Come Out Tonight

by Richard Laymon

  “Do it!” Toby snapped.

  “I’ll just reach under,” Fran explained. She placed her left hand on Brenda’s hip, then bent lower and started to shove her right hand into the crevice between Brenda’s back and the floor.

  Brenda sat up fast.

  Her elbow smashed against Fran’s face.

  “YES!” Toby cried out.

  Fran tumbled backward off her knees, blood rushing from her crushed nose. Her naked back slapped the floor, followed a moment later by the thonk of her head. Followed by the quick toot of a fart.

  Toby laughed.

  Brenda, twisting her torso, let fly with the knife.

  It flipped end over end toward Toby.

  He took quick aim. Just as the knife struck him in the forehead, he fired.

  Chapter Sixty

  The noise of the gunshot blasted Brenda’s ears and she felt a strange, quick stir in the air by her cheek. Even as she realized the bullet must’ve missed her, Jack’s head jerked backward from the impact of the knife.

  It had struck him, handle first, in the middle of the forehead, then bounced off.

  He still held out the pistol as if he hoped to fire again, but now it seemed to be pointing way too high and he was taking a wobbly step away.

  He took just the one step. Then he fell backward onto the carpeted hallway. Brenda felt the floor shake. His head bounced. The pistol hopped out of his hand and scooted over the carpet, stopping almost a yard beyond his curled fingers.

  She had lost track of the knife after it caromed off his brow.

  She looked around quickly for it, but couldn’t see it.

  Maybe it had fallen out of sight behind one of the bodies.

  Better to have the gun, anyway, she thought.

  Get it and I’ll be fine.

  She would need to make her way past Jack, but he seemed to be out cold.

  How long’s that gonna last? she wondered.

  The sound of a groan sent a gust of fear through her belly, but then she realized it had come from Fran, not Jack.

  The girl was sprawled on her back, her knees in the air, both hands holding her face.

  God, I did that to her.

  It made Brenda feel sick.

  Why didn’t I just push her away? I didn’t have to hurt her.

  Worry about it later, Brenda told herself. She went against me and I had to hurt her and now she’s useless and I have to get the gun before Jack wakes up.

  Brenda clenched her teeth, put her weight on her straight left arm, turned her body and rose onto her left knee. Shuddering and sweating, she held herself up with both hands on the cool marble floor.

  This doesn’t feel too good, she thought.

  The pain from her gunshot right leg seemed to be everywhere.

  Screw it, she thought. Screw the pain. Get the gun and worry about it later.

  Letting her wounded leg slide along behind her, she crawled toward Jack on her hands and one knee.

  He seemed very far away.

  This is so awfully jolly.

  It didn’t seem that it should be so difficult to crawl a few yards on one knee. She wondered if she should try to stand up.

  Just what I’d need, she thought. Get way up there on one foot and hop along and fall. I sure don’t need to fall again. I’ve had enough of that.

  This’ll be fine, she told herself. I’m getting there, I’m getting there.

  But her whole body was trembling form the effort and the pain. Sweat seemed to be pouring out of her, stinging her eyes and blurring her vision, sliding down her body like run-off in a storm, dripping from her ear lobes and the tip of her nose and her chin and her breasts. It ran down her arms and made her hands wet.

  Once, her right hand slipped on the marble and plained forward and she bashed her elbow hard on the floor and cried out.

  Braced up on her elbow and knee, she wiped her right hand on the T-shirt bandage around her thigh. But she couldn’t think of a way to dry her left hand.

  I’m almost to the carpet. Then I’ll be all right. It’ll be good and dry…

  She would have the carpet for traction, but she would also have Jack beside her.

  Hope he isn’t faking.

  She pushed herself up. The marble felt cool and dry under her right hand, but slick under her left.

  Be careful, she told herself, and resumed crawling.

  Blinking because of the sweat in her eyes, she watched Jack. He lay sprawled on his back, shoes big on his feet, his bare legs straight out and apart. His penis, rooted in a nest of curly brown hair, drooped sideways against his left thigh. It looked small and soft, not at all like the big, stout shaft it had been a while ago.

