She murmured, “Can’t.”
“And why can’t you?”
“Just can’t. I’m not any actress.”
“You don’t need to be an actress. I’ll make you a star.”
She smirked. “Oh, yeah. A star. Every day and twice on Sundays.”
“You’ve got the look, Margaret.”
“I don’t look much like Janice.”
“There’s no reason why you should. We’ll color your hair, of course. You’ll be spectacular as a blonde.”
“Think so?”
“I know so.”
She grinned.
“And what’s that about?” Marlon asked.
She imagined herself saying, “I’ve got a little secret for you, buddy. Underneath this ugly brown dye job, I am a blonde.”
That’d sure open a can of worms.
“Is something amusing?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t want to turn into a dumb blonde.”
“It would only be for the role.”
“I don’t want the role.”
“I think you do, Margaret. I know you do. Everybody wants to be a star. And you have what it takes.”
“No, I don’t.”
“The look.”
“Bull.”
Marlon took another sip of bourbon, then leaned sideways and set his glass on. the lamp table. “Let me show you something,” he said, getting to his feet. “Do you have a mirror?”
“What kind of mirror?”
“The largest you have.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Come, come, come.” He swept toward Sandy, reaching for her.
She put out a hand to signal him back.
He took hold of it and drew her after him, striding toward the hallway.
“Hey, what’re you doing?”
“We’re off to see the mirror!”
“My dad’ll be home!”
“I doubt it. I’m a director. I know stage props when I see them. A smoker doesn’t live in this trailer.”
“He does, too.”
“My nose tells me otherwise. And it’s a wise nose.”
He pulled her into the bathroom and halted in front of the medicine cabinet mirror. “Surely we can do better than this!”
He barged past her and towed her along.
“You live here alone,” he said. “Admit it.”
“I do not.”
“Just like The Little Girl Who Lived Down the Lane. Jody Foster. Did you see the movie?”
“No.”
“Bet you did.”
He stopped in front of Eric’s room.
He reached for the door.
Sandy gave his hand a hard jerk, tugging him away from it. “Not in there,” she gasped. “It’s my dad’s room.”
“Ah, Dad.”
“I’ve got a big mirror in my room,” she blurted.
“Splendid!”
This time, Sandy led the way, rushing onward, pulling Marlon through the doorway of her bedroom. She stepped around the end of the bed and drew him to her side. They both faced her dresser.
And the mirror above it.
“Fabulous, ” Marlon whispered. “But we need light. It’s far too dark in here. We must have light for the star to shine.” He let go of her hand and said, “Stay. Observe the mirror. Observe yourself in the mirror.”
She went ahead and looked at herself.
“Big deal,” she muttered.
She could see Marlon in the mirror, too. He stood by the doorway, his hand on the light switch. “Behold!” he proclaimed in a deep, resonant tone. Then he flicked the switch.
Crimson light filled the room.
“My lord,” Marlon said.
“It’s just a red bulb,” Sandy explained.
“How remarkably gawdy.” In the mirror, she watched him glide toward her, his arms spread like wings, his shiny black shirt fluttering. The shirt looked purple in the red glow.
She felt a tingle creep up her back.
Why does he have to act so weird?
He swooped in behind Sandy and put his hands on her shoulders.
He stood directly behind her. She could only see the ends of his fingers. The rest of Marlon was hidden behind her body.
Then his head tilted sideways and she saw his chubby face in the mirror as if she were wearing it on her left shoulder.
“My glorious Margaret,” he intoned, his voice thick and low. “My star.” He started rubbing her shoulders. “You shall be my star.”
“Don’t think so,” she muttered.
“Imagine yourself on the big screen,” he said. His hands gently, firmly massaged her shoulders and the sides of her neck. “That’s no mirror in front of us, that’s a movie screen. And there you are, Margaret Blume, two stories high.”
“I just look like I’ve got a real bad sunburn,” she said, and yawned. Though she still felt a little jittery, the massage made her lazy, groggy. Her head began to wobble with the motions of the rubbing.
Then Marlon kissed the side of her neck.
“Hey, don’t,” she murmured.
“Watch the mirror,” he said, his breath tickling her skin.
“Stop it.”
“It’s all right. Nothing’s wrong. Look at yourself. See how beautiful you are. See what your audiences will see.” His reflection smiled at her. Then his hands slid down over her shoulders, down her chest. “You are so glorious,” he whispered, and closed his hands on her breasts. He rubbed them, gently squeezed them through the fabric of her shirt.
