Endless Night

by Richard Laymon

  Easy, huh?

  It’s easy if you happen to be me.

  Like they say on the tube, “Don’t try this at home.”

  Committing multiple murders is not something that should be tried by amateurs. It can be extremely hazardous to your health, resulting in possible imprisonment, injuries due to energetic victims and/or enthusiastic police, and on rare occasions death by gunshot or execution.

  Hey, maybe the federal government should print that sort of warning on guns. “The use of this weapon can be extremely hazardous” and the rest of it just like I said. To be fair, though, they’d need to also put it on knives. And on axes, arrows, chainsaws, hammers, baseball bats, plastic bags, ropes, cars ...

  Nah.

  Hey, I’ve got a babe in the trunk of my car. What am I doing fucking around with word games when I could be fucking around with her?

  Excellent point.

  Maybe I’ll try the next off-ramp, see if I can’t find a good place where we’ll have some privacy.

  “Say hi.”

  Nothing but a moan, folks.

  We’re coming to you right now, folks, from the backseat of my car. The engine’s running and the air conditioner is going full blast, so it’s nice and cool in here. Cool and comfy.

  Nobody anywhere around.

  “Just you and me, kid,” I told her.

  Nothing from her.

  She oughta be bubbling with joy that I finally took her out of the trunk.

  Nasty in there. She must’ve been in it for about an hour.

  Once I’d decided to stop, I got off the freeway and had to tool around for a long time before I got us onto a nowhere little road that looks very good and deserted. I even pulled off and drove back a ways and got us behind some boulders. If a car does come along, we’ll be out of sight.

  I’m a little worried about helicopters.

  We’re pretty far from where I left the Sentra, though. We oughta be okay here.

  It’s a damn good thing I found this place when I did. If my girlfriend here had spent much more time locked in the trunk with ... with all that heat and bad air, she might’ve croaked on me.

  She’d been out cold when I put her into the trunk. But she woke up later. Out in the boonies, away from all the traffic noise and everything, it was very quiet and I could hear her screaming in there.

  Nobody to hear her but me.

  I’ll have to make sure she can’t scream like that when we’re back in L.A. Real cute if she’s doing it while we’re waiting at a stoplight, or something.

  She quit the screaming a few minutes ago.

  By the time I hauled her out of the trunk, she was quiet and sort of blank. That’s how she is right now. She’s not unconscious, but she isn’t really with us, either. Like she’s in a trance. Maybe she’s gone catatonic on me because of her recent misadventures.

  “Is that it, babe? Or maybe you’re trying to fake me out. Do you think you’re safe if you’re playing possum, is that it?”

  Hear that? That was me slapping her face.

  A medium-hard slap. I don’t want to puff her up and wreck her looks.

  She blinked, but that was about all.

  She’s pretty zoned out.

  Hope I can bring her out of it. This won’t be nearly as much fun if she’s only half-present, you know? I want her reacting. I want her to jerk and flinch and jump and cry and beg and even struggle some. Otherwise, it just isn’t the same.

  “Is it? Hello? What’s your name?”

  I need my hands free, so I’m setting this on the floor. Can you still hear me? Hope so. No big deal if you can’t. I just put in a new tape before I went to get her out of the trunk. There was still time on the one I took out, but I wanted a fresh one in so I wouldn’t have to quit what I’m doing and change tapes. They each go for an hour. That should give us enough time. I can’t do much to her, after all—she’s gotta be alive when I take her to the guys tonight.

  I don’t want guns back here with us. Here goes Dusty’s rifle into the front seat. Now my Colt. The knife and Derringer are in my purse, and that’s still up there on the floor. Now there’s nothing nearby that she can use on me—in case she is faking.

  Of course, I might have to scramble if we have visitors.

  Not expecting any, though. We’re really in the boonies.

  I’ve got her stretched out across the backseat, arms at her sides. She looks like she’s taking a nap.

  Now I’m unbuttoning her blouse. Mmm, yes.

  “What’s your name, honey?”

