He probably isn’t here, anyway, she told herself.
But maybe he is.
Something had scared the kid in the attic.
While still in the spa, Sandy had decided to try the attic first.
She left the kitchen and walked slowly along the narrow passage to the foot of the stairway. Then she stepped around the newel post and began to climb the stairs. She made no attempt for silence. Her western boots clumped against the wood. The old planks creaked and moaned under her weight.
The noises seemed very loud in the silence. Sandy figured they could probably be heard throughout the house-except perhaps in the attic and cellar.
They might warn Eric of her approach.
Good.
Be smart and run for your life, honey. Momma’s here to gun you down.
At the top of the stairs, she turned to the right and walked heavily down the hallway. She stopped at the attic door.
It was shut. With her left hand, she unhooked one end of the cordon and let it fall. Then she gave the knob a twist. The door wasn’t locked. She swung it open.
The stairway to the attic was as black as a mine shaft.
Sandy switched her flashlight on. Its beam drilled through the darkness, slanting upward all the way to the shut door at the top of the stairs.
She changed the flashlight to her left hand.
With her right hand, she unholstered her 9 mm Sig Sauer semiautomatic. A hollow-point in the chamber and the hammer down, the double-action pistol was ready to fire. A pull of the trigger would do it.
The bright beam trembling on the attic door, Sandy began to climb the stairs. The stairwell was hot and stuffy. She panted for breath. She blinked sweat out of her eyes. She could feel her T-shirt clinging to her back. Sweat dribbled down her inner thighs. The moist seat of her jeans pressed against her buttocks as she climbed.
Don’t let him be up here, she thought.
Please, God, I don’t want to kill him. But I will. You know I will. If you don’t want me to, don’t let me, find him,
At the top, she clamped the flashlight between her thighs.
Then she used her empty hand to turn the knob and shove the door.
It swung open, hinges squealing, and the beam of her light tunneled into the attic.
Reaching down, she pulled the flashlight free. She held it low and off to the side as she stepped over the threshold. Just inside the doorway, she began to move the flashlight slowly. The pale beam, aswirl with specks like miniature snowflakes, drifted at hip level from one side of the attic toward the other.
It lit the steeply slanted roof, thick support beams, the broken-faced mannequin of Officer Dan Jenson...
The kid didn’t run into any beast, just caught a glimpse of poor Dan!
Mystery solved.
Though Sandy felt her tension start melting away, she continued to move her light across the attic. It revealed old steamer trunks and suitcases, cardboard boxes, dummies of the two Zieglers, framed paintings stacked against a wall, a few rolled rugs, an ancient wheelchair, a tattered sofa, a rocking chair, a pedestal table and other odds and ends of old furniture.
Then her flashlight illuminated a hunched, furry creature with wild eyes and teeth bared in a mad snarl.
Vincent, the stuffed monkey. A Nineteenth Century umbrella stand, it used to reside in the foyer.
Sandy smiled, recalling how it often freaked out the kids.
Maybe that’s why Janice stored it away.
Though Sandy had been in the attic several times, on her own and with the Midnight Tour, she hadn’t seen Vincent in years. Not since her old days as a guide.
She smiled at the hideous monkey. “How you doing, Vincent old pal?” She stepped closer to him and squatted down—grimacing as her buttocks and crotch pushed against the sweaty denim of her jeans. “You’re looking a bit the worse for wear,” she said.
His short brown fur looked a lot more ratty and filthy than she remembered. If she dared to pat him on top of the head, a cloud of dust would probably rise.
He seemed to be glaring into her eyes.
In the old days, to test her courage, Sandy used to dare herself to insert her forefinger into his open mouth. She’d always been sure that Vincent, though dead and stuffed, wouldn’t miss the opportunity to bite her finger off. She’d also known that he couldn’t. He was dead and stuffed. If he tried to bite her finger, his jaw would probably break off.
Still, she’d never been able to do it.
Sandy hadn’t feared the fangs of living beasts, but the teeth of poor old Vincent always terrified her.
“You don’t scare me now,” she whispered.
She set her pistol on the floor.
“You wouldn’t bite your old friend, would you?”
Vincent glared at her.
“You better not,” she warned him.
Then she eased her forefinger into his mouth.
And gasped out a yelp of fright as she was clutched from behind by her crotch and neck and jerked high. The flashlight flew from her hand. Her head pounded against a roof heam. As the light blinked out, she felt herself slam against the attic floor.
Chapter Forty-five
RUDE AWAKENING
Dana woke up feeling chilly. She was curled on her side, covered only by the top sheet. She supposed she must’ve thrown off the blanket.
The bedroom was gray with early morning light.
She glanced at the clock.
6:20
Mmm Great. I can go back to sleep. If I can just get warm.
Straightening her left leg, she tried to feel the blankest.
There seemed to be nothing down there except the lightweight sheet.
Her blanket must’ve fallen off the end of the bed.
Only one way to retrieve it—by getting up.
Dana groaned.
She didn’t want to move. Even though the sheet that covered her to the shoulders felt unpleasantly cool, the mattress underneath her body was cozy and warm.
