of glass from a broken bottle.
Just the thing.
Gripping it firmly, he pressed the shard against the shiny surface of the trunk, and dragged it down. The sound, like fingernails scraping a blackboard, made him cringe. But it didn’t make him stop.
He cut a huge X into the top of the trunk. When he finished, he ran a finger along one of the furrows, and smiled.
3
Sam Wyatt woke up. The bedroom was gray and chilly, but under the covers he was warm. Rolling onto his side, he looked at Cynthia. Her eyes were open. She turned her head toward him, and smiled sadly.
‘Didn’t you sleep?’ he asked.
‘A little, I guess.’
‘Worried about Eric?’
She nodded. ‘I feel so damned rotten.’ Her voice trembled on the last word, and she pressed her lips tightly together as if fighting not to cry.
Sam put a hand on the hot skin of her belly. Cynthia stroked the back of it.
‘You’re anything but rotten,’ he said. ‘You did all you could to keep him …’
‘In the dark?’
‘Protected.’
‘I feel like such a slut.’
Sam started to take his hand away, but she held it.
‘No, I don’t mean that,’ she said. ‘With you … I’ve never felt so happy and alive. And clean. But Eric … he doesn’t know. You’re a stranger to him, and he must think his mom’s sleeping with a stranger.’
‘You can tell him different.’
‘I will. I just wish it hadn’t happened this way. I mean, what a way for him to meet you.’ She shook her head. ‘It was supposed to be for his own good, you know? I didn’t want him knowing the men I dated – getting attached to them. That happened a couple of times, where he started looking on them as – like father figures. He was just devastated when these men suddenly disappeared from his life. I mean, it’s bad enough for an adult when a relationship ends. But for a kid who’s never had a father … I just couldn’t put him through that, anymore. It wasn’t fair to him. Maybe that was a mistake, I don’t know. But I think it saved him from a lot of heartache.’
‘Maybe so.’
‘Do you think I was wrong?’
‘You didn’t have to protect him from me. I’m not going to disappear.’
Her eyes went cold. ‘No?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve heard that before.’
He looked into her accusing eyes. ‘Don’t blame me for what the others did.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Because I’m not them, I’m me. It’s bothered me for a long time that you didn’t want me to meet Eric. I just let it go, but it didn’t make me feel good to be kept hidden from him as if you’re afraid I’ll contaminate him.’
‘He would like you, Sam. He’d …’ Cynthia’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘He’d fall in love with you, just like I did.’
‘Would that be so awful?’ he asked. He tried to smile, but his mouth trembled.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If you ever left him. He’s been left so many times before.’ She rolled onto her side, crying softly, and Sam took her in his arms.
‘I think I’d better stay home with Eric, tonight,’ Cynthia said as they walked down the driveway.
A chilly wind was blowing. Sam liked the way it tossed her brown hair.
‘I’ll tell him about you,’ she said.
‘Why don’t I take you both out to dinner, one of these nights?’
‘We’ll see.’
Frowning, he stepped to the rear of his car and looked down at a big X scratched into the paint of his trunk. ‘For Christsake,’ he muttered. He ran a finger down one of the deep grooves.
‘That’s terrible. Did it just happen?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen it before. Somebody must’ve done it last night.’
‘Kids, probably.’
He stepped over to Cynthia’s VW, and looked it over. ‘At least yours is okay.’
‘What kind of creep would do a thing like that?’
Sam shrugged. ‘Somebody who recognized my car, probably, I’m not too popular with some of the people in town. I always keep it garaged, at home. My tires got slashed a couple of times when I was leaving it out.’
She stared at the scratches. ‘I’m awfully sorry.’
‘Well, these things happen. We’ve got a saying, “If you want to be loved, be a fireman.”’
‘You think it’s because you’re a policeman?’
‘More than likely. Well, I’d better be on my way.’
‘Yeah. It’s time for me to wake up Eric.’ She stepped into his arms.
He felt her shivering through the frail robe.
‘Call me tonight?’ she asked.
‘Sure.’ He kissed her. ‘You’d better get inside before you catch pneumonia.’
He stopped at his duplex for a quick shower and shave, then drove to the station. The office was deserted except for Betty on the switchboard. She swiveled around to face him. ‘All quiet on the western front,’ she announced, smiling.
‘Das ist gut,’ Sam said. He poured himself a cup of coffee, and wished he’d grabbed something from the refrigerator before leaving home: a hunk of cheese, a hot dog. The coffee tasted wonderful. ‘Where’s Dex?’ he asked.
