What the hell was he doing there?
Off duty, but in uniform.
The bright neon sign of the Sleepy Hollow Inn pulled Sam’s thoughts away from the case. He stared at the lighted windows of the office. The curtains were open. He glimpsed movement inside, but couldn’t recognize Melodie. His foot left the gas pedal. It brushed against the brake and started to descend. As he approached the motel driveway, he slammed his palm on the steering wheel, sending a shot of pain up his arm. He forced his foot back to the gas pedal.
For a few moments, he watched the motel in his side mirror. Then he took a curve, and darkness replaced its bright lights.
He imagined Melodie at a lighted window, peering out and seeing his car pass by. Would she feel the same disappointment Sam felt now – the same hungry ache and longing?
Sam shook his head.
Forget Melodie.
Melodie … a melodie that’s sweetly played in tune. What the hell is that, a poem?
‘That’s sweetly played in tune,’ he repeated. ‘As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, so deep in love am I, and I will love thee still, my dear, till a’ the seas gang dry. Sure. Burns. Rabbie Burns. Till a’ the seas gang dry.’
He hadn’t thought of that poem in ten years. He’d memorized it in college – his junior year – for Donna. God, he’d been crazy about Donna. He’d recited the poem to her, one night by the river, and afterwards they made love together for the first time.
Good old Rabbie Burns.
The memory soured as he remembered Donna dumping him for that jerk, Roy. He’d warned her that Roy was a sadistic sicko, but she’d laughed it off. Claimed it was sour grapes.
Well, he hoped Donna never had to find out the hard way.
Funny he should think of Donna, after all this time. It was the poem – a melodie that’s sweetly played in tune.
Melodie again.
I hardly know her, he told himself. Why can’t I just forget about her?
Think about the case. Dexter. The Sherwood house. Why had Dex gone over there late at night? To meet someone? Then why in uniform? Must’ve gone on police business, or he would’ve worn civvies. There’d been no calls to the station that might’ve taken him there. Maybe someone called him at home.
Clara Hayes? She’s next door to the Sherwood house. She and Dexter were old friends. Maybe she saw a prowler, something like that, and asked him to come over.
Sam remembered the newspaper – still on Clara’s lawn at mid-afternoon today.
He hadn’t seen her at the fire last night.
His foot eased the gas pedal down. Speeding around a curve, he saw a car ahead. As he gained on it, he switched on his flasher. The car pulled aside, and he shot past it.
He drove as fast as he dared, slowing at curves, picking up speed on the straight-aways. Finally, Clara’s house came into view. Her porch light was on, and pale light showed through the curtains of her picture window.
Morley’s car, he saw, was still parked in the driveway of the Sherwood house.
Pulling onto the road’s shoulder, he stopped in front of Clara’s place. He switched off his lights, killed his motor, and climbed out. A chilly wind blew against him as he hurried across her lawn. He picked up the Clarion. Walking toward her door, he slipped off its rubber band and glanced at the headline: CHIEF BOYANSKI SLAIN.
On the front stoop, hidden behind a shrub, was another newspaper. Sam picked it up and opened it. The Thursday morning Clarion.
He pushed the doorbell.
As it rang, he heard an engine start. The car in the Sherwood driveway backed up. It swung onto the road, still in reverse, and sped backwards.
‘Hey!’ Sam yelled.
With a crunch of metal and glass it slammed into the front of Sam’s patrol car.
‘Damn it, Morley!’
He leaped from the stoop and raced across the lawn.
Morley’s car didn’t move.
As he ran toward it, the passenger window rolled down.
‘Morley, what the hell are …?’
Two quick gunshots crashed through his words. He dived for the ground. As he hit, Morley’s car took off. He drew his revolver and snapped off four shots. Through the roar of his gunfire, he heard three slugs thunk into the car. The last missed. He took careful aim at the distant target, but decided not to shoot again. Too chancy.
Scrambling to his feet, he ran the final yards to his patrol car.
Though the front was smashed in, the engine turned over. He swung onto the road. Far ahead, Morley’s car turned right. Sam floored the accelerator.
He tried the headlights. Dead. But the flasher and siren still worked.
As he raced up the road, he grabbed his radio mike. ‘Car Five to headquarters.’