She imagined Warren being in the bed, too. Asleep on the other side of it.
If only, she thought.
His side of the bed would be nice and warm. She would roll toward him and squirm closer until she could feel his heat. Then she would rest her face on his shoulder, curl an arm across chest, swing a leg over his thighs. She would stay on him like that, and fall asleep.
What’s he wearing? she wondered.
Soft, flannel pajamas.
In the morning, she would wake up fust. And watch him sleep for a while. Then she would sneak her hand into the open fly of his pajamma bottoms...
Moaning, Dana rolled toward the other side of the bed
It was empty.
Of course.
Warren’s probably fast asleep in his own bed right now.
Maybe he’s lying awake, the same as me. Wishing he could turn over and take me in his arms.
If I don’t go on the tour, she thought, we can be together tonight.
The tour’ll be fun.
Anyway, I promised Tuck.
Would she really mind if I missed it? Dana wondered. She’ll still have Eve with her. It’s not like she has to have an entourage.Why don’t I just tell her that I’d like to see Warren tonight, but I’ll go on the tour with her next Saturday?
Not a bad idea, she thought.
She imagined herself stepping up to the window of the snack stand, Warren smiling out at her. He would say, “You look wonderful this morning, Dana.”
And she would say, “Guess what! I can see you tonight, after all. I decided to bag the Midnight Tour.”
“Great!”
Excited by her plan, she no longer felt drowsy or chilly.
But this was too early for starting the day.
I’ll take a pee, she thought. Then I’ll get nice and cozy and try to grab a couple more hours of sleep.
Flopping onto her back, she swept the top sheet away and sat up.
Then gazed down at herself.
She
’d gone to bed last night wearing a white cotton nightshirt.
She still wore it.
But now it hung from her shoulders, ripped wide open down the front.
“Uh-oh,” she muttered.
What the hell’s going on?
She stared at her nightshirt’s ragged edges.
I didn’t do it, did I?
If didn’t, who did?
She recalled the strange sound she’d heard yesterday just after waking up—a door sliding shut as if an overnight intruder were sneaking out of the house.
She suddenly felt crawly.
Goosebumps prickled her skin.
Take it easy, she told herself. Maybe I did it in my sleep.
Not likely, but possible
And maybe not quite as farfetched as the idea that a prowler was in here and ripped it open.
If be ripped it oven, what else did he do?
What if he messed with me?
Climbing off the bed, Dana felt her soreness.
That’s from Warren, she told herself.
Is it?
She wanted to turn on a light. She wanted to take off the split nightshirt and study herself in a mirror.
But two strides away from the bed, her bare left foot kicked something heavy and hard.
She cried out in pain.
The kicked object spun across the floor and vanished behind a corner of the dresser.
Hurt foot up, Dana hopped backward on her good foot and dropped onto the edge of the bed. She sat there, face contorted, throat tight, toes throbbing. Very quickly, however, the pain subsided.
Then she scooted sideways on the mattress, reached out and turned on the lamp. Three of her toes looked red. So did a dozen or so scratches on her legs and belly and breasts. And several mouth-shaped blotches.
The toes got that way from smashing against that thing on the floor.
The scratches all came from roaming the bushes behind Tuck’s pool last night. Probably.
The blotches all came from Warren’s mouth. Probably.
Warren really wracked me up, she thought. I won’t be the same for a week.
Neither will be.
Smiling slighty, she decided nobody else had been tampering with her body.
Probably.
Maybe she bad torn the nightshirt herself. Maybe got carried away, dreaming.
As a kid, she’d sleepwalked a few times.
Maybe it was something like that.
But what the hell did I kick? she wondered. A shoe?
I don’t think it was a shoe.
She stood up: Her injured toes ached, but not too badly.
Trying to keep the pressure off them, she limped over to the dresser.
And stepped past it.
On the floor in front of her feet was an expensive-looking camera with a telephoto lens.
She crouched over it.
A Minolta.
She reached for it.
She grabbed the thick lens, but it felt moist and sticky.
She jerked her hand away.
And stared at the red stain across her palm and fingers.
“Oh, shit,” she muttered. Then she yelled, “Tuck!”
Seconds later, Dana heard racing footsteps.
Thank God she’s all right.
If that IS Tuck.
Better be.
Suddenly, Tuck lurched through the doorway. She wore a blue pajama shirt. Though only two of its buttons were fastened, it apparently hadn’t been torn open. Her hair was mussed. She was breathing hard. She held the huge, stainless steel magnum in her hand. “What happened?” she gasped.
“Somebody...look.” Dana brushed her fingertips against the torn edges of her nightshirt.
“Huh? How’d that happen?”
“I don’t know. I woke up and...” She shook her head.
“Somebody must’ve done it while I was asleep.”
“You think so?”
“I don’t think I did it. Did you do it?”
“Not hardly.”
“And look at this.” She stepped over to the camera and nudged it with her right foot.
“A nice one.”
“But whose is it? It’s not mine.”
Tuck’s mouth tilted crooked. “Is now, huh?”
A laugh escaped from Dana. “Yeah, sure.”
“It’s a beauty.” Crouching, Tuck reached for the camera.
“Better not touch it. You’ll get blood on you.”
“Huh?”
Dana held out her stained hand.
“Oh, yuck. That’s from the camera?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit.” Tuck stood up and took a step backward. Frowning, she looked from the camera to Dana’s exposed body. “Whose blood?”
“Not mine.”
“Then it must be his.” She looked down at the carpet, her gaze roaming. “I don’t see any more.” She held out her revolver toward Dana. “Why don’t you hold on to this and I’ll call Eve.”
Dana took the weapon.
Tuck stepped over to the telephone extension on the nightstand. She tapped in three numbers. Then she said, “Malcasa Point...The number for Eve Chaney. C-h-a-n-e-y...Right.”
Seconds later, her fingers scurried over the keys, entering Eve’s telephone number.
Then she stared at Dana and listened.
She made a face. “Answering machine.”
“Maybe she screens her calls.”
Tuck nodded, waited, then said, “Eve? This is Lynn Tucker. Pick up if you’re there, okay? Eve? Yo, Eve! Pick up! I’m sorry to be calling at this hour, but we’ve had another problem over here. Somebody was in Dana’s room. He cut open her nightshirt, maybe took some pictures of her. We don’t know if he’s still in the house. His camera is. And it has blood on it. He might’ve cut himself with whatever he used on Dana’s nightshirt. I don’t know. Where the hell are you? Anyway, give me a call when you can.” She hung up and said, “Shit.”
“Heavy sleeper,” Dana suggested.
“Who knows.”
“I hope she got home all right.”
“Like we don’t have enough to worry about.”
“Should we call 911?”
“About us or Eve?”
“Us. I think it’d be a little premature to call the cops about Eve.”
“I don’t want to call them period—have one of those assholes like Cochran show up in half an hour or so. You start telling him what happened, he’ll get himself a fuckin’ boner.” She held out her hand, and Dana gave the revolver to her. “You get your gun and we’ll take a look around. The bastard’s probably long gone, but you never know.”
Dana’s purse was hanging by its strap from the closet door.
She walked over to it, reached in, and pulled out the pistol Eve had loaned to her.
“How do you suppose he keeps getting in?” she asked.
Tuck shook her head. “No idea. But I know he’ll never get in again. Not if we find him. I’ll blow his ass off.”
Chapter Forty-six
OWEN’S BAD NIGHT
They were chasing Owen over a sunny, deserted stretch of beach.
He was terrified, but he didn’t know why. They were Dana and Lynn and the beautiful stranger from the Jacuzzi. They looked great. They were golden in the sunlight. Except for their cowboy hats and western boots, they were naked
They’ll never catch me, not in those shit-kicker boots.
But they were gaining on him!
If they get me...
He wasn’t sure what would happen if they caught him, but he knew it would be horrible.
They’ll do me like they did Cromwell.
He wasn’t sure what they’d done to John. All he knew was that his friend had been running just behind him down the beach and then he was gone.
What’d they do to him?
Something monstrous.
And they’/l do it to me if they catch me.
He glanced back.
They were so much closer than be
fore!
He felt a scream rising in his chest.
And suddenly he heard the vroom! of a car engine. Speeding straight toward him, sand blooming behind it, was John’s old blue dune buggy.
He’s coming to the rescue!
“Hurry!” Owen yelled.
It raced closer, closer.
Glancing back, he saw the women stop running.
They’re giving up!
Laughing with relief, he ran toward the dune buggy.
As it bore down on him, he saw that the driver wasn’t John.
Of course not. They got John, remember?
The driver was Monica, teeth bared, glee in her violet eyes, her raven hair blowing wild. Her arms and shoulders were bare. Tied around her neck was a silk scarf. It matched her eyes, and flowed behind her in the wind.
She’s gonna run me over!
“No!” he yelled, and woke up.
Morning. At last.
But the engine sound was real.
Heart pounding, Owen scurried off the bed and ran to the window. He pulled its heavy curtains apart. Sunlight flooded his room.
Over to the right, a white Porsche was backing out of a parking space. It stopped for a moment, its engine rumbling. Then it swung away and thundered toward the exit.
Owen let his hands fall. The curtains stayed open.
He scanned the entire courtyard, looking for John’s old Ford.
Most of the parking spaces were empty.
They’d been packed last night when he finally got back. By then, the Welcome Inn’s neon “No Vacancy” sign had been glowing by the side of the road.
He’d sure been glad to see that sign.
Up in the wooded hills last night, waiting for John, Owen feared that he would never get back.
He sat in the car all alone, surrounded by darkness.
Afraid a hand might reach in and grab him, he soon rolled up the windows and locked the doors. But with all fresh air cut off, strange, disgusting odors seemed to rise around him and envelop him.
He tried to put up with the stink.
Then he thought, What’s a window going to keep out? I’m no safer in here than I’d be outside.
He didn’t exactly believe that, so it took a lot of courage to open the door and climb out.
It was good to get away from the nasty odors.
But he felt exposed.
After standing in front of the car for a while, he climbed up and sat on its hood.
The Midnight Tour Page 47