The Midnight Tour

by Richard Laymon

  At the approach of Tuck and Dana, heads turned. Dana saw friendly smiles and nods from the girls, but Clyde looked somewhat annoyed.

  “Hey, y’all,” Tuck said. “Sorry we’re late. How’s everybody this morning?”

  No complaints.

  “You remember my friend, Dana Lake?”

  More nods and smiles and soft-spoken greetings came from Rhonda and Sharon.

  “She’ll be the upstairs monitor today. Whose got downstairs?”

  Squinting through pale smoke, Sharon said, “That’ll be me.”

  “Good.” Tuck smiled at Dana. “Shaion’s our oldest hand.”

  “Been here six years,” Sharon said to Dana. She looked as if she might be in her mid-twenties. Her voice was low and husky. With that voice, the sharp angles of her face and her excess of makeup, she seemed to Dana more like a barmaid than a tour guide. Not that Dana’d seen many barmaids, except in the movies. “You have any questions,” Sharon said, “just ask. I know damn near everything. What I don’t know, I improvise.”

  Dana smiled and nodded.

  “Okay,” Tuck said. “Who’s out front?”

  “I’m tickets,” Clyde said.

  “I’m tape players,” said Rhonda. She had rosy cheeks and big, friendly eyes.

  “Sharon, you were tape players yesterday?”

  “Right,” Sharon said, raising two fingers and the cigarette between them.

  “The count turned out okay?”

  “Oh, yeah. You damn betcha. What’s up? We have a hider last night?”

  “Looks that way. Somebody ripped Ethel’s nightgown. I fixed her up so she’s decent enough for the public, and Dana and I did a quick search of the house. We didn’t spot any other problems. No obvious signs of forced entry. It probably was a hider.”

  “The count came out right on the button,” Sharon told her.

  “Okay. Well, keep an eye out when you’re inside today. Just because we couldn’t find him doesn’t mean he’s gone.”

  “You bet,” Sharon said.

  “Everybody look sharp today,” Tuck said, her eyes roaming the others. “The guy is probably some sort of pervert.”

  “He fuck Ethel?” Sharon asked.

  Clyde snorted out a laugh. Rhonda blushed.

  “I don’t think so,” Tuck said.

  “Nobody’d do that,” the Rhonda said, looking disturbed.

  Sharon, grinning, shook her head. “Well, don’t let me burst your bubble.”

  “I want everyone to be alert and careful,” Tuck said. “Watch for anyone who seems to be lurking about or acting strange.”

  “That’d be about half our customers,” Sharon said, then tipped a wink at Dana and took a puff on her cigarette. “Poor Clyde, too. That boy’s a lurker if I ever seen one.”

  Clyde smirked at her, lit up another cigarette and said, “You’re just upset because I stopped lurking in your pants.”

  “All right, folks, it’s time we take our positions and open up. Any questions? No questions? Okay, let’s do it.”

  Chapter Seven

  SANDY’S STORY—August 1980

  Sandy started Marlon Slade’s MG, pushed the dutch pedal down with her foot, and shoved the shift around for a while until she found what was probably first gear. Then she let the dutch up. The car jolted forward and died.

  “No problem,” she muttered.

  In her whole life, she’d never tried to drive any vehicle except for Agnes Kutch’s old pickup truck. And she’d only driven it a few times, off on back roads, because she was too young for a driver’s license.

  She’d done just fine with the steering side of things. It was the shifting that had always given her trouble. She’d killed the engine again and again, mostly when trying to start out.

  “Yer poppin the clutch, ” Agnes bad explained from the passenger seat. “Ease off her gentle and easy, and step on the gas as ya let her up.”

  Following Agnes’s advice now, Sandy twisted the ignition key, gave the engine some gas with her right foot, and raised her left foot very slowly to let the clutch pedal rise beneath it. The car started rolling forward.

  "All right!”

  She steered onto the road. Staying in first gear, she picked up speed. The engine revved, loud in her ears.