  He can’t hurt me with that thing, Brenda thought.

  Not unless it gets big again.

  She suddenly thought about Quentin shoving his into Fran and how Fran had cried out in pain, then wept and begged him to stop, but then how later she’d been embracing him, moaning, moving her own hips to meet his thrusts almost as if she’d liked it.

  How could she like it?

  It’s supposed to hurt like crazy when it’s your first time and that had been Fran’s first time unless she’d been lying and unless the blood afterward had been for a different reason. And you’re never supposed to like it when they rape you. You’re supposed to hate that, no matter what it might feel like.

  But Fran had been fond of Quentin before. She’d thought he was cute and she’d admitted to daydreams about being with him. So maybe it makes a difference if you like the guy.

  Or maybe she just lost her damn mind.

  I sure wouldn’t want a thing like that getting stuck into me, Brenda thought. If that’s what it takes to make babies, I’ll pass, thank you very much.

  Her hand came down on the good dry mat of carpet a few inches from Jack’s right foot.

  Now I’ll be fine, she thought. Long as he doesn’t wake up.

  The broad, low hill of his belly was rising and falling slightly as he breathed. His head was turned sideways, his mouth drooping open, his eyes shut. In the center of his forehead was a shiny red dome as if half a pingpong ball had been shoved underneath his skin.

  I got him good, she thought. He’s out like a light.

  Doesn’t mean he’ll stay that way.

  But Brenda was making quicker progress now that she had the carpet under her.

  I’m gonna make it!

  Unless he wakes up in the next few seconds.

  He isn’t going to wake up in time because I got him good with the knife and he’s out cold and this isn’t some crappy movie where the bad guy always grabs the gal just at the last second.

  Besides, she could see his eyeballs shifting back and forth under the lids.

  He’s still out, and I’ve made it.

  The pistol, now, was almost within reach.

  If he wakes up, dive for it.

  It was Sherry’s pistol, all right—or at least the same kind of pistol.

  What’d he do to Sherry?

  Soon as he wakes up. I’ll make him talk.

  Slide forward, hammer back, the pistol looked loaded and cocked and ready to fire.

  Don’t kill Jack unless you have to.

  Bracing herself up on her left knee and right hand, she leaned forward and reached for the pistol and squealed with alarm and pain and despair when her right ankle was grabbed and jerked. Pain smashed through her body. She fell onto her side—onto Jack’s arm and shoulder and face.

  He’s still down!

  She twisted herself over.

  Fran was hunkered low, both hands wrapped around Brenda’s ankle, lumbering backward, dragging her.

  “What’re you doing!”

  Fran didn’t answer, didn’t look up, just kept waddling backward, her breasts hanging toward the floor and swinging from side to side as she towed Brenda by the ankle.

  “Let go, you idiot!”

  “Fuck you,” Fran grunted.

  “What’s the matter with you?”


  “You. You’re the matter.”

  Carpet no longer under her body, Brenda slid along on the cool marble floor.

  “He’s gonna wake up!”

  “Good.” Fran flung Brenda’s foot straight down at the floor. Her shoe absorbed some of the impact, but pain exploded from her wound. Wracked with agony, she flinched rigid, arching her back, shoving her belly into the air.

  Fran straddled her and dropped, buttocks slapping against her belly, driving her down, mashing her.

  Brenda felt as if she’d been caved in. She fought for a breath but made squeaking sounds and seemed to get no air.

  “How ya like it?” Fran asked. Cords of wet hair clung to her bloody, sweaty face.

  Brenda had no breath for answering.

  “Who’s the loser now, huh? Huh?” Her open hand smacked Brenda hard across the face. “How about a quip? How about a snappy rejoinder?” She slapped Brenda again. “Who’s on top, now?”

  She clutched Brenda’s breasts.

