‘Then who?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s the beast,’ Larry explained. ‘It’s not a man in a rubber suit, it’s a beast!’
‘Just tell us why you’re so sure.’
‘I know.’
‘How?’
‘I know. The beast is not human.’
‘Will you believe me when I show you its costume?’
Smiling strangely, Larry nodded. ‘Of course. You do that. You show me its costume, and I’ll believe.’
‘How’s tomorrow night?’
‘Tomorrow night will . . .’ He was silenced by a knocking on the door.
3.
Donna watched Jud cross to the door and open it. ‘Well hello,’ he said.
‘Is my mother here?’
‘Sure she is. Come on in.’
Sandy, hair rumpled from sleep and her blue robe a bit too small on her, stepped into the room. When her eyes met Donna’s, Sandy sighed with exaggerated relief. ‘So there you are. What are you doing in bed?’
‘Keeping warm. What are you doing out of bed?’
‘You were gone.’
‘Just for a few minutes.’ She looked at Jud. ‘I guess I’d better get back now.’ She climbed out of bed, and moved with Sandy towards the door. Jud opened it for them. She wanted to kiss him good night, wanted to hold him tightly, feeling his strength and warmth against her body. Not in front of Sandy, though. Not in front of Larry.
‘See you in the morning,’ she said.
‘I’ll walk you back.’
‘That isn’t necessary.’
‘Sure it is.’
He walked beside Donna, not touching her. Sandy ran ahead of them. She opened the door and waited.
‘You go on in,’ Donna told her. ‘I’ll just be a second.’
‘I’ll wait.’
‘Shut the door, honey.’
The girl obeyed.
Standing against the door, Donna held out her arms to Jud. He stepped close and embraced her. He smelled faintly of soap. ‘Cold out here,’ she said. ‘You’re so warm.’
‘This morning, you told Larry you’re not married.’
‘Divorced,’ she said. ‘How about you?’
‘I’ve never married.’
‘Hasn’t the right girl come along?’ she asked.
‘There’ve been a few “right” ones along the way, I guess. My line of work, though . . . it’s too chancy. I didn’t want to inflict that kind of life on anyone.’
‘What line of work is it?’
‘I kill beasts.’
She smiled. ‘Is that so?’
‘Yep.’ He kissed her. ‘Good night, now.’
Chapter Twelve
1.
A frightened outcry startled Jud awake. He looked through the darkness at Larry. ‘You all right?’
‘No!’ The man sat forward and hugged his knees against his chest. ‘No. I’ll never be all right. Never!’ And he began to cry.
‘Once this thing is settled,’ Jud said, ‘you’ll be fine.’
‘It’ll never be settled. You don’t even believe there is a beast. A lot of good you are.’
‘Whatever it is, I’ll kill it.’
‘Will you?’
‘That’s what you’re paying me for.’
‘Will you cut off its head for me?’
‘None of that.’
‘I want you to. I want you to cut off its head, and its cock, and . . .’
‘Knock that off, will you? I’ll kill it. Nothing else. None of that dismemberment shit. I’ve seen enough of that.’
‘You have?’ The voice in the darkness sounded surprised and interested.’
‘I did some work in Africa. Saw a lot of heads lopped off. One fellow kept them in his freezer, and liked to shout at them.’
Jud heard quiet laughter from the other bed. The laughter had a strange sound that made him nervous. ‘Maybe I ought to take you back to Tiburon tomorrow. I can finish the job alone.’
‘Oh no. No you don’t.’
‘We might both be better off, Larry.’
‘I’ve got to be here when you kill the beast. I’ve got to see it die.’
2.
At six o’clock, Jud’s alarm clock woke him up. The alarm didn’t seem to disturb Larry. Climbing from bed, Jud stood on the cool floor and removed his leg bandage. The four parallel lacerations were dry, dark marks about three inches in length. They hurt, but they looked as if they would heal without much problem. He went into the bathroom, dropped the blood-sodden bandage on top of his clothes heap, and put a new bandage on his leg. In the mirror, he checked his shoulder bandage. Some blood showed through, but it looked dry. Maybe later he could get Larry or Donna to change it.