‘Go ahead Car Five.’
‘I’m in pursuit of a brown Fleetwood, just turned right on Maple at Oakhurst. Suspect armed. Shots fired. Any units in the area? Over.’
Easing off the gas, he skidded around the corner onto Maple and spotted the car a block ahead. This was a residential street, cars parked along both curbs, the streetlamps widely spaced leaving deep swaths of darkness in the middle where the spinning red of his flasher made his only light.
His radio crackled. ‘Car Three is responding. What’s your ten-twenty?’
‘Heading west on Maple, approaching Tenth.’
Yards ahead, a tiny white-sheeted figure stepped out from behind a parked car. Sam hit the brakes. He saw the ghost turn toward him and drop its grocery bag. A little witch grabbed the ghost’s sheet and pulled.
Sam wrenched his steering wheel to the left.
The parked station wagon looked bloody in his flasher.
He flung up his arms.
Pain blasted through him, but only for an instant.
Chet Goodman, in Car Three, sped up Maple from the east until he spotted a car in the middle of the road. At first, he thought it was coming his way. Then he realized it wasn’t moving at all.
Several yards in front of it, he stopped.
The car was nearly invisible beyond the glare of its headlights. He trained his spotlight on it. A brown Fleetwood.
He picked up his mike. ‘Car Three to headquarters.’
‘Go ahead Car Three.’
‘The suspect vehicle is stopped on Maple between Eleventh and Twelfth Streets. No sign of Car Five. I’ll give him a minute to catch up.’
He aimed the spotlight at the windshield, and saw no one.
Removing his Browning from its clamp, he climbed from the car and crouched behind its open door. He pumped a cartridge into the chamber and aimed his shotgun at the Fleetwood’s windshield.
‘Trouble, officer?’ asked a voice behind him.
He looked over his shoulder and a tall, smiling man shot him in the face.
30
‘Yee gad!’ cried the woman in the doorway.
Eric moaned at her. She shook her head, chuckling, and held out a tray of candy bars.
‘I’m not a trick-or-treater,’ he told her.
‘You always dress this way?’
‘I’m here for Beth.’
‘Oh! You must be Eric. Please come in. Beth’ll be ready in a minute.’
Eric entered the house.
‘Martin!’ the woman called.
A man with a dish towel came out of the kitchen. When he saw Eric, he made a face and said, ‘Yuck.’
‘This is Eric Prince, Beth’s date for the party.’
‘Hi Eric.’ Martin stepped toward him frowning with concern. ‘You feeling okay?’ he asked, shaking hands. ‘You look like death warmed over.’
‘It’s just burnt cork,’ Eric explained. ‘And some Vampire Blood.’
‘They’re supposed to be corpses,’ the woman said.
‘The living dead.’
Martin nodded, pursing his lips as he studied the costume. Eric looked down at himself. The front of his dirty, torn shirt was untucked. His knee showed through a split in his slacks. Through a rent in the other
leg, his thigh was visible. Maybe he’d ripped his clothes too much: he didn’t want Beth’s parents to think him indecent. He wished he hadn’t torn the shirt away from his left nipple. The old sports jacket he’d bought at the thrift shop nearly covered it, though.
‘I’d say you look very corpse-like,’ Martin finally said.
‘Thank you.’
At that moment, Beth came into the room. ‘Oh wow,’ she said. ‘You look fantastic!’
‘You, too.’
She shrugged. It’s the best I could do. Did you bring something for my face?’
Eric took a burnt cork and tube of Vampire Blood from his pocket.
‘We’d better get back to the dishes,’ said her mother. ‘You two have a good time.’ To Beth, she said, ‘Twelve o’clock.’
‘Okay.’
‘Have fun,’ her father said. ‘Nice to meet you, Eric.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ Eric muttered.
He watched them leave. Then he turned to Beth and smiled.
‘You’d better fix me up,’ she said.
‘Now?’
‘Might as well. Are my clothes all right?’
‘Fine,’ he said. Her white blouse was stretched tightly across her full breasts. Its sleeves left her wrists bare. Her green, pleated skirt hung below her knees. She wore old, scuffed loafers. ‘It won’t hurt to get ’em dirty?’ Eric asked.
