Got to Kill Them All & Other Stories

by Dennis Etchison

  She tried to ignore the headlights and stopped under the first streetlamp in several long blocks, took the invitation out of her purse and looked at it one more time.

  The hand-drawn map on the back was useless. It might have been a child's sketch of a tree made with black crayon, the branches leading off the page into unknown territory. The lines were not labeled and there was only an X at the top, a house number and the words Saddleback Circle.

  When the headlights glared in her rearview mirror she had to glance up.

  The other car slowed, pulling even and hovering for a moment. Her side window was milky with frost. She reached for the button and rolled the glass down.

  "Richard," she shouted, "leave me alone or I'll call the police! I mean it this time!"

  Then she got a good look at the other car. It was a brand-new Chrysler, shiny black and heavy with chrome fittings, so dark inside that she could not see the driver. Embarrassed, she held up the invitation and waved it, accidentally brushing the controls by the steering wheel.

  "Sorry, I — I thought you were someone else. Do you know where—?"

  But now her wipers were on, skittering back and forth across the windshield, drowning out her own voice. The tinted passenger window on the other car remained closed.

  "Wait, please! I think I'm lost…!"

  The Chrysler glided silently past her to the next corner, a plume of white exhaust billowing up behind it.

  She spotted the same car a few minutes later, its turn signals winding uphill in a pattern that vaguely resembled part of the hand-drawn map. Then there was an entire row of red taillight reflectors ahead, stopped along both sides of the road, so many that there could be no doubt she had finally found the party. It took a few minutes more to locate a parking space next to the split-rail fence on Saddleback Circle.

  A sharp wind blew out of the canyon, gathering force and turning back on itself as if chilled by the cul-de-sac at the end. Leslie walked toward the glow of a big house, while heavy steps sounded beyond the fence and white breath condensed in the air between the trees. A riderless horse, pale and steaming against the darkness, stood snorting and pawing the earth. She closed her collar and hurried on.

  The house shone like iced gingerbread, all the doors and windows sparkling with color and movement. The gravel driveway was still full of cars. Someone stepped forward from the shadows and she put her hand up to shield her eyes from the glare of Christmas lights over the porch.

  "Hello?" she called out, shivering.

  "Les, you made it."

  "Coral? It feels like it's going to snow!"

  "Don't say that in L.A. It's bad luck."

  "Am I too late?"

  "Come on in, for God's sake." Coral led her up the wooden steps. "Get yourself some eggnog and I'll introduce you around."

  A dozen people were jammed around the coatrack in the foyer, the faces of the taller ones blurring as they moved aside for their hostess. The air was warm with body heat but Leslie's fingers trembled as she undid the button at her throat and smoothed her collar.

  "I can't stay."

  "You have a late date?"

  "Right, Coral."

  "Then stick with me. I'll fix you up."

  "No, really, I'll just mingle…"

  Leslie squinted in the sudden brightness, gazing through crepe paper and popcorn strung from the vaulted living room ceiling. The party was close to breaking up but a few tanned women in satin and denim stood talking to men with cowboy boots and silver belt buckles, while long-legged teenagers whispered behind a table full of empty pie tins and half-eaten cookies. When she turned around Coral was not there.

  She rubbed her hands together and wandered into the hall, past matted photographs of her friend in a black hunt cap and coat jumping a chestnut mare over hurdles. A man's voice droned from one of the bedrooms, describing how he had broken his ankle during a flying dismount the previous year. Only his broad shoulders and pressed Levi's were visible through the doorway. Three women sat on the edge of the bed, listening with lips parted. Leslie continued down the hall before he could roll up the leg of his jeans to show them the scar.

  In the den, Coral took her arm and led her to a balding man on the sofa.

  "Ed, you remember Les, from the Tri-Valley meet. We went out for dinner after."

  "Oh, right," he said, half-standing, the top of his head a pink smear. "Did you ever sell that Hermes saddle?"

  "Not yet," said Leslie.