  “What d’ya call these, huh? They’re nothing! You got tits like a guy. A skinny guy. You got no tits at all, you emaciated fucking twerp! And everybody calls me fat! I’m fat and ugly and worthless and you’re some sorta stunning beauty for godsake but you look like a fucking guy! But all the guys want you and I’m some sort of ugly fucking cow they don’t wanta touch with a ten-foot pole. They don’t wanta kiss me and nobody’s ever gonna fall in love with a cow like me and the one time I get lucky maybe for the only time in my whole stinking life, you go and kill him.”

  She pinched Brenda’s nipples and twisted them hard.

  Brenda jerked stiff and cried out and was surprised to find that she could cry out.

  Could breathe again, though not very well.

  “Stop it,” she gasped. “Please.”

  “You killed him.”

  “He raped you!”

  “So what!” She let go of Brenda’s left nipple and smacked her across the face again. “You killed him and you were gonna let Jack kill me so you could keep the fucking knife.”

  “He’s out cold, Fran. We can take him! We can survive this but you’ve gotta get off me.”

  “Who wants to survive?” asked Fran.

  “I do.”

  “Well, you aren’t gonna!”

  “She happens to be right,” said Jack.

  Brenda went cold inside. “Now you’ve done it,” she muttered.

  Fran’s bloody face grinned down at her. “Good,” she said.

  “Don’t let me stop the fun and games,” said Jack. “Both of you stay where you are. Fran, let’s see you hurt her some more.”

  Chapter Sixty-one

  “It has to be around here someplace,” Sherry said, slowing as they neared the Speed-D-Mart. “This is where Duane’s van was parked last night. Toby switched over to it, so he must’ve parked his car fairly close to here.”

  “What kind of car?” Pete asked.

  “A blue Mustang.”

  Sherry turned right onto Airdrome.

  “Like that one?” Jeff asked.

  “Where?”

  “Other side of the street. Near the corner.”

  Sherry leaned closer to the steering wheel and turned her head to the left. “Looks like it,” she said. She drove past the Mustang, then made a U-turn and pulled to the curb behind it. She shut off the engine. Bending down, shoulder against the wheel, she reached to the floor. She came up with the Club. “Mind if I borrow this for a minute?” she asked.

  “Help yourself.”

  She pulled at the steering wheel locking device, lengthening it until the two steel bars came apart in the middle. She set the smaller piece down on the floor and kept the other. “Both of you wait here, okay? Pete, why don’t you get behind the wheel? Pull on ahead of Toby’s car and wait. And keep your eyes open. If any cops come along, just drive on as if you don’t have anything to do with me.”

  “Sure,” Pete said. “Just leave you.”

  “I mean it. I don’t want you guys getting busted for any of this.”

  “We aren’t gonna ditch you,” Jeff said.

  “For all I know,” Sherry explained, “the car isn’t even locked. But it probably is, and Toby said it has an alarm. If it does, busting the window’ll trigger it. Might get real noisy around here. But nobody pays much attention to car alarms. And cops…the only way they’ll show up is if they happen to be passing by. So I don’t think there will be any trouble. If there is, though, take off without me. Maybe drive around the block, keep an eye on things from a distance.”

  “Let’s see if the coast is clear before you go busting in,” Pete suggested. “We can at least make sure there aren’t cops at the Speed-D-Mart.”

  “Cops are always at Speed-D-Marts,” Jeff added.

  “Not always,” Pete said. “Anyway, when I pull forward I’ll have a good angle on the parking lot. I’ll honk if I see any cop cars.”

  “Good deal,” Sherry said. She smiled at Pete, gave him a pat on the thigh, then said, “Be careful, you guys,” and climbed out of the car.

  She left the driver’s door open. As she walked toward the Mustang, Pete hurried around the front, scurried in and shut the door. He started the engine.

  Limping, Sherry walked slowly alongside the Mustang. She looked straight ahead as if not at all interested in the car. At its front, she hobbled toward the curb.

  Pete drove slowly by. As he neared the corner, more and more of the Speed-D-Mart parking lot slid into view. There were about a dozen vehicles in the small lot, a couple of them trying to exit. Several people milled about, including customers on their way to the entrance and a beggar waiting in ambush. A big white delivery truck was turning in from Robertson Boulevard.