  Gotta shift to second. Hope I don’t kill the thing.

  As she fingered the knob of the shift, she saw a pale, hazy glow of headbeams in the rearview mirror.

  With a quick jerk of the wheel, she swerved off the pavement. The MG crunched over weeds and rocks, bouncing, jolting her. She floored the brake pedal. The car lurched to a stop. Its engine quit.

  She glanced back and saw the car come around the bend. As its headlights swung toward her, she dropped sideways.

  She lay across the passenger seat, gasping for breath, her heart slamming.

  Had she been quick enough or had they already spotted her? What if the MG was so low that they would be able to see her lying across the seats as they drove by?

  If they see me down like this, they’ll stop for sure.

  The car rushed closer with a sound like a strong wind bearing down.

  Sandy fumbled with the dish towel and pressed it snugly against her breasts.

  Light skimmed over the car. She saw it on the dashboard, saw it fill the rearview mirror. It reflected off the mirror and shined down as if trying to point her out.

  Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop. Just keep going, whoever you are. This is none of your business.

  She wondered if she would need the knife.

  Before starting the car, she had bent over and tossed it underneath her seat.

  Now, her legs were still in front of the knife. Her hip was on the seat above it. But her shoulder was planted in the passenger seat. She couldn’t possibly reach the knife. Not without sitting up first.

  The approaching car slowed down.

  No, don’t...

  As its headlights moved on, the car itself crept up alongside the MG.

  Sandy suddenly wondered if it had a trailer hitch.

  Don’t even think about it.

  Just go away, whoever you are.

  With a quiet whine of brakes, the car stopped.

  “She’s sure a peach,” a guy said.

  He’s seen me!

  No, maybe he means the MG.

  He had sounded as if he might be standing over the driver’s door, peering in.

  “What’s it doing out here?” asked a different voice. The voice of someone farther away. Probably the driver.

  A woman.

  Sandy felt a sudden, vast relief.

  “I reckon it broke down,” said the guy.

  “Yeah. Or the dumb shit run outa gas.”

  “Same thing.”

  “No, it ain’t,” the woman said.

  “Sure is a peach.”

  “Get on out and see what’s in it, Bill. He might have some good stuff, a fancy-ass car like that.”

  Don’t do it, Bill! Stay in your car!

  “What if the guy’s just off in the trees takin’ a whizz or something?” he asked.

  “Ya gonna do it, or ya gonna sit here all night?”

  “Wanta get me caught red-handed?”

  “Yer as yella as peed-on snow.”

  “Am not,” Bill said.

  “Yella, yella, yella!”

  “Shut up.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Don’t you talk to me that way, ya yella bastard!”

  Sandy heard skin hit skin. The woman blurted, “Ow!” Bill must’ve slapped her. “Yella cocksucker!” she squealed.

  Then came a flurry of blows and the woman yelping and cursing Bill and pleading for him to stop while he pounded her and grunted with the effort and gasped, "Ya like that? How’s this? Ya like this? Fucking bitch. Ya like this?”

  “Stop it!” She was crying like a kid being spanked. “Yer hurtin’ me!”

  “Yella, huh?”

  “No! Please! I’m
sorry. I didn’t mean it!”

  The blows kept falling.

  The woman, sobbing wildly, grunted and cried out each time she was hit. “I’m sorry!” she gasped. “Ya ain’t yella!”

  “I’m fuckin’ tired of yer mouth, bitch!

  “No! OW!”

  “Ya like that? How ‘bout this?”

  Smack!

  Shoving her elbow into the passenger seat, Sandy pushed herself. up until she could see over the top of her driver’s door. The other car was stopped on the road beside the MG, only four or five feet away,

  Still too low for a view inside, Sandy grabbed the steering wheel with her left hand and pulled herself higher.

  Bill seemed to be kneeling on the front seat, hunched over as he thrashed the woman behind the steering wheel. Sandy couldn’t see her at all. But she could hear her crying and begging, could hear her clothes being tom, her skin being punched and slapped by Bill.