‘We were just gonna give them to Goodwill. They’re crummy old things.’ She scanned Eric’s outfit, grinning. ‘Not as crummy as yours, but we can fix that.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, and blushed.
‘Okay, how about doing my face?’
‘Well,’ he said, offering her the cork. ‘You can use this to mess yourself up.’
‘You do it.’
She stepped close to him. He smelled a mild, sweet perfume that made his mouth go dry.
‘If you want,’ he mumbled.
‘I want.’
He brushed the charred cork lightly under her eye, but little came off. ‘I need to burn it.’ He lit a match, and held it to the cork. The charred stub caught fire. He puffed it out, and waited for it to cool.
Beth watched his eyes as he blackened her pale skin. He rubbed smudges under her eyes, heavy lines running down from the sides of her nose to the corners of her mouth. Her constant gaze made him nervous, at first, but soon he began to like it. He shaded her cheeks and chin. ‘There.’
‘Now the blood.’
Squeezing the plastic tube, he dribbled the syrupy red fluid onto the corners of her mouth. It trickled down her chin. Before a drop could fall to the floor, he smeared it with his fingers.
‘More,’ she said.
He squirted the blood onto his fingertips, and spread it over her mouth and cheeks and chin. Her skin felt slippery and smooth.
‘There,’ he said.
Beth took his hand, and wiped it on the belly of her blouse. ‘Let’s have a look.’
They went to a mirror over the fireplace.
‘Fantastic!’ she said. ‘Boy, aren’t we a pair?’
‘Yeah. You look worse than me.’
Still gazing at the mirror, she messed up her hair until it stuck out in wild disarray and strands hung over her face. Then she did the same for Eric.
‘That’s better, huh?’ she asked.
‘Great.’
‘Let’s go.’
They went outside, and cut across Beth’s yard to the sidewalk.
‘Burrrr,’ Beth said.
‘Want my jacket?’
‘No. Thanks, though. I’ve got work to do.’
‘Hmmm?’
As they walked along, she tugged the front of her blouse out of her skirt. She studied the effect, then tucked one side back in. Picking up her skirt, she yanked the hem. It didn’t give.
‘Do you have a knife or something?’ she asked.
‘I have the one I used.’ He took out a small pocket knife, opened a blade, and handed it to her.
‘Oh, this is good.’ She cut through the hem. Clamping the knife between her teeth, she tore a long rip up the front of her skirt.
‘Just a minute,’ she said. They stopped under a street light. Beth pinched the shoulder of her blouse, pushed the knife into the fabric to start a tear, then hooked her fingers into the hole and jerked. The cloth split. When she finished, her left sleeve hung off her shoulder, still attached to the blouse only at her armpit. ‘How’s that?’
Her shoulder looked round and glossy in the street light. ‘Great,’ Eric said.
‘One more rip, I think.’ She lowered her head, turning it as she studied her front. ‘The question is, where?’
‘Anywhere.’
‘I don’t want my bra to show. How about down here?’
‘Fine.’
She gripped the blouse below her right breast, and punched a hole in it. Holding the knife in her teeth, she inserted both forefingers into the opening and pulled. The cloth burst open. The tear shot up her front, the taut fabric parting over the mound of her breast. ‘Oh shit,’ she said, gazing down at the black protruding cup of her bra. ‘Now what’ll I do? I can’t go to the party like this.’
‘You could.’
‘Aleshia’s mom’ll be there. And Miss Bennett. Besides, all the guys would gawk and act like jerks. I’d better go back and change.’
‘What’ll your parents say?’
‘Oh geez. I’ll try to sneak in …’
‘I have an idea. Let’s trade.’
‘Thanks, but I don’t think my blouse will fit you.’
‘I can just wear the jacket,’ he said, taking it off. Looking up and down the block, he saw nobody except a group of distant trick-or-treaters. He started to unbutton his shirt.
‘I can’t take your shirt.’
‘Just put it on over yours.’
‘You’ll freeze.’
Shivering, he handed his shirt to Beth. He put on his sports jacket. Its lining felt cool and slick against his skin. With shaking hands, he fastened the two front buttons.
Beth put on his shirt. ‘Now we really look weird.’