  Spreading the blouse open. Ah-ha! A see-through bra. It’s pale blue. Not very flattering. Makes her tits look sick.

  Easy to rip, though.

  Now they aren’t blue anymore. Creamy and smooth, unbelievably smooth. The nipples are hard and sticking up.

  Guess what. My panties are suddenly feeling too tight.

  Ah, that’s better.

  Free at last, free at last!

  Taking off my nice white skirt, too. Wouldn’t want it to get messy.

  Tossing them into the front seat. Out of harm’s way.

  I’m getting rid of her shoes and socks. For one thing, she’ll look better without them. For another, her being barefoot will give me an edge if she somehow gets away from me and tries to make a run for it. I mean, the ground must be searing hot out there. Not to mention all the sharp rocks and thorny bushes, cactus and stuff.

  Her socks are so sweaty you could wring them out.

  Okay, here go her culottes. If she was wearing a skirt, I could just push it up. She’s making life difficult for me. Hard. At least she isn’t wearing a belt.

  Open goes the button. Down goes the zipper.

  She’s heavier than she looks. I’ll have to really tug to get these out from under her. Umph! Ah! Guess what came down with the culottes. Her panties! They pulled out from under her rump, but then the culottes left them around her thighs.

  They’re blue like her bra.

  I’ve got the culottes off her. Think I wanta see how she looks in the panties, though. Pulling them back up. There. Transparent, just like I thought. She doesn’t have much hair. It’s mashed flat, too. Reminds me of how you look when you make a mask out of a nylon stocking by pulling it down over your head.

  The blue color makes it look like her snatch needs oxygen.

  Hang on.

  Hear that? Probably not. That was me ripping off her panties.

  She looks a lot better without them.

  That thump was the heel of her foot hitting the floor. Her left foot. Her right leg is still on the seat, but the left is hanging off the side.

  The next sound you hear, folks, will be my mouth.

  Not my voice, my mouth. If you get my drift.

  Mmmmm.

  “AAAAH! FUCK! OW! GIMME THAT, YOU FU ...!”

  Part Nine

  Gunplay

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  “What if the car breaks down?” Andy asked.

  Good question, Jody thought. They’d left the highway about ten minutes earlier, and now they were on a dusty road surrounded by miles of wasteland. “I suppose we’ll all die,” she said.

  “The car isn’t going to break down,” Dad assured them. “And if it does, we’ll just send Officer Miles running off to fetch a rescue party.”

  “That’s right,” Sharon said. “I’ll trot east till I hit Blythe.”

  “How far’s that?” Andy asked, his nose wrinkled.

  “Not more than about forty miles,” Dad said, then added, “as the vulture flies.”

  “Very funny,” Jody said.

  “We want to go shooting, don’t we?” he asked. “Well, this is how it’s done.”

  “I know, I know. But it’s gonna be hot out there. We’re gonna cook.”

  “It’ll be a blast,” Sharon said.

  Jody leaned forward and jabbed her fist through the space between the seatbacks. Her fist connected with Sharon’s upper arm, but not very hard.

  “Hey!” />
  “Pun punch,” Jody informed her.

  “What?”

  “It’s an old family tradition,” she explained. “If you come out with a really horrendous pun, you get a pun punishment punch. Which you just got.”

  Sharon rubbed her arm. “Somebody should’ve warned me.”

  “Sorry,” Dad said. “I’d forgotten all about it. It’s actually a custom more honored in the breach than the observance.”

  “I’ll be sure to honor it from now on.” She grinned over her shoulder at Jody. “Better watch out.”

  “Oooo, I’m trembling.”

  Sharon laughed.

  “Girls, girls,” Dad said. “Can’t we all just get along?”

  That got Sharon laughing even harder. Dad’s right hand let go of the steering wheel. It crossed the space between seats—down low, maybe so that Jody wouldn’t notice. But she did notice. She saw him grab Sharon’s side just above the hip. The same place where he sometimes targeted Jody for a round of tickles.

  Sharon, squealing, used her elbow to force his hand away.