  What’s gonna happen when they stop?

  One of them’ll get out and find me, that’s what.

  She wished another car would show up. If it came from behind, Bill’s car would be blocking the lane. Maybe he would quit beating the woman and make her drive away.

  This was a back road, though. It didn’t get used much, especially at night. Another car might come along seconds from now—or maybe not for hours.

  I’ve gotta get out of here.

  Sandy pulled herself up the rest of the way. Though she hunkered low behind the steering wheel, she knew that her shoulders and head were in plain sight. If Bill stopped beating on the woman and either of them looked...

  Reaching down, Sandy fingered the floor underneath the seat and found the knife.

  Just let him try any crap with me.

  She set the knife down across her lap, then twisted the ignition key. The engine spluttered, roared to life.

  Bill twisted and ducked his head to see out the passenger window. “Hey!” he yelled.

  Sandy stepped on the gas and let the clutch up. The MG jumped forward and died.

  No!

  In silence, it continued to roll forward.

  Sandy tried to start the engine again. It sputtered, whinnied, didn’t catch.

  Looking back, she saw Bill’s door fly open.

  Her stomach knotted.

  The engine caught.

  Yes!

  Easy does it! Easy does it!

  She let up on the clutch and the tiny car surged forward, shoving her against the seatback. The leather was cool against her bare skin.

  “Wait!” Bill shouted.

  She looked back and saw him running toward her.

  Gaining on her.

  A big, heavy man with hair that was pale and curly in the moonlight. He wore a gray sweatshirt. The sleeves were cut off at the shoulders.

  “Leave me alone!” Sandy yelled, swerving onto the pavement.

  “Wait up! Where ya going? I ain’t gonna hurt you!”

  The engine seemed to shout in protest against going so fast in first gear.

  Sandy glanced over her shoulder again.

  And gasped.

  Bill was almost on her.

  She shoved in the clutch, jerked the stick backward hoping for second gear, and let the clutch up. The gears made a nasty grinding noise, so she shoved the pedal down again.

  Though she hadn’t killed the engine, she wasn’t in gear.

  She was coasting.

  “No sweat,” she muttered, trying to calm herself. “Just try it again, and...”

  Bill grabbed her hair.

  She couldn’t turn her head, but she heard his hard breathing and his shoes smacking the pavement. “Stop the car!” he yelled. He jerked her hair. It tugged at her scalp, turning her face to the right and pulling her head backward.

  “Let go of me!” she cried out.

  “Stop the fucking car!”

  Suddenly not caring how much it might hurt or what damage it might do to her—wanting only to get away from this man—she stomped the gas pedal to the floor. The engine roared. The car, still out of gear, only coasted.

  Shit!

  “Stop the car or I’ll rip your head off!”

  She jerked the steering wheel.

  The car cut sideways.

  To the left.

  Bill shouted, “Watch out!’ Then he cried, “Ah!”

  Sandy heard and felt only a slight bump, but the hand abruptly let go of her hair. She twisted her head and looked back.

  Bill was down, tumbling on the pavement in the beams of his own car’s headlights.

  Giving up on second gear, Sandy tried third.

  She let the clutch pedal up and the MG rushed forward as if given a quick, strong shove.

  “All right!” she yelled.

  In the rearview mirror, she saw Bill push himself to his knees. He seemed to be staring at her.

  He was better lit than before.

  Behind him, his car was on the move.

  The woman must’ve recovered enough to drive. She was coming to pick him up.

  Then they’ll come after me!

  As the car bore down on Bill, he raised an arm.

  Then he tried to get up off his knees.

  He shouted, "Donnnnn’t!”

  At the last instant, he tried to dive out of the way. But the car chopped his legs out from under him. He flew head first over the hood and crashed through the windshield.

  Blasted through the glass all the way to his waist.

  On the driver’s side.

  The car, still picking up speed, started to gain on Sandy.

  She stepped on the gas.

  How can that woman see where she’s driving?

  Sandy raced around a curve and lost sight of the car.