He washed up. After he dressed in clean clothes, his suitcase was nearly empty. He tossed its few remaining contents on to the bed, and took the suitcase into the bathroom. There, he piled his torn, bloody clothes into it. He dropped the old bandage in and latched the suitcase. Then he carried it outside.
The morning was quiet, as if nothing were awake yet except a few birds. He glanced at Cabin 9. Donna would be in there, probably asleep. It was a beautiful morning, and he wanted her to be with him. But he wouldn’t try to wake her.
He put the suitcase into the trunk of his car and quietly shut the trunk. Then he returned to his cabin. With a washcloth and bar of soap, he carefully scrubbed up every visible trace of blood in the bathroom. The white towels looked okay. So did the other washcloth. The one in his hand was pink with blood.
He peered into the bathroom wastebasket. Its plastic lining held bits of tape and gauze, bandage wrappings, bloody toilet paper. He dropped the dirty washcloth into it and removed the lining.
He carried his first-aid kit and the garbage bag out to his car. Nobody around. He put them in the trunk.
Then, done with the clean-up, he sat on the cabin step and lit a cigar. It tasted fine, the flavour of its smoke blending with the scent of fresh, piny air.
He leaned back, propping his elbows on the stair above him, and grinned. In spite of his wounds, he felt exceptionally fine.
When he was done with the cigar, he drove down Front Street. The town was quiet. He slowed to give a shaggy brown dog time to amble out of his way. A blue-and-white police car was parked in front of Sarah’s Diner. The only moving car he saw was a Porsche that approached slowly, as if struggling to stay within a reasonable proximity to the town’s thirty-mile-per-hour speed limit.
To his left, Beast House looked barren. To his right, nothing stirred on the property of the house without windows. He slowed when he could see the outcropping of rocks on the hillside behind Beast House. He would have to get up there soon and retrieve his equipment.
But not now.
Beyond town, he made a U-turn and came back. He passed the two houses. On the next block, he parked in front of a closed barber shop. He walked to the Beast House ticket booth.
On its walls, newspaper clippings were framed in glass. Some told of the murders. Others focused on the tours. He read several of the articles. He wanted to read them all, but that would have taken too long. He didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself.
He gazed up at the clock face above the ticket window. Then he checked his watch. The first tour wouldn’t start for nearly three hours, at ten o’clock.
Stuffing his hands into his front trouser pockets, he strolled farther down the sidewalk. He paused to look at the weathered Victorian house, then started up again, trying his best to look like a tourist with time on his hands and a preference for morning walks.
When he passed the bend, he stepped into the trees and made his way back.
Several yards from the fence, he found an opening that gave him a view of the front of Beast House, but offered good concealment.
Crouching, he began to wait.
3.
Just after nine-thirty, a camper van parked on Front Street. A man climbed out, checked the ticket booth, and returned to the van. Out came
a woman and three children. Soon a young couple arrived in a VW.
Jud made his way to the road, and walked up to the ticket booth. It was still deserted.
So was the house, unless someone had entered before Jud began his surveillance: nobody had gone in the front while he’d been watching.
As Jud waited near the ticket booth, more people arrived. He watched the windowless house across the street. Its door was shut. The green pick-up truck was still parked in front of the garage.
Finally, ten minutes before the tour was to start, Jud saw Maggie and Wick leave the house. Braced against Wick, she carried her cane but didn’t use it. It took them a long time to reach Front Street. They waited for a station wagon to pass, then they crossed.
Wick helped her up the curb, and let go of her arm. She leaned heavily on her cane. ‘Welcome to Beast House,’ she called out, her voice low but clear. ‘My name’s Maggie Kutch, and I own it. You may purchase your tickets from my assistant.’ She swung her cane towards the ticket booth. Wick was unlocking its door. ‘The tickets run four dollars per adult, only two dollars per child under twelve for the experience of a lifetime.’