  The same way I do.

  Andy gave Jody a look.

  “Touch me,” she said, “and I’ll cut your hand off.”

  He seemed to take that as an invitation or a challenge. Chuckling, he turned and reached for her. She was ready for the attempt. Surprised, though. She’d expected him to go for a side tickle or a thigh squeeze. Instead, his hand made straight for her right breast.

  She stopped his hand an inch from its goal. Caught it by the thumb.

  Andy yelped as she forced his thumb backward. “I give,” he gasped. “I give, I give.”

  “Do I look like someone who cares?”

  “Ow!”

  Keeping her grip on the thumb, she drove his hand down against his leg. He made sounds that were half-laugh, half-whine.

  “You gonna behave?” she asked.

  “Yes!”

  Dad looked back at them.

  “Just taking care of business,” she told him.

  “Is she hurting you, Andy?”

  “No. Ow!”

  Sharon twisted around in her seat to see what was happening.

  “Don’t hurt him,” Dad said.

  “I’m not.”

  “Ow!”

  “It’s a good hurt,” Sharon said.

  She and Dad both cracked up. Jody wasn’t sure why. Andy looked perplexed, but his confusion became relief when Jody let go of his thumb.

  “Thanks a heap,” he muttered. He gazed down at his thumb and made circles with it as if warming up for a hitchhiking contest. “Guess you didn’t bust it for me,” he said.

  Jody almost gave him a pun punch for that, but decided against it. For one thing, she doubted that Andy was aware of his double-meaning. For another, drawing attention to a “bust” pun would alert Dad that breasts were somehow involved in the backseat shenanigans. Not a good idea. Besides, she’d already inflicted a good dose of punishment on Andy; anymore, and it might stop being fun for both of them.

  In the front seats, Dad and Sharon had almost stopped laughing. They were smiling at each other, shaking their heads and taking deep breaths.

  Jody noticed that the car had stopped, but she wasn’t sure how long it had been that way.

  “Are we here?” she asked.

  “I just stopped because of all the ...”

  “This doesn’t look bad,” Sharon broke in. “No structures in sight. No other vehicles, either. And we can use that knoll out there as a backstop.”

  “Yep,” Dad said. “Looks just fine.”

  Andy quit wiggling his thumb, and raised his head. “Does this mean we have to get out?”

  Dad shut off the engine. The air conditioner died with it.

  “Fresh air!” Sharon blurted, and threw her door open.

  Hot air gushed into the car.

  Jody moaned, “Oh my Gawd.” This was worse than she’d expected.

  She waited for Andy to climb out, then got down on her knees and reached under the front passenger seat. She found her Smith & Wesson .22, its extra magazine, and the box of ammo. While she was getting up, Dad opened her door. He took out the Mossberg and Sharon’s rifle case.

  On the seat, Jody made sure her pistol’s safety was still engaged. Then she shifted everything into her left hand and scooted sideways. Just before stepping out of the car, she used her empty right hand to give the bill of her cap a tug. The bill had been tilted high, but now she wanted it low enough to shield her face from the glaring sunlight.

  She hadn’t worn the cap to breakfast at Kactus Kate‘s, but she’d been wearing it ever since they’d checked out of the motel. She’d even worn it into the various stores they’d visited before leaving Indio, stores where they’d bought new clothes for Andy, snacks and sodas for everyone, and supplies for the target shooting. Dad normally would’ve made her take the cap off when they went into the stores. “You aren’t supposed to wear your hat indoors,” he always said. “Not unless it’s a cowboy hat.” He hadn’t said that today, though. Jody’d known he wouldn’t, known she could get away with wearing the cap, and had gotten a kick out of taunting him with it. He just couldn’t complain. Because throughout all the shopping, a black and gold NRA cap had been perched on top of Sharon’s head.

  When Jody stepped out of the car, the sun pressed down on her. She could feel the weight of its heat on her shoulders.

  “Is your safety on?” Dad asked.

  She swiveled her eyes upward. “Yes, of course.”