‘The weirder, the better.’
As they walked along, Eric rubbed burnt cork onto his neck and chest. Then he added Vampire Blood, squirting it onto his skin and letting it dribble.
‘Want some more?’ he asked.
‘No thanks.’
He put it away. ‘You know how to walk?’
Beth shrugged. ‘Let’s see you do it.’
‘Like this, sort of.’ He waddled, arms stiff at his sides, his mouth hanging open, eyes wide and staring. ‘And you moan. See, the idea is, we’re the living dead and we want to eat everybody we see.’
‘Yum yum.’
Side by side, they lurched across the road. As they moved slowly up the block, a group of trick-or-treaters left a dark porch and crossed the lawn to the sidewalk.
‘Let’s give ’em a scare,’ Beth whispered.
Ahead of them, a small girl in a Wonder Woman costume stepped off the sidewalk and stared. A cowboy drew his revolver. He fired, yelling, ‘Pow pow pow!’ as his hammer clanked down. Eric and Beth stalked forward. The cowboy jumped out of their way, but Darth Vader blocked the sidewalk.
‘What’re you supposed to be?’ he demanded.
Beth groaned, and reached for him.
He backed away, stepping on the toe of a bunny behind him. The bunny shoved him, snapping ‘Watch it!’
Darth Vader ignored him. ‘I’m not scared of you creeps.’
In a low voice, Eric muttered, ‘We’re gonna eat you.’
‘Oh yeah? You and who else?’
‘Me,’ said Beth. ‘Yum yum.’
‘Go fuck yourselves,’ he blurted, and dashed around them. He ran into Wonder Woman, knocking her to the grass. Eric stepped toward the girl, wanting to help her, but she squealed in terror and scrambled to her feet and ran away.
Eric returned to Beth.
She shrugged. ‘Guess that didn’t work out too well.’
> ‘Creepy kid.’
When they met trick-or-treaters at the corner, they walked Normally and had no trouble. They crossed the street. Ahead of them, a car stopped. Its rear doors opened and two figures climbed out. The car moved on.
‘They must be for the party,’ Beth said.
‘Is that Aleshia’s house?’
‘Yeah. Come on, let’s go into our routine.’
Stiff-armed and moaning, they shambled up the sidewalk.
31
‘I don’t know about this.’
‘What’s to know, jack-off? It’s Halloween! We’re just a couple of trick-or-treaters.’ Nate drove slowly past Miss Bennett’s house. At the end of the block, he pulled to the curb.
‘Maybe we oughtta forget about it,’ Bill said.
Nate shut off the headlights. ‘Hey, what’s the point in knowing where she lives if we’re not gonna pay a visit? Come on.’ Nate climbed out of the car.
Bill hesitated, then swung open the passenger door. As he climbed out, the cold wind hit him and he wished he’d dressed more warmly. He might, at least, have worn shoes and socks instead of sandals.
Nate opened the trunk and took off his jacket. He turned to Bill, arms out. ‘How do I look?’
‘Cold.’
‘I can take it.’
Like Bill, he wore sandals, jeans cut off raggedly at the knees, and a sheath knife on his rope belt. While Bill wore a striped T-shirt that gave him some protection against the weather, Nate wore only an open leather vest.
‘Catch this,’ he said. He spread the flaps of his vest, and Bill saw a rough drawing of a skull and crossbones on Nate’s chest.
‘Didn’t know you’re an artist.’
‘I’m a man of many talents.’ He flipped a black patch down, covering his left eye. Then he reached into the trunk and took out two grocery bags. ‘For our goodies,’ he said, handing one to Bill.
Side by side, they headed for Miss Bennett’s house. Her front porch light was on. A jack-o’-lantern grinned at them through her picture window.
‘Now don’t do anything dumb,’ Bill warned.
‘Dumb? Me?’
‘We’ll just ring her doorbell, and trick-or-treat, and that’s all.’
‘Sure.’
‘I mean it.’ Bill adjusted the red bandanna tied around his head. He touched the big, hooped earring that hung from his right ear, and wondered if he should pluck it off; he didn’t want to look silly.
Allhallow's Eve: (Richard Laymon Horror Classic) Page 14