The people had listened, quiet and motionless. When Maggie stopped talking, those who were not in line already headed for the ticket booth.
Maggie unlocked the turnstile and pushed through it.
“Back for seconds, eh?’ Wick asked when Jud reached the ticket window.
‘I can’t seem to stay away.’ He slid a five-dollar bill under the glass.
‘Guess your lady friend didn’t show up.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Your lady friend. The gal that cavorted in the street there, showing off her titties.’ Wick gave him the ticket and change.
‘I wonder where she is,’ Jud said.
‘More ’n likely in the loony bin.’ Wick chuckled, showing his crooked brown teeth.
Jud went through the turnstile. When the entire group was gathered on the walkway, Maggie began to speak.
‘I started showing my house to visitors away back in ’31, right after the beast struck down my husband and three darling children. You may be asking yourselves why a woman’d want to take people through her house, when it was the scene of such personal tragedy. Well, the answer’s easy: m-o-n-e-y.’
A few of the people laughed uneasily.
Maggie limped up the walkway to the foot of the porch stairs. She pointed her cane upward at the balcony. ‘Here’s where they lynched Gus Goucher.’
Jud listened carefully to the story of Gus Goucher, checking each detail against his theory that the man had, indeed, been guilty. Nothing she said contradicted his view. He followed Maggie up the porch steps. She told of the old door being shot open by Officer Jenson. She pointed out the monkey-paw knocker. Then she unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The pungent odour of gasoline filled Jud’s nostrils.
‘I must ask your forgiveness for the smell,’ Maggie said, entering. ‘My son spilled gas yesterday. It won’t be so bad, once we’re away from the stairs.’
Jud stepped inside.
‘You can see how it stained the carpeting there.’
He manoeuvred around others in the group until he had a clear view of the stairway. Nothing. Where Mary’s body should have been, there was only a dark stain. All the blood had been nicely scrubbed before someone doused the carpet with gasoline.
Chapter Thirteen
1.
Sunlight on his face woke Roy. He lifted his head off his rolled jeans, and propped himself up with his elbows. The campfire was out. A sparrow, near the campfire remains, was plucking bread from a clump that Joni had probably spit out. The backpack stood upright, closed and safe.
In daylight, the clearing didn’t seem nearly as secluded as it had in the dark. The trees surrounding it were farther apart, the spaces between them offering a wider view than he’d thought. Worse, a hillside overlooked the area.
As he looked up at the hillside, he heard an engine. He saw the blue roof of a car rush by.
‘Oh shit,’ he muttered.
He unzipped the side of the mummy bag and crawled out. Standing, he unrolled his jeans. He reached into them and pulled out his Jockey shorts. Balancing on one foot, then the other, he stepped into them.
He heard voices.
‘Oh shit oh shit.’
He sat down quickly on the mummy bag and started pulling on his jeans.
Two hikers, a young couple, came striding along the hillside just above his camp. They wore soft felt hats, like the ones he’d seen in Karen and Bob’s closet.
They came closer and closer.
Lifting his rump, he pulled up his jeans. Zipped them. Buckled them.
The couple stepped into the clearing.
He couldn’t believe it! The fucking trail ran right past his mummy bag!
‘Oh hello,’ said the man of the pair. He seemed pleasantly surprised to meet Roy.
‘Hi,’ said the girl with him. She seemed no older than eighteen.
‘Hello,’ Roy answered. ‘You almost caught me with my pants down.’
The girl grinned. She had a big mouth for smiling, and huge teeth. Also huge breasts. They did a lot of swinging inside her tight, green tank top. She wore white shorts. Her legs looked tanned and powerful.
The man pulled a briar pipe from a pocket of his shorts. ‘You camped smack in the middle of the trail,’ he said, as if he found it amusing.
‘I didn’t want to get lost.’
He slipped a leather pouch out of his rear pocket and started filling his pipe. ‘What’d you use for water?’
‘I did without.’
‘There’s a public campground about a mile that way.’ He pointed his pipe stem at the hill. ‘Faucets there, toilets.’
