Out Are the Lights

by Richard Laymon

  Her heart flip-flopped.

  She ducked.

  Had Dal seen her? She didn't think so. He was still sitting in his car. My God, why? She'd expected him to be in a room by now.

  Maybe he did know that he'd been tailed.

  If that were true, he'd drive right past her once he thought it was safe to leave. She looked around. The nearest car to hide behind was yards away. Should she dash for it? Or maybe break for the sunlit entrance and try to get back to her car while Dal was still waiting?

  Standing, she chanced another glance at Dal. He opened his door. She pressed herself to the wall and looked to the right at the nearby elevator.

  If he walked straight to the elevator, the wall would conceal her. She could watch him in safety, as long as he didn't turn around.

  She looked for floor numbers above the elevator door.

  None.

  Damn! She could've watched them to see where Dal got off. Without them, she'd have no idea which floor to check.

  She'd have to look in the lobby. Maybe his mailbox or buzzer…

  He walked by, moving slowly, head down, and the idea barely had time to form in Connie's mind before she rushed out. He started to turn. Her stiff open hand chopped the side of his neck. He dropped to his knees. Connie tensed, ready to kick the back of his head, but the single blow had been enough. He fell forward. His face hit the concrete.

  The keys were in his hand. Connie took them. She found one with a room number. 316. She threw down the keys and jerked the wallet from his rear pocket. Should she just take the money? No, a real mugger might want the credit cards, the license, the works.

  She stuffed the wallet into her handbag.

  Then she ran from the parking lot.

  In the heat and brightness outside, she put on her sunglasses. She walked quickly to her car and drove home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  'Sure you don't want to come along?' Grenich asked.

  'No, really. I can't look food in the face before noon.'

  'I was counting on you driving. Haven't got a car, myself.'

  'How did you get here?'

  She held up her thumb.

  'Want to take my car?'

  'Can I?'

  'Sure.' Freya took her keys from her handbag, and gave them to the girl.

  'You sure it's okay?'

  'No problem. Have fun.'

  'Want me to bring you something back?'

  'No. Thanks.'

  'Okay. Back in a jiff.'

  ***

  The moment she was gone, Freya raced to the telephone and dialed. She waited nervously as it rang.

  'Hello?'

  'Todd.'

  'Princess.'

  'We've got troubles.'

  'With a capital T?'

  'Sure, make jokes. That's just what I need.'

  'What do you need?'

  'Help. My God! You know who's here-who dropped in last night? Chelsea 's twin sister. Her identical twin. I tell you, I nearly dropped dead.'

  'Ho! I should think so! Thought the delightful lady'd come back from the grave, eh?'

  'That's exactly what I thought. And it's not funny. What'll we do?'

  'What did you tell her about Chelsea?'

  'I said she'd gone on a trip.'

  'And so she did-a trip from whose bourne no traveler returns.'

  'Todd!'

  'You'll have to bring her out to the house, I think.'

  'And how do I manage that?'

  'Where is this lovely specimen now?'

  'She headed over to the Box for a Breakfast Jack.'

  'Marvelous. When she returns, simply explain that Chelsea called while she was out. She wants the two of you to meet her at a fabulous old house on the coast.'

  'What if she doesn't buy it?'

  'Oh, she'll buy it. You underestimate yourself, princess. You are a master of duplicity-or should I say mistress?'

  'Well, I'll try.'

  'We'll be waiting for you. Perhaps we can work the twin angle into the story-line. Wonderful potential. See you soon.'

  'Sure.'

  He hung up.

  ***

  Freya heated water. She took her tea into the living-room, sat on the couch, and stared at the blank screen of the television.

  ***

  'Look, I admit I ran the light. Okay? But I did not steal the car.'

  'The registration-'

  'I know,' Grenich said. 'She let me borrow it. Look officer, her apartment's only a block from here. Can't we just go back and ask her? Please?'

  ***

  The doorbell rang. My God, back already? Must've changed her mind.

  Freya got off the couch and went to the door.

  Guess who phoned while you were out.

  'Miss Jones…' the cop started.

  She sprang through the doorway, shoved Grenich against him, and ran.

  'Hey!'

  Her bare feet slapped the painted concrete as she raced along the balcony. At the top of the stairs, she glanced back. The cop was running toward her.

  'Stop!' he shouted.

  She lunged down the stairs. Missed one. Tumbled headlong.

  Like a nightmare when she falls down a long flight of stairs, and endless flight, and always wakes up before she hits.

  But Freya wasn't asleep and she didn't wake up and she hit with a quick blast of pain as if she'd been smashed in the face with a sledge hammer.

  'Is she dead?'

  The cop nodded.

  'Christ on a crutch!'

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Back in her apartment, Connie finished unwrapping the sausages she'd planned for breakfast. They were still cool from the refrigerator; she supposed they would be all right. She put them in a skillet and turned the burner on low.

  Then she made coffee. She stared at its dark stream as it slowly filled the pot.

  Now what? she wondered, watching it. Give Dal's address to the police? That's what she'd half-planned to do when she got the idea of following him. A good reasonable justification. Find out where he lives so the cops can arrest him. But that had only been half her plan. Not really what she wanted to do. Just an excuse.