Sandy squirmed. “Quit it,” she said.
“You don’t mean that. It feels very good, doesn’t it? I know that it does.”
In the mirror, she saw herself squirm and grab his hands and try to peel them off her breasts.
But he kept them on her.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Don’t fight it. It feels good.”
“No!”
He suddenly released her breasts, ripped her shirt open and jerked it backward and down off her shoulders. She glimpsed herself bare to the waist, her skin bathed in scarlet light, her breasts lurching as she tried to twist away.
He grabbed her arms and pinned them against her sides.
“Look at yourself,” he said, still sounding very calm.
“That’s no mirror. You’re on the big screen, thousands of people staring up at you in awe. You’re a star. Everyone wants you. Everyone wants to look at you, to touch you, to fuck you.”
“Leave me alone!”
“You don’t want that. You want to be up on the screen, huge and spectacular. Look at yourself.”
“Let go of me right now, you bastard!”
“You love it, you love it. You love this. See how you’re watching yourself? You can’t take your eyes away. You love how you look. Now, imagine yourself a hundred times larger. Stop that squirming!” He shook her roughly.
She watched her body jerk back and forth, her head bobbing, her breasts jumping.
He stopped shaking her. “Now stand still,” he said, “and I’ll let go of you.”
“Let go,” she said. Her voice came out high and trembling. “Please.”
Marlon released his tight grip on her arms. He slid the shirt down them. As it fell to the floor, he reached around and caressed her belly with both hands. Then his pudgy fingers went to her belt buckle.
Flinching rigid, she clutched his wrists and gasped, “No!”
Marlon laughed softly and undid the buckle. Then he unfastened the button at her waist. As he started to pull her zipper down, Eric leaped out of the red glow, landed on the dresser, skidded to a halt and whirled to face them.
Marlon’s laughter stopped. His fingers stopped.
Eric stood in a crouch on top of the dresser, his body glistening and ruddy. He snarled, baring his fangs, and raised his arms like a miniature boogeyman.
And sprang straight for Marlon’s face.
As Eric flew at him, the director squeaked once in a high voice that sounded no
thing at all like the rich resonance of Marlon Slade.
In the mirror, Sandy watched Marion’s horrified, pudgy face vanish—hidden behind the body of her son.
Marlon’s fingers jerked away from the zipper of her shorts.
He stopped pressing against her back.
Her shorts fell to the floor.
They almost tripped Sandy as she whirled around and watched him stumble backward with Eric clinging to his face. He reached up to grab Eric. The bed knocked his legs out from under him. As he fell, he hurled the infant away.
“No!” Sandy cried out.
Her son crashed against the wall near the head of her bed. He bounced off and dropped to the floor, tumbling.
She kicked the shorts away from her feet, rushed over to him and crouched down.
He lay sprawled on his back, blinking up at her.
His teeth and muzzle were bloody. Sandy hoped the blood was all Marlon’s.
She heard the director whimpering behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw him on his hands and knees. He raised his head and gaped at her, his mouth open, his face shredded. “It’s... it’s one of them!” he gasped. “Isn’t it? Isn’t it? My God! Did you see the little fucker attack me?” He pushed himself up, stood on his feet, and stared past Sandy at the baby sprawled on the floor. “Look at that ugly fucker. Son-of-a-bitch! Where’d it come from? Good thing I was here, or it would’ve got you.”
Sandy glared at him and said, “I don’t think so. I’m his mom.”
“What?”
“He’s my kid.”
Marlon staggered toward them, blood spilling from his tattered face.
Sandy stood up in front of him.
“Outa my way, bitch,” he gasped. When he said “bitch,” blood blew off his lips and sprayed Sandy in the face. “I’ve got some business to finish with your little monster, and then...”
She punched him in the nose.
His eyes bulged and he stumbled backward.
Sandy kicked one of his feet sideways. He tripped himself.
With a gasp of alarm, he fell and landed on his rump. The trailer shook.
Sandy turned and lunged for the dresser.
Glimpsed a naked red woman rushing at the mirror.
Jerked open the middle drawer.
Snatched out her butcher knife.
“You take this, ” Agnes Kutch bad said, holding out the big, old knife to her. “You gonna be moving outa the house and living in that trailer out there, you gotta have a weapon. Wish I had a gun to give you, but this here is a real good knife. Mama, she used it on a fella once.”