‘That’s good to know. Maybe I’ll head up that way.’
He lit a match and sucked its flame down into his pipe. ‘Illegal camping here, you know.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Yep. Anywhere but the public sites.’
‘I can’t stand those places,’ Roy said. ‘They’re too crowded. I’d rather stay home.’
‘They are awful,’ agreed the girl.
‘Yep,’ the man said, and puffed.
‘Where are you headed?’ Roy asked, hoping to get them on their way.
‘Stinson Beach,’ said the man.
‘How far’s that?’
‘We plan to get there by noon.’
‘Well,’ Roy said, ‘have a good hike.’
‘That’s some nice equipment you’ve got. Where’d you outfit yourself?’
‘I’m from L.A.,’ he said.
‘That so? Been over to Kelty’s in Glendale?’
‘That’s where I bought most of my stuff.’
‘I’ve been there. Bought my boots there, in fact. Back about six years ago.’ He looked down fondly at them.
‘Who’s that in your sleeping bag?’ the girl asked.
Roy’s stomach clenched. He thought about his knife. It was rolled inside his shirt, within easy reach of his right hand.
‘It’s my wife,’ he said.
The man grinned, gripping the pipe in his teeth. ‘You both fit in the same bag?’
‘It’s cosy that way,’ Roy said.
‘Do you have room to manoeuvre?’ asked the man.
‘Enough.’
The man laughed. ‘We ought to try that, huh, Jack?’
Jack, the girl, didn’t look amused.
‘Our bags zip together,’ the man. ‘You ought to try it that way. Gives a lot more room.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Jack asked.
‘Nothing, why? ’Cause she doesn’t come out? She’s a pretty heavy sleeper.’
‘Can she breathe in there?’ asked the man.
‘Sure. She always sleeps that way. Far down like that. She doesn’t like her head getting cold.’
‘Yeah?’ The girl named Jack looked sceptical.
‘Well, we’d better
be off,’ said the man.
‘Have a nice hike,’ Roy told him.
‘You too.’
They walked past him. He watched until they disappeared into the trees, then he unrolled his shirt. He raised his pant leg, and slipped the knife into the sheath taped to his calf. Then he put on his shirt.
He took Joni’s blouse and skirt out of the pack, and knelt at the head of the mummy bag. He scanned the trees. Nobody around.
Joni groaned as he pulled her out by the arm. She opened one eye, and closed it again. Roy arranged her face-up on top of the bag.
The sight of her sunlit, naked body excited him.
Not now.
Shit, not now.
He pulled the dress up her legs, and fastened it. Then he raised her to a sitting position, and worked the blouse up her arms. He let her fall back. Quickly, he buttoned her blouse.
‘Wake up,’ he said. He slapped her.
Her eyes squeezed tight at the sudden pain, then fluttered open.
‘Get up.’
Slowly, she rolled over and got to her knees. Her hair was bloody and matted to the back of her head where the knife hilt had bludgeoned her.
Breaking camp seemed to take a long time. While he worked, he watched Joni closely. He listened for voices. He kept glancing up the hillside at the trail and the road. Finally, everything was loaded in the pack. He swung it to his shoulders, grabbed Joni’s hand, and led her down to the lower road.
A Ford van passed.
He waved and smiled.
When the road was deserted again, he opened the Pontiac’s trunk. ‘Climb in, honey.’
2.
As Roy drove, he heard radio reports about a house fire and double murder in Santa Monica. They didn’t give the victims’ names, but mentioned a missing eight-year-old girl. He heard nothing about Karen and Bob Marston.
That worried him.
He went over it in his mind: how Karen had spilled the beans about Malcasa Point; how surprised she was when, instead of leaving, he gagged her and really got down to business until she died; how he had waited, hidden in the hall, for Bob to come home; the way Bob shook his head and moaned when he stepped into the bedroom and saw his wife hanging on the door; the sound of Bob’s head splitting under the ax; the candle placed carefully in a circle of paper wads, just the way he’d done it at the other place.
The Complete Beast House Chronicles Page 12