  So what's your real plan, kiddo?

  Bust into his place tonight and murder him? Hell, she could've finished him off this morning, if that's what she wanted.

  Stake him out, that's it. Follow him. Sooner or later, he would lead her to the woman with the gray Mercedes.

  Then go to the police.

  Maybe.

  The coffee stopped steaming. It dripped a few times. She picked up the pot and filled her mug. She poked the sausages with a fork, turned them. They'd take a good deal longer.

  She sipped her coffee, and went to the kitchen table. She opened her handbag. Reaching in, she pulled out Dal's wallet.

  Another good reason to stay away from the cops; they might not look fondly on her methods.

  Sitting at the table, she emptied Dal's wallet. Twenty-eight dollars in the bill compartment, along with assorted cards and papers. She set them aside. The wallet had slots for six credit cards. She pulled out the cards and stacked them neatly. Then she emptied the clear plastic picture holders, taking out his driver's license, Social Security card, a Red Cross card with his blood type, his high school graduation photo, and a Polaroid shot of Connie, herself, in a bikini.

  He used to beg her to pose nude. She never allowed it, but one night he caught her in the shower. She chased him and tore up the photo and then they made love.

  To think she used to…

  She ripped the photo into tiny bits. She dropped the pieces onto the table. They made a nice little pile. She tore up the photo of Dal, and added it to the pile. Then his Red Cross card, his Social Security card, his driver's license.

  She drank some coffee, and remembered the sausages. She got up to check them. She rolled them over. They were doing fine. She added more coffee to her mug, then took scissors from a drawer and returned to the table.

  The pla
stic was easy to cut. She snipped up his Shell card, his Chevron card, his automobile club card, his Visa and Master Card, his Sears card. The pile of debris was growing.

  Nothing left to add but the odds and ends she'd found in his bill compartment. She got up to check her sausages, then sat down again. She took a long drink of coffee. Then she tore up a post office receipt, a plumber's business card, and an old envelope comer on which he'd written Connie's address the day they met.

  She wished she'd never given it to him.

  She found four postage stamps. She set them aside to keep, then tore up three nondescript receipts and added them to the pile. She picked up a piece of tissue paper, the kind used at Dal's store-correction, former store-to wrap clothes before boxing them. She ripped it in half, the split nicely dividing a woman's first name from her last, her address number from her street, and dropped the pieces into the pile.

  She picked them up again.

  She held the pieces together.

  The words were in Dal's handwriting: Elizabeth Lassin, 522, Altina.

  Could be anything.

  Could be her.

  ***

  Altina, she knew, was up in the Highland Estates. A plush area where she wouldn't mind living herself someday.

  Lots of fancy cars. Cadillacs, Rolls Royces, Mercedes.

  'My God,' she muttered.

  Then she smelled burning sausage.

  Connie looked up the circular driveway. The door of the two-car garage was shut. Somehow, she had to see inside.

  She walked up the driveway. The house seemed deserted, but she kept her eyes on the windows. If anyone looked out, she planned to go to the front door with a story.

  I'm a new neighbor, thought I'd drop by to get acquainted… Sounded perfectly plausible.

  Of course, it wouldn't work if the woman recognized her. If it's the gal who posed as Pete's wife… But Connie didn't think it was her. The woman last night had seemed older. Her hair was different, too: darker and longer.

  She reached the garage. Standing close to its door, she couldn't see the house windows-or be seen from them.

  Bending down, she gripped the handle and pulled. The door didn't budge.

  A pathway led around the comer of the garage. She went to it, and looked along the side. No window.

  But maybe in back.

  She walked up the path, stepping lightly from one flagstone to the next. The ground was covered with redwood chips like the school playground when she was a kid. Their sweet aroma was the same. She remembered the squeak of swing chains, the yelling of kids on the monkey bars, the smell of her lunch box. All so vivid. If she closed her eyes, she could…

  She had to keep them open.

  She came to the end of the garage, and stopped. Crouching, she peered around the comer.

  A swimming pool. Plenty of outdoor furniture. No people.

  She took a step forward, and looked at the back wall of the garage. It had a window. Sidestepping between the wall and a row of oleander bushes, she made her way to the window. She cupped her hands around her eyes, and looked through the glass.

  Except for light from the single window, the garage was dark. Off to the right, she saw the vague form of a car. Maybe a Mercedes. Maybe not. To be certain, she would need a better look.

  She had to break in.

  The idea made her stomach go tight and cold.

  I can do it, she told herself. After a mugging, what's a little breaking and entering?

  She stayed close to the garage wall, and sidestepped toward the house. As she was about to step out from behind an oleander, a movement caught her eye.

  At the far end of the pool was a woman.

  Connie stared, holding her breath.

  The woman was walking slowly away, taking small steps, holding herself rigid as if in pain. She had long, dark hair like the woman last night. In the sun, it was a rich, red-brown. She wore a white, string bikini. When she turned at the pool's corner, Connie saw her front. She was matted with bandages: bandages on her face, her neck, her chest and belly, her thighs. Her skin was blotched with bruises, her face swollen and blue.