  "How much do you want for it?" asked a drunk woman on the other end of the sofa.

  "I haven't decided."

  "Where's your friend?" said the balding man.

  "Who?"

  "Big guy, longrider coat. What's his name?"

  Coral said in a low voice. "Honey, that was last summer."

  "Richie, that's it." He looked around. "Is he here?"

  Coral rolled her eyes. "They're not together anymore."

  "Oh. Too bad. Nice fellow."

  "Sit down, Ed." When they were back in the hall, Coral whispered, "I'm so sorry. I told him, but he doesn't listen."

  "It's okay. I'm over it." They passed the bedroom, now empty. "Who was that man?"

  If

  "You know my husband!"

  "I mean in there, with those women."

  "What did he look like?"

  "I couldn't see his face. Tall, black hair…"

  "Sounds familiar."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Don't you?" Coral steered her toward a table of hors d'oeuvres in the dining room. "Do yourself a favor. Try a different type, for once?"

  Leslie blinked and lowered her head, fumbling for a paper plate. The first chafing dish contained a few wieners floating in water. Before she could open the next one small feet thundered behind her and five or six children ran to the table and filled the last of the hot dog buns. When they were gone she set her plate aside, reached for a cut-glass cup and dipped some punch out of the bowl.

  "Do you have any vodka to go with this?" she asked, but Coral had already gone on to the living room.

  Leslie explored the rest of the downstairs.

  She passed several couples. There were a few single men leaning in doorways or working the halls, their faces indistinct as she squeezed by them with her head down. In an enclosed back porch the teenaged girls were busy rehearsing a skit of some sort. The yard was illuminated by floodlights and the trees shook silently beyond the glass, teasing a view of absolute darkness. She listened to the girls for a minute, then found her way to the TV room.

  A young mother held her sleepy son on her lap, stroking his forehead as they watched a tape of The Man from Snowy River, and a woman in a short black cocktail dress stood in the corner talking to a slim, sandy-haired man. Leslie was about to move on when the woman spotted her.

  "Les?"

  "Hi, Jane." Leslie started out of the porch, but the woman was already at her side.

  "I haven't seen you in so long!"

  "I don't ride anymore."

  "Why not?"

  "I moved."

  "So where are you taking lessons?"

  "Nowhere. I can't, till my arm heals."

  Jane seemed not to hear her and turned to the man in the corner. "Do you know — ?"

  "I was looking for Judy," said Leslie as he came over to join them. "Is she…?"

  "This is Les," the woman told him. "Ask her. She has a fabulous horse."

  Leslie avoided his eyes. "I used to."

  "What happened?" the man asked.

  "I had to sell him."

  "You should have seen her in the Tri-Valley Finals," said Jane.

  "That was one of Suzie's horses. She let me take him out for the day."

  "Who paid?" he said. "Or did you go Dutch?"

  Jane laughed too loudly and said, "Have you met—?"

  "Michael."

  "I don't think so." His fingers were soft, smooth and unknotted. She withdrew her hand and reached for her purse, but it was not at h
er side. She had left it on the coatrack in the foyer.

  "Where do you ride?"

  "Shady Acres. I mean, I did."

  "How do you like it?"

  "Beautiful!" said Jane. "You'll have to come out sometime."

  "I should. My wife wants to ride, but I'm afraid I'll get rug-burns."

  Jane cracked up.

  Leslie could not quite meet his eyes, which stood out in an otherwise ordinary, almost uncompleted face. "Hunters and jumpers?"

  "Not that advanced. She's only been on a horse a few times."

  "Well," said Jane, "I can show you some easy trail rides. It's right by the State Park."

  "Great. I'll tell her all about it."

  "Where is your wife?"

  "She's on her way. She had to work late." He turned his attention to Leslie again. "What does a decent horse go for?"

  She averted her gaze. "That depends on what you're looking for, I guess."