  Pete saw no police cars.

  “Looks good,” he said, and eased over to the curb.

  “Looks great,” Jeff agreed. “I don’t even see any rent-a-cop cars.”

  “We’d better keep an eye on the intersection.”

  “You keep an eye on it. I got better stuff to watch.”

  Pete glanced over his shoulder. Jeff was twisted around on the back seat, staring out the rear window.

  “Check her out, dude.”

  Facing forward, Pete gave the intersection a quick scan. Then he turned his attention to the right side mirror. It gave him a small but clear reflection of Sherry by the passenger side of the Mustang.

  She bent and peered through the window, then straightened up. Keeping the steel bar low by her side, she looked toward Pete’s car. The wind was blowing in her face, sweeping her short hair backward, flapping and filling her mostly unbuttoned shirt. Inside the gawdy shirt, she seemed to be wearing more bandages than swimsuit. The skimpy top was black against her tanned skin, the bandages white as rainless clouds. Lower, a patch of white on her thigh was larger than the black triangle of pants between her legs.

  She nodded toward their car, then turned around slowly as if scanning the entire area.

  “If she’s trying to be inconspicuous,” Jeff said, “she’s failing miserably.”

  “Yeah.”

  “God, look at her.”

  “I know.”

  “And just think, she’s with us.”

  “Hard to believe,” Pete admitted.

  “And she likes us.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We might never have another day like this one, good buddy. Hope you’re taking notes.”

  “I’ll take notes later. Wouldn’t wanta miss a single—”

  “There she goes.”

  Sherry’s image in the side mirror bent over and swung the bar, smashing the Mustang’s passenger window. The noise of the alarm made Pete shrivel inside. Sherry reached through the broken window. A moment later, the door swung open.

  Pete forced his eyes away from the mirror.

  He scanned the traffic for police cars.

  So far, so good. But all it’ll take is one.

  He look
ed across the street at the Speed-D-Mart’s parking lot. People wandered about, but nobody seemed to pay any attention to the alarm.

  “Shit shit shit,” Jeff said.

  “What?”

  “Why doesn’t she hurry?”

  “We’re okay so far.”

  Returning his eyes to the side mirror, Pete saw that the Mustang’s door was shut. “Where is she?”

  “Inside. She’s in the passenger seat.”

  “Good idea.”

  The door suddenly swung open. Sherry climbed out. She stood up, a purse now hanging at her hip, a paper in her right hand. She stepped past the door. With her bare left foot, she shoved it shut. Then she made her slow, limping way to the sidewalk.

  “God, she’s taking her time!”

  “Maybe she can’t move any faster,” Pete said. “A few hours ago, she could hardly move at all.”

  “Shit, yeah. We thought she was dead.”

  “Nice recovery, huh?”

  “Man, I sure hope we get to see her when she’s really recovered. Preferably naked.”

  “In your dreams,” Pete said.

  “Yours too, good buddy.”

  Pete leaned over the passenger seat and shoved the door open for her.

  A few seconds later, Sherry ducked through the doorway and eased herself down in the seat. “Let’s go,” she said, pulling the door shut.

  Pete checked the traffic, then stepped on the gas.

  He reached Robertson, stopped for a moment because of the red light, then turned right. As he picked up speed, the beeping of Toby’s car alarm faded and died out.

  “By George,” said Jeff, “I do think we made it.”

  Pete turned his head and grinned at Sherry. “Did you find the address?”

  “You bet. And my purse.”

  “Great.”

  She held open the registration slip and studied it. “Okay,” she said. “The car’s owned by Sidney Bones, Four Eight Nine Two Shawcross Lane.”

  “Where the hell is that?” Jeff asked.

  “Up in the hills,” Sherry said. “It’s a few miles from a school where I’ve done a lot subbing…Toby’s school.”

  “You know how to find it?”

  “I think so. I’m pretty sure I ran into Shawcross last year when I was trying to find a faculty party. It’s up there someplace. I know I’ve seen it. Might take a little hunting…”