  As Connie watched, she walked along the other side of the pool. She was nearly even with Connie when she stopped at a chaise longue. She untied her bikini and let it fall. Then she eased herself onto the chaise and lay back. Her head turned until she faced the house.

  Connie stood motionless behind the oleander.

  The woman didn't move her head. She lay on her back, arms at her sides, her skin glistening with moisture.

  Asleep?

  The sunglasses hid her eyes.

  Connie didn't dare move.

  Finally, the face turned away.

  Connie waited a few seconds, then inched back along the garage wall. The woman's head remained turned. At last, Connie reached the comer. She ducked around it, then looked back once more. Apparently, the woman hadn't seen her. She still lay there, naked except for the bandages, facing the back fence.

  Connie circled around to the front of the house. Hoping to God the woman was alone, she tried the front door. Locked. She checked the windows along the front of the house. All were shut.

  On the far side of the house, a bathroom window stood open. She looked around. The redwood fence was close behind her; if there were neighbors on the other side, they wouldn't see her.

  She struggled with the screen, and finally got it off. She pushed the window high, boosted herself up, and climbed in. She tiptoed across the bathroom. When she looked into the bedroom, she almost screamed. She covered her mouth, and stared at the blood-matted carpet beside the bed.

  My God, what had happened here? So much blood! She thought about the woman's bandages. Had all of this come from her? It hardly seemed possible. Even the wall by the bed was splattered with it.

  She wanted to get out. Fast. But she'd come this far. She needed to see inside the garage.

  She walked swiftly to the sliding glass door. Stepping close to the draperies, she peeked out. The woman was still on her chaise.

  Leaving the bedroom, Connie started down a hall-way. She came to other open doors, glanced into the rooms, and saw nobody.

  At the rear of the living-room was an enormous picture window with a sliding door at one end. She saw the woman across the pool. On hands and knees, she crept the length of the room, staying behind furniture whenever possible. Then she was in the kitchen. She crawled across its tiles to a door at the far end.

  She reached up for the knob. Turned it. Pushed the door open and looked into the dark garage.

  She crawled ahead.

  The garage was hot and stuffy, and smelled of grease.

  She stood up. She pushed the door shut, and walked through the darkness to the car. Feeling along its side, she found a door handle. She opened the door, and the interior light came on.

  A Mercedes, all right.

  A gray Mercedes.

  Leaving the door open for the light, she stepped to the front of the car. She couldn't see the bumper or grill, but the shiny hood showed two small dents. They were enough for her.

  She went over to the garage window to see if the woman was still on her chaise. Even as she looked, the woman flinched and sat upright, frowning toward her.

  What…?

  Oh God, an alarm. The car has a burglar alarm! She'd triggered it when she opened the door! She hadn't heard it, of course-but she should've, should've caught the vibrations!

  The woman sprang from the lounger and rushed alongside the pool.

  Thoughts darted through Connie's mind. She could make a dash for the front door. Or find the garage door opener and get out that way. Or stand and fight.

  That's it. Take the woman out. Bring in the cops. Plenty of evidence now. She knew, from research for an old crime novel, that there'd still be traces of blood on the car.

  She shut the car door, pressed her back to the wall by the kitchen door, and waited.

  Her heart felt as if it might explode. She blinked sweat out o
f her eyes.

  God, what if I faint?

  What if she has a gun?

  The door stayed shut.

  What's taking her so long?

  Connie wiped a hand on her corduroys, and gripped the knob. She slowly turned it. She eased the door open a crack, and looked into the kitchen.

  The woman stood at the other end of the kitchen, talking on the telephone.

  The telephone. That's what brought her running, not a car alarm.

  She stood there naked, dripping sweat, her back to Connie. Then she turned.

  Gazing at her mouth, Connie could almost hear the words formed by her tongue and lips.

  'Dal, you fucking idiot.'

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  'Thanks. That's just what I need after everything I've been through.'

  'You weren't supposed to get in touch.'

  'What can it hurt to call?' Dal asked, swiveling the seat of his stool. 'They didn't tap your phone, for Christsake.'

  'What if a cop had picked it up?'

  'I was ready for that. I would've pretended to be a magazine salesman.'

  'Brilliant.'

  'I know. Hey, look, how did it go?'

  'I don't think we should discuss it on the phone.'

  'That's ridiculous.'

  'I'll just say that everything went as planned.'

  'Fantastic! Did they check for fing…?'

  'Dal!'

  'Okay, okay.'

  'No, they didn't. By the way, mister.'

  'Yeah?'

  'I read this morning's paper, did you?'

  He knew what was coming. It was the main reason he'd finally decided to call. 'Yes,' he said.

  'The woman last night.'

  'Yes?'

  'Your fiancee.'

  'I know.'

  'What the fuck was she doing there?'

  'I asked her that, myself. This morning, after I read the article. She broke down, said she was lonely with me away and it meant nothing-just a last fling with her old boyfriend.'

  'And why'd you lie to me last night? Don't tell me you didn't recognize her.'

  'I recognized her. I just… couldn't bring myself to tell you. I was in shock. I couldn't believe it was her.'