“I know, ” Sandy’d told her. “I was there. I saw her do it ”
She slammed the dresser drawer and turned to face Marlon.
He was already on his knees, struggling to stand up.
She raised the knife overhead.
Marlon screamed like a woman.
Afterward, Sandy took Eric into the shower with her. Standing under the hot spray, she held him to her chest.
Eric had a lump on his head. It must’ve been sore, because he winced when Sandy touched it—even when she kissed it.
Otherwise, he seemed fine. Maybe a little more subdued than usual.
“My little guy,” she said, caressing him. “You’re such a brave little guy. You knew mommy was in trouble and you dashed to the rescue. My hero. Of course, I oughta spank your little ass for breaking the crib.”
She patted his little ass gently.
Then she started to cry.
Eric made quiet whimpery sounds against her neck.
After a while, Sandy sniffed and sighed. She said, “How do you feel about blowing this town, honey? Cause I guess we can’t stay. Not after this.”
Chapter Two
THE BEAST HOUSE BUS—June, 1997
As the bus started across the Golden Gate Bridge, the young woman in front stood up with her microphone and turned to face the riders. “Good morning, everyone! Welcome aboard! I’ll be your guide for the trip out to Malcasa Point this morning. My name is Patty—and yes, I’m Irish. My grandfather hails from Cork. His name is Bob.”
A few of the riders chuckled.
“I know, I know,” Patty said. “Lame joke.”
“What a dip,” Monica muttered.
Owen nodded and gave her a slight smile. He thought it was a bit early in the game to be calling Patty a dip. Monica, obviously, had taken an instant dislike to her. Monica took instant dislikes to a great many things, but especially to other women...and most especially to attractive ones.
Patty was more attractive than most. Owen supposed she was about twenty-five years old. Her deeply tanned skin and short brown hair made her look athletic. Though you couldn’t call her slender, she wasn’t fat, either. Stout, maybe. Or built. Owen thought she looked very good in the tan shirt and shorts of her guide uniform.
“We’re now crossing San Francisco’s famous Golden Gate Bridge,” Patty said. “If you look out the windows, you’ll see that it is not golden, at all. It’s red. It used to be golden, but the Bridge Authority changed its color to blood red in 1981 in honor of its gory neighbor to the north, Beast House.”
Several riders chuckled and a few even clapped.
“That’s God’s-own-truth,” Patty said, raising her right hand.
Monica leaned over and whispered to Owen, “That isn’t true, is It?”
“Sure, I think so,” he said.
“Can’t be. They wouldn’t paint it red because of some stupid tourist trap. Besides, that place is like ninety miles away.”
“You’re probably right.”
“As you may already know,” Patty continued, “the Golden Gate Bridge was given its name in honor of the famed beavenly Golden Gates belonging to Saint Peter. That’s because so many people have entered Saint Peter’s Golden Gates by jumping off this one.”
With that, Patty received general laughter and applause.
“Thank you, thank you. None of what I’ve just told you is true, of course. My grandfather Bob from Cork did kiss the Blarney Stone, and passed its gift of gab down to me. It’s in my genes, but we won’t get into that. Anyhow, this is the Beast House Bus. If you want the facts about Golden Gate Bridge, take a Gray Line Tour—though I don’t recommend it. I took the Gray Line city tour recently and found myself sitting in a rear seat, which was uncomfortably close to the bus’s toilet. But you don’t want to hear about that. I don’t want to think about it. Let’s get to the serious stuff. You must all be wondering what you’re doing here...”
“She’s sure got that right,” Monica whispered.
“...overview of what’s ahead. We have a fairly long ride, to begin with. It’s something more than a two hour drive up the coast to Malcasa Point. And—guess what?—two or so hours back to San Francisco.”
“Two hours of this?” Monica whispered.
“We’re scheduled to reach our destination at about ten-thirty. At that point, you’ll be free to disembark and enjoy all the creepy delights of Beast House. Your price of admission will include a self-guided audio tour which usually takes people about an hour to complete. But feel free to spend as long as you wish in the house. Some people enjoy lingering around the murder sights and emersing themselves in the ambiance.”
Several riders chuckled about that. Monica rolled her eyes upward.
“In fact, you’ll have plenty of time not only to tour Beast House, but to visit the gift shop and enjoy a leisurely lunch on the grounds. Beast House has a very good snack shop with great chili cheese dogs. I love them chili dