The Midnight Tour

by Richard Laymon

Anyway, Owen told himself, maybe John won’t be back. Maybe something actually did happen to him.

  He’s probably fine.

  Sure.

  “He won’t be so fine,” Owen muttered, “when he drags his fat, sorry ass back from wherever he’s been all night and finds out his little prank cheated him out of the Midnight Tour.”

  Though feeling sick with tension—and probably lack of sleep—Owen grinned..

  By the time John shows up, he thought, it’ll be a done deal.

  If be shows up.

  As Owen walked closer to the ticket booth, he saw that only eight or ten people were standing in line.

  Won’t be much of a wait.

  After I get my refund, he thought, maybe I should go back to the room and take a nap. A long nap. Maybe I can sleep all afternoon. Then I’ll be good and fresh for tonight.

  As he walked closer to the ticket booth, he looked through its glass.

  And saw Dana at work inside.

  Oh, no!

  Heat flashed through his body. He felt as if his skin might burst into flame. Sweat seemed to spill out of every pore.

  He didn’t think Dana had seen him yet; she was talking to a customer.

  Afraid that stopping might draw attention to himself, he slowed down, turned his head as if looking back for someone, then made a casual U-turn and started walking away.

  At the first intersection, he turned to the right and stepped past the corner of a bakery.

  Can’t see me now.

  He stopped and took deep breaths, trying to calm down.

  Now what? he wondered. I can’t ask for a refund, not with Dana working the booth. She knows all about me and Monica and how I feel about her and...Oh, man, I saw her naked last night. How can I face her?

  She doesn’t know I watched her.

  Unless John told.

  They caught him and made him talk?

  Don’t be ridiculous, Owen thought. The only way she could know is if John went back and joined the party and shot off his mouth.

  Wouldn’t put it past him.

  But if that’s what he did, where is he?

  In jail?

  That’s possible, Owen thought. If he went back, maybe they had him arrested. That would certainly explain why he hasn’t turned up yet.

  Turned up where?

  Owen had been away from the motel room for more than an hour and a half.

  Maybe he’s back by now.

  As Owen hiked toward the motel, he thought, I have all day to return the ticket. Maybe if I time things to show up during Dana’s lunch break...

  But he didn’t know when that might be.

  I’d have to go back and bang around...

  It seemed too risky. And too much trouble

  Besides, he could always sell the ticket to a tourist at the last minute.

  What if John turns up before then?

  I’ll say I already sold it. That’s fix him. See the look on his face. Then, If he’s good, I can surprise him with it.

  The best of both worlds, Owen thought.

  When Owen entered his room at the Welcome Inn, John still wasn’t there.

  Both beds had already been made, their blankets smooth and flat, pillows neatly arranged at the heads. There were fresh glasses on the tray with the ice bucket, clean towels and washcloths in the bathroom.

  Owen shut the curtains, closing out most of the light. Then he changed into his pajamas, pulled back the blanket of the bed he’d used last night, and climbed between the sheets.

  Lying on his back, he raised his left arm and stared at his wristwatch.

  Maybe set the alarm for five or six, he thought. Just to make sure I don’t oversleep and miss the tour.

  I probably won’t even fall asleep at all, but I’d better play it safe.

  He decided to set the alarm for 4:00 p.m. That would give him time to try the ticket booth once more before closing time.

  What if Dana’s still there?

  Cross that bridge when I come to it.

  He saw himself step up to the ticket window. Dana smiled at him. A soft, warm smile that made him long for her. “Hi, Owen,” she said.

  “Hi, Dana.”

  “You just keep coming back for more, don’t you? What are you, a glutton for punishment?”

  “I can’t get enough of Beast House,” he told her, thinking I can’t get enough zoom, either.

  “Where were you last night?” she asked.

  The question knocked his breath out.

  As he tried to think of a lie, Dana said, “I thought we had a date.”

  “We did?”

  A look of disappointment on her face, she nodded and said, “I stopped by the motel, but you weren’t there.”