  She followed him to the trunk. He opened it, reached in and lifted out the gun shop bag. The bag looked ready to split from the weight of so much ammunition.

  “I’ll set up the cans,” Sharon said. She went striding off, a sack of empty cans swinging by her side. Jody supposed there must be at least a dozen cans. In addition to the empties from last night’s party—collected from the motel room wastebasket—they also had the cans from the sodas they’d drunk in the parking lot of the gun shop just before leaving Indio.

  Dad and Andy both turned their heads to watch Sharon.

  “Jeez, guys,” Jody said.

  “Just wanta make sure she places the targets at the correct distances,” Dad explained.

  “Oh, sure.”

  As if to prove his sincerity, he called, “Right there’d be good for a few.”

  Sharon smiled over her shoulder, nodded, and took out a can. She squatted to place it on the ground. Jody supposed the guys were hoping she would bend over and give them a good view of the seat of her shorts. The way she squatted, though, her shirt tail covered it.

  Dad stopped watching. He shut the trunk. Andy helped him spread the blanket over the trunk lid. When it was in place, Jody put her pistol on it. Then Dad set out the boxes of ammo. Four boxes, fifty rounds each, of 9 mm cartridges for his and Sharon’s pistols. A single large box that contained several smaller boxes—a total of five hundred .22 caliber bullets for Jody’s pistol. Five long flat boxes, wrapped in cellophane, containing twenty rounds each of .223 cartridges for Sharon’s rifle. And two boxes, twenty-five per box, of 12-gauge shotgun shells with No. 000 buckshot.

  “All we need now is a war,” Jody said.

  “Are we really gonna shoot all this?” Andy asked.

  “Not even close,” Dad said. “We don’t want to be out here in this heat for more than an hour.”

  “Then why’d you buy so much?”

  “Good question,” Jody said. She already knew the answer.

  “You just can’t have too much ammo,” Dad explained. “It’s like money.”

  “It’s the old storm trooper mentality rearing its ugly head,” Jody said.

  Dad laughed, then gave her rump a swat.

  They all turned around. Sharon was about fifty yards out, setting up the last few cans.

  Dad picked up his stubby black shotgun. “Put one on your head!” he yelled.

  As Jody muttered, “Jeez, Dad,” Sharon turned to face them and carefully set a can on top of
her NRA cap. She threw a hip sideways. Weight on one leg, she bent the knee of the other. She raised both arms, palms turned up.

  Like she’s the sidekick for a carnival performer, Jody thought—the gal about to get knives thrown at her or hold a cigar in her mouth for the bullwhip man. All she needs is a skimpy costume that glitters.

  “He isn’t really gonna do it, is he?” Andy asked Jody.

  “Sure I am,” Dad said.

  “What’re you waiting for?” Sharon called.

  Dad licked the tip of his forefinger and stuck it into the air, pretending to test wind direction.

  “Boy,” Jody said. “You two sure are setting a great example for Andy.”

  “Aside from the weapon not being loaded, I haven’t once aimed it at her.”

  “I know. But you shouldn’t be clowning.”

  “You’re right.” To Sharon, he called out, “Maybe later!”

  She yelled, “Chicken!” Then she took the can off her head, propped it among some limbs of a scrawny bush, and started heading in.

  Dad grinned at Jody. “You know, I would never actually try a stunt like that. Not with a shotgun.”

  Sharon heard him and laughed. “Nobody in his right mind would try it with any sort of gun.”

  “That’s how Mike Fink murdered his worst enemy,” Dad said.

  “Mike Fink, King of the River?”

  “Yup, the keelboat guy. It was a tavern wager. He was supposed to shoot a tankard of booze off the fellow’s head, but he conveniently aimed too low and plugged him right between the eyes.”

  “Very clever,” Sharon said. “Made it look like an accident.”

  “Not clever enough. Everybody saw right through it, and some pals of the dead guy ventilated Fink.”

  “Dad’s a fount of useless information.” Jody explained.

  “No such thing as useless information,” Dad said.