  "Well…" Jane pulled at her lip as she waited for his eyes to fall on her again. "I'm not supposed to talk about it, but Suzie told me about a steal up in Ventura County. An eight-year-old, A-circuit champion, for — "

  Just then a bell clanged.

  Leslie went to the hall, following the sound.

  Coral held up a metal triangle and beat it with a soup ladle as though calling ranch hands to a chuckwagon dinner. When the remaining guests had assembled in the dining room she announced a special treat, a one-act play written and performed by the Junior Class girls. Leslie saw the teenagers through the open kitchen door, waiting with handwritten notebook pages, practicing their lines one last time. She took a position along the wall nearest the living room, as a pretty blond girl stepped in front of the buffet table and began speaking.

  "Kind ladies and gentlemen, I pray you, do not judge me! I was but a poor maid who lost her way…"

  The girl held out her arms, palms up, in a gesture of supplication. From the foyer came the rustling of coats as a few more couples took this opportunity to slip away. Leslie watched the girl, not looking at the hall to see if Jane and the fair-haired man had followed her.

  "…So when he came to Sparta and offered me such a fine mount, how could I resist?"

  Now a crude horse's head bobbed out of the kitchen, followed by a second half made of brown paper with a real horsehair tail. A high-pitched whinnying came from under the paper and the two halves of the horse reared up and bumped the girl, who fell onto her back.

  Next to Leslie, a woman nearly spilled her glass of wine.

  The audience giggled and applauded. The horse took a premature bow. The woman held her husband's arm to keep from losing her balance.

  "Is this R-rated?" she said, convulsed with laughter. "Her mother's going to die!"

  "It's all right," said her husband behind the brim of his Stetson. "I think it's Equus."

  "I think it's the Trojan Horse," said another voice.

  Leslie raised her eyes and saw that a man wearing a camel's-hair sportcoat and a bolo tie had squeezed in next to her.

  "Don't you?" he asked her, leaning closer.

  "I really don't know."

  "What are you drinking, little lady?"

  She shook her head. "Nothing, thank you."

  She let herself out onto the wide front porch and felt for her purse, but it was still inside. Couples walked down the steps to the gravel, blowing on their hands, jingling keyrings, unlocking cars in the driveway. Headlights flashed and for a second the blond girl from the play was silhouetted against the split-rail fence, imprisoned by the arms of a teenaged boy. The headlights moved on and there was the sound of laughter in the dark. Leslie leaned on the railing as footsteps passed behind her from the other end of the porch.

  "Excuse me," she said without turning, "but do you have a cigarette, by any chance?"

  "Well, let's just see here once." It was the one Jane had introduced as Michael. He checked his shirt pocket and came up with a crushed pack of Marlboros. "Hey, you scored."

  "I don't want to take your last one."

  He straightened the cigarette for her. "My wife says I should quit, anyway. You can help me get rid of the evidence."

  She cupped her fingers around the flame, careful not to touch his hand. "Did she finally make it?"

  "She'll be here. She promised."

  "What does she do?"

  "Legal work," he said.

  "I'd like to meet her."

  "You need a lawyer?"

  She inhaled and blew out a cone of smoke. "Oh, I guess not."

  "Sexual harassment, or a quickie divorce? Let's see, you keep the house and car…"

  "I'm not married."

  "Palimony? That's easy. But first you have to stop calling and hanging up. Leaving notes on his car."

  "It's not me."

  "You found a dead horse in your bed?"

  "Not yet." She smiled at him and coughed.

  "Smooth, huh?"

  "This is the first one I've had in a long time."

  "Why did you stop?"

  "Someone I know — knew — didn't like it."

  "He should meet my present wife."

  "How many times have you been married?"

  "Only once. It's a joke. I used to call her my first wife, but she didn't like it. So now I introduce her as my present wife. She doesn't think that's funny, either."

  "I wonder why."

  "You're a lot like her."

  "What's her name?"

  "Sometimes I forget," he said with a twinkle in his eye.

  A burst of whistles and applause from inside the house.