  Oh, no. Oh, no. It can’t be true.

  “I really wanted to see you,” she said.

  “I really wanted to see you, too.”

  “I missed you so much, Owen.” Reaching out through the ticket window, she gently took hold of his hands.

  In his right hand, he was holding John’s ticket for the Midnight Tour.

  Dana saw it. “Oh, you’re going on the tour tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me, too.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Will you be alone?”

  His heart pounded hard. “Yes.”

  “Me, too. Do you think we could... do it together?”

  Somewhere, a car door slammed. Owen woke up, realized he’d only been dreaming, and almost cried.

  He hoped to fall asleep again quickly and return to the dream.

  But you never get the great ones back. Just the nightmares.

  Owen was rushing through the halls of a huge old school building, jerking open doors and glancing into classrooms. At any second, the tardy bell would ring. Where’s my room? Gotta find it! Oh, my God, where is it? I’ll never find it in time. if only I knew the room number!

  Suddenly, the bell rang.

  No! I’m late!

  He woke up.

  The noise wasn’t the tardy bell, after all. It came from the telephone on his nightstand. Each time the phone rang, the little red message light flickered..

  He squirmed toward the edge of the bed.

  Who could it be? Nobody knows I’m here.

  Just John.

  Maybe he wants me to bail him out.

  Bracing himself up with an elbow, he reached out and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  Through the earpiece came an empty sound, a quiet hiss.

  “Hello?” he asked again.

  At the other end of the line, the caller hung up.

  Owen hung up, too. Then he flopped onto his back and shut his eyes and sighed.

  No big deal, he told himself. Probably a wrong number.

  But it must’ve come through the motel switchboard.

  So what? Who cares?

  He looked at his wristwatch.

  3:50

  His alarm would be going off in ten minutes. But he felt awfully groggy. He didn’t want to get up in ten minutes and go over to the ticket booth.

  Besides, it’s probably still Dana. I’ll just sell the damn thing when I go over for the picnic. Somebody’s bound to want it.

  He reset his wristwatch alarm for 6:30 p.m. That would give him an hour to get ready for the night’s big events, plus half an hour to rid himself of John’s ticket.

  Owen woke up sweaty and hungry.

  He checked his wristwatch. It showed 6:10.

  Sitting up, he looked around the room. He saw John’s glasses on the dresser and felt his stomach squirm.

  Still not back

  It’s all gonna start in a couples hours, man. Where are you?

  Owen climbed out of bed. He took still another shower, then sprayed his armpits with Right Guard, shaved, combed his hair and brushed his teeth.

  By 6:45, he was dressed and almost ready to leave.

  He grabbed his camera and hung its strap over one shoulder.

  Then he slipped the two
Midnight Tour tickets into the left breast pocket of his sport shirt.

  He had already decided to walk.

  He made sure he had the room key, then opened the door.

  He’d expected golden sunlight, warmth, and a mild breeze.

  But sometime during the afternoon, while he’d been shut away in his room with the curtains closed, a fog had crept in.

  It drifted like a gray mist around the cars in the parking lot. Owen could barely see to the other side of the motel courtyard. The cabins over there were fuzzy blurs.

  A chill had arrived with the fog.

  Owen hurried inside the room for his windbreaker. On the back, CRAWFORD JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL was emblazoned in big gold letters. He tossed his camera onto the bed, slipped his arms into the sleeves of the windbreaker, fastened a couple of the front snaps, then rushed outside.

  The jacket helped, but its sleeves felt cool against his bare arms.

  He paused for a moment, wondering if he should go back inside and put on a long-sleeved shirt.

  Gonna be indoors most of the time, anyway.

  Then he wondered if he should give up the idea of walking, and take his rental car instead.

  Probably crash and kill myself.

  Besides, he thought, it’ll be neat to walk through the fog.

  He set off for Beast House.

  Halfway there, he realized he had left his camera in the room.

  The hell with it. Wrong film, anyway.

  He kept on, but he felt its loss—and wondered what else would go wrong.

  Stopping at the corner of the high, iron fence, Owen looked through its bars. He was half an hour early. Though he saw no tourists on the grounds, most of the regular guides were busy getting ready for the picnic. He spotted Dana right away, helping a guy carry a picnic table across the front lawn.

  Two other picnic tables had already been brought out, along with a couple of smaller tables and three barbeque grills. Near the picnic tables, a bar was being set up by the only person not wearing a Beast House uniform. This man sported a red jacket, a white shirt, and a red bow tie.

  Owen found Dana again.

  She put down her end of the table. Then the guy from the other end walked toward her, smiling and talking.

  Who the hell is he?

  He looked a little familiar...

  The lunch counter guy?

  He joined up with Dana. As they headed away, Dana slipped an open hand inside a seat pocket of his shorts.

  Owen suddenly felt as if he’d been slugged in the guts.

  What did you expect? Of course she’s got a boyfriend.

  Sure, he thought. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  Dana and her friend disappeared around a corner of the house.

  Since she’s busy, Owen thought, who’s minding the ticket booth?

  Probably no one. The self-guided tours were over for the day and the Midnight Tour had been sold out since yesterday, so the ticket booth would probably be closed.

  Closed or not, a number of people were milling about the area in front of it. Waiting for the festivities to start, he supposed.

  Maybe one of them could use a ticket.

  Owen started walking toward the gathered tourists.

  John wasn’t among them.

  A couple of the gals were real babes, even though one of them looked like a weirdo.

  Pity you’re gonna miss this, buddy.

  Owen wandered through the group. He nodded greetings to those who seemed to notice him, and kept on moving. Leaving them all behind, he stepped over to the gate of the parking lot. It was still open. The lot was empty except for seven or eight cars.

  John’s blue Ford Granada wasn’t among them.

  Still up in the hills? Or maybe it got towed off and impounded by the cops.

  Owen turned his back to the parking lot.

  Nobody seemed to be watching him.

  Scanning the group, he found the best-looking gal. Maybe thirty, she had light brown hair, a deep tan, and lively eyes. She was slender, but not skinny. She had a firm, athletic look. For whatever reason, she was dressed in a white tennis outfit: a knit pullover shirt, a sweater tied around her neck, a very short pleated skirt, ankle socks with a puffy little balls at the back, and sneakers.

  She was with a man who wore a red knit pullover and plaid Bermuda shorts. He looked husky and powerful and cheerful.

  No wonder he’s cheerful, Owen thought. Has a gal looks like that.

  Owen turned his attention to the weirdo. Probably no older than twenty, she had done herself up in vampire cbic. She was at least six feet tall and as sleek as a cover girl. Her skin looked smooth and oddly white. Her raven hair was cut short, slicked down. Her pierced left eyebrow sported a ring. Her eyelids were blue. She wore a gold stud in her nose, a ring in her upper lip. Her lipstick was black. She had about six rings along the rim of each ear. A tattoo of barbed wire surrounded her neck. She wore a black bra that looked like satin, no shirt at all, a belly button ring, and an open jacket of black leather. Low and tight around her hips was a pair of tight, black leather short-shorts. Below them, her long legs were bare and very white. She wore black boots that reached almost to her knees.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Her handsome young friend had a delicate, rather feminine face. Compared to her, he looked almost clean-cut. He showed no signs of makeup, piercings or tattoos. His shaggy blond hair blew softly in the breeze. He wore a loose, long-sleeved shirt that appeared to be black silk. Unbuttoned, it exposed pale, hairless skin almost down to his waist, where the shirt was tucked into black leather trousers. His belt buckle was a white, snouted beast, possibly carved from ivory.

  There’s a real fan, Owen thought.

  These two are really into it. If the tour gets boring, I can just watch them.

  Owen noticed that he wasn’t the only one checking out the weirdos: so were two guys standing near the road. One was a beanpole with stringy brown hair. The other was short and pudgy and had a crew cut. They both wore gray sweatshirts, plaid Bermuda shorts, white socks and sneakers.

  They hardly looked old enough for an “adults only” tour. The cut-off age was supposed to be eighteen. These two might’ve been sixteen. Had they used fake i.d.’s to buy their tickets?

  Maybe they don’t have tickets.

  Maybe they aren’t even here for the tour.

  Owen supposed that they could’ve simply stopped by to enjoy the spectacle of the vampire queen and her eunuch. They kept glancing at the pair, whispering, chuckling and elbowing each other.

  Couple of dorks.

  Owen hoped they wouldn’t be going on the tour; they’d probably interrupt Lynn, laugh when they shouldn’t, make wisecracks...

  Jungle Jim, eyeing those two, seemed to share Owen’s opinion. Maybe fifty years old, with a lean and rugged face, he studied them with a haughty look. One of his eyebrows was cocked as he surveyed the guys through his gold-rimmed glasses. He wore a safari jacket replete with epaulets, pocket flaps and a cloth belt. His tan trousers, matching the jacket, were tucked into the high tops of his paratrooper boots. His outfit seemed incomplete without a hunting knife and a high-powered rifle. He did, however, carry a weathered black camera around his neck.

  Maybe he’s a photo journalist, Owen thought—just back from covering tribal warfare in Rwanda.

  The only remaining early-arrivals were a man and woman who appeared to be married. Thirty-five to forty years old, they were both slender, attractive and nicely dressed.

  The man, going bald on top, made up for the loss with thick eyebrows and a heavy mustache. He had lively, almost impish eyes that seemed to be scanning the area in search of oddities or mischief. His clothing looked new and expensive: a crew-neck, camel sweater with long sleeves; trim gray slacks; and black leather wingtip shoes.

  His wife had thick brown hair, a lovely face, a creamy complexion and fabulous eyes.

  Make that three babes, Owen thought. Then he felt a little guilty. This woman
was beautiful, but it seemed wrong to consider her a babe. She seemed too...dignified. A woman, not a babe.

  Her eyes somehow looked calm and excited and amused and intelligent all at the same time. She wore a fuzzy, forest green sweater over a white blouse with an open collar. Her bare neck looked long and sleek. The sweater, rising over the push of her breasts, reached down past the waist of her skirt—a kilt of Stuart plaid. Below the hem of her kilt, her legs looked bare. She wore no socks. On her feet were brown, penny loafers.

  What a great-looking couple, Owen thought. Doctors, maybe. Or professors. What the hell are they doing at a place like this?

  Nobody else seemed to be standing around.

  Owen counted.

  Ten, including himself.

  He had one extra ticket in his pocket. So only two people (other than John) were missing.

  He glanced at his wristwatch.

  7:52

  In eight minutes, the picnic would start.

  I’d better stop screwing around and do something about the ticket.

  Reaching inside his windbreaker, Owen fingered the tickets in his shirt pocket and pulled one out. He raised it overhead.

  “Excuse me, everyone!” he announced. “Do all of you have tickets for tonight? I have an extra one I’d be glad to sell.”

  The vampire queen gave him a narrow glance. Her eunuch ignored him. The tennis lady and her husband politely looked at Owen and shook their heads.

  “Sorry, man,” said the beanpole.

  His chubby friend said, “Can’t help you, dude—we got ours.”

  Not such bad guys.

  Jungle Jim took the pipe out of his mouth, scowled at Owen and proclaimed in an excessively loud, high-pitched voice, “Sorry, old chap. It seems we all had the foresight to purchase our tickets in advance.”

  “That’s what I did,” Owen explained. “I bought two, but then my friend got sick. I was hoping maybe I could unload his ticket.”

  The well-dressed, mustached man said, “You might be able to turn it in for a refund.”

  His wife nodded in agreement. Large eyes fixed on Owen, she looked concerned. “I should think you might be able to sell it without too much trouble. This is an awfully popular attraction.”

  “From what we hear,” said her husband, “it’s always a sellout.”