  A few seconds later, it showed in the rearview mirror.

  It didn’t make the curve.

  Didn’t even seem to try.

  Just sped straight on and leaped off the road as if somebody’d decided on a scenic detour through the forest.

  Sandy felt a chill prickle its way up her back.

  She muttered, “Holy crap.”

  The headbeams pushed their brightness into the trees.

  Sandy steered around another bend. After that, she could see nothing behind her except the dark road and the woods.

  She listened for the sound of the car smashing into a tree.

  Any second, now.

  Would there be an explosion? She hoped not. If the car exploded, the forest might catch on fire.

  She imagined a fire spreading over the wooded hills. And surrounding her trailer. She pictured Eric asleep in his crib as fire closed in.

  No sound of a crash came to her.

  I’m just too far away to hear it, that’s all. There bad to be a crash by now. How the hell far can you go speeding through the woods?

  She imagined the car with its front crushed against a tree trunk, flames lapping up around the edges of its hood.

  She picked up speed.

  She should be at Agnes’s house in a couple more minutes. But getting the woman to answer her door might take a while.

  Then Sandy would need to explain things, get the keys to the pickup truck, head back with it...

  Maybe to find herself in the middle of a forest fire.

  She stopped the MG, killing its engine. But she started the engine easily. In first gear, she made a U-turn.

  She had no trouble finding the place where Bill’s car had gone off the road and plunged into the woods. She pulled over to the side, stopped, picked up the butcher knife and climbed out.

  Standing by the road, she stared into the trees.

  Not much moonlight made it down through their heavy canopy of branches and leaves.

  She couldn’t see Bill’s car.

  She couldn’t see flames, either.

  That doesn’t mean it isn’t on fire.

  Sandy put her back to the road and ran into the woods.

  She knew it probably wasn’t a good idea to run. Though she’d
never put on the MG’s headlights and her eyes were pretty well adjusted to the darkness, she could see almost nothing in front of her—just a few speckles and patches of moonlight, almost like bits of snow scattered here and there.

  Running through the dark, she might trip and fall.

  She had a knife in her hand. If she fell on that...

  In her mind, she heard her mother warn, “Be careful, you’ll fall and put your eye out.”

  Mom.

  Don’t think about her The bell with her. The traitor.

  Sandy hated it when she happened to think of her mother.

  Who needs her, anyway? I’ve got Eric.

  She ran faster, pumping hard with her arms, flinging her legs out, her bare feet punching the mat of pine needles. Her breasts, swollen with milk for Eric, bounced and swung wildly. Her dish towel bib flapped up and down, twisted, and soon ended up draping her right shoulder.

  Where the hell’s the car?

  Though bushes sometimes whipped or scratched her legs, she realized that she wasn’t dodging trees. The dark trunks flew by on both sides of her, but none was in the way.

  Can’t last long. just a fluke.

  Maybe there was a road here once.

  But how could the gal steer through all this when she couldn’t even see out her...

  Something snagged Sandy’s right foot. Though she jerked it free, she couldn’t swing her leg forward fast enough. She fell headlong. On the way down, she stretched out her arms so the knife in her right hand would be safe overhead.

  She landed on the damp carpet of the forest floor. Her breath knocked out, she skidded on her bare skin. Then she lay there, sprawled out, struggling for air.

  The ground beneath her felt springy with layers of soft pine needles. They were wet with dew, and didn’t feel too bad. Prickly, here and there. She also felt some twigs and pine cones pushing against her. She didn’t like how they felt.

  When she was able to breathe again, she stood up. Keeping the knife low in her right hand, she used her left hand to brush the clinging forest debris off her chest and breasts and belly.

  She bent down and rubbed it off the front of her shorts, her thighs and knees.

  She still felt wet and dirty.

  A lot of good my shower did.

  At least I’m not bloody, she told herself.

  Not that I know of.

  As she started walking again, she took the towel from around her neck and used it to mop herself dry. Then she put it back on. It felt damp against her skin. She made a face.