‘I would hazard a guess that he’s on the way.’
Sam glanced at the clock. ‘He’s never late.’
‘Rarely.’ She took a sip from her own coffee mug, and rubbed the lipstick print with her thumb. ‘In the twelve years I’ve spent laboring under his yoke, he’s been late only four times. Five, including today.’
‘Absent?’
‘Six days, four of them the week Thelma left.’
‘Hangovers from celebrating?’
‘That should’ve been the case, but it wasn’t. To look at him, you’d think the world had ended. Men can be so foolish when it comes to pretty women.’
‘You should know.’
‘Indeed I do.’ At fifty-two, Betty was still a slim, good-looking woman. ‘And I’ll admit, I’ve occasionally taken advantage of starry-eyed men. My husband is a perfect example.’ She laughed softly. ‘But there’s absolutely no excuse for a woman to behave like Thelma. Beauty doesn’t give one license to abandon common decency. It’s a crime the way she treated that man.’
‘Speaking of crime …’ Sam finished his coffee, and rinsed out the mug. ‘I’d better hit the road.’
‘Let me just ring up Dexter.’
While she dialed, Sam unlocked the gun cabinet and took out a sawed-off Browning.
‘He doesn’t answer,’ she said.
‘I’ll head over to his place.’
‘Why don’t you? I know he’s only ten minutes late, but it’s so unlike him.’
‘I’ll check, and let you know.’
‘Thanks, Sam.’
As he got into his patrol car, he half expected Dexter’s Firebird to swing into the parking lot. It didn’t, though, and he found his muscles tightening with worry as he drove out. He couldn’t imagine the chief over-sleeping. The big man had been raised on a farm, and often spoke of the built-in alarm clock that woke him at dawn, no matter what.
Car trouble, maybe.
Heart attack, whispered a corner of Sam’s mind.
He kept an eye on all the cars he passed, on those parked along the curbs. At a stop sign, he glanced at Ed’s Chevron. No Firebird.
For a moment, he wondered if the vandal who scratched the back of his own car had gone to Dexter’s house – maybe slashed Dex’s tires, or sugared the gas … That didn’t seem likely, but it was possible. A minor-league vendetta against the Ashburg PD?
Finally, easing around a corner, he came into sight of Dexter’s house and saw the chief’s re
d Firebird parked in the driveway.
He picked up the radio mike. ‘Car Five.’
‘Go ahead, Car Five.’
‘Chief’s car’s parked in his driveway. I’ll see if he’s home, Betty.’
Sam walked up the driveway, giving the Firebird a quick inspection as he passed it. No flat tires, at least. Nothing unusual about its appearance.
He hurried to the front door and rang the bell. Dexter didn’t answer. Sam took a deep breath, and realized he was trembling. He jabbed the doorbell button again and again, then swung open the screen door and banged the wood with his knuckles.
What’s the use? He’s not home.
Or if he is, he’s on the floor dead of cardiac arrest. Or he ate his gun. No, Dex wouldn’t do that. Or would he? Or did someone break into the house last night, someone with a major-league vendetta?
None of the above, probably.
Sam tried the door knob. It turned.
Thank God. Dex’d blow his stack if I had to break in.
He stepped inside, automatically wiping his feet on the entry rug as he looked around.
‘Dexter?’ he called. ‘Dexter, you here?’
Beside the easy chair, a lamp was on.
Sam rushed through the living room and up a short hallway to the bedroom. The shades were drawn, the lamp on. It seemed so wrong, in daylight – like the shunned room of an invalid.
The bed was made.
Okay. Whatever happened, it was probably last night before Dex went to bed. Whatever …
‘Dexter?’ Sam called again.
The house was silent.
He stepped around the end of the bed. He dropped to his knees, and glanced under it. Nothing there except the electric blanket control. He got up, and looked inside the closet. A few pairs of shoes were scattered on the floor, but the old Dingos weren’t among them.
He’s in uniform, then.
Sam shut the closet door. He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants, took a deep breath, and felt a tightness in his bladder.
Damn, why hadn’t he locked the bathroom door, last night? Must’ve scared the hell out of that poor kid …
He left the bedroom.
He walked down the hall, past the open bathroom door.
Might as well take care of it now.
Allhallow's Eve: (Richard Laymon Horror Classic) Page 2