  "I'd better go in," she said. "Thanks."

  "The first one's free." His eyes shone out of the shadows. "Seriously. She can get you a restraining order."

  "Who, your present wife?"

  "If that doesn't work, we'll tie him up and dump him on a trail somewhere. State Parks are always good."

  They laughed.

  Mothers hugged their shiny-faced daughters, who made desperate hand signals to each other across the dining room. Leslie touched the blond one's arm.

  "You were wonderful."

  "Thanks!" the girl said in a sweet, breathless voice.

  "You're Tara, aren't you?"

  "Um, yeah." The girl looked over her head, scanning the room with restless green eyes. She had a broad forehead and skin that almost glowed.

  "You probably don't remember me," said Leslie. "I helped you train for your first Junior Class meet."

  The girl pretended not to hear and swept by her to the hall, where the two halves of the horse, now in riding clothes, led her away. They were all legs and gangly arms, their silken hair pinned to the backs of long necks above collarless dressage shirts, their clean faces mouthing words that could almost be read from across the room. Leslie smiled after them and went into the kitchen.

  Coral and three other women were putting food into stainless steel bowls.

  "Well, it's about time," said the one with the short haircut.

  "Judy? I was looking for you!"

  "We had a bet you wouldn't show."

  "Michelle! And Jeannie…" Leslie embraced them. "Sorry I'm late. I saw Tara — she's adorable. What a great Helen."

  "Next week she'll be Joan of Arc," said Michelle. "All she does is watch that movie over and over."

  "Does she still ride?"

  "She will, if I get her some chain mail."

  "Judy has a bone to pick with you," said Jeannie, covering a bowl with plastic wrap.

  "What about?"

  "When's the last time I saw you at Shady Acres?" asked the one with short hair.

  "A few months."

  "Try six. Right?" she asked Jeannie, pouring the leftover eggnog back into a carton.

  "I had to see Kahlua when I moved out."

  "That's no excuse. You're the best rider I've ever seen."

  "No, I'm not…"

  "And you know darn well you can ride Jack any time. All you have to do is ask."

  Leslie blushed.
"That's really, really nice of you, Jude. I will, as soon as my arm's healed."

  "It's healed now, and so are you. Got it? You dumped the jerk and you're back in the mix. What are you doing Saturday?"

  "I'm not sure yet."

  "The Grand Prix at Oak Ridge. Box seats."

  "I'll call you." Leslie glanced over Judy's shoulder at the kitchen window, as a tall dark figure passed in the yard outside. She put her hand to her throat. "Who else did you invite?"

  "Friends only."

  "I mean tonight," she said to Coral.

  "Is it cold in here?"

  "No, I'm fine."

  "Then why are you shivering?" Coral put the last bowl away and closed the refrigerator door. "Come on. I can't let you leave like this."

  There were plates, half-eaten hot dog buns and torn wrapping paper on every surface. A few sportcoats and plaid Pendletons still prowled the edges of the living room. Coral led her upstairs, past small children bundled like teddy bears for the ride home. She thanked the mothers and fathers for coming, then steered Leslie into the master bedroom.

  "I'll help you clean up."

  "No, you won't." Coral rummaged in the closet, pulled out a suede jacket with sheepskin lining. "Here. Put this on."

  "I'll bring it back."

  "Saturday. The old gang will be there." She helped Leslie get her bad arm into the jacket and looked at her. "I know it's been a rough year for you. But it's over."

  "I guess so."

  Leslie turned away and opened the curtains above a table that held Coral's trophies and ribbons, just enough to see down into the backyard.

  "Did you ever find out who she was?" said Coral.

  Below, the yard was empty, the gate latched. There was no one on the other side of the house next to the kitchen. In the distance taillights wound slowly up the canyon road like blood cells through a clogged artery. She let the curtains fall closed.

  "He never admitted it. He told me I was paranoid, and after a while I almost believed him. But I know I did the right thing. It's just that sometimes…"

  "You don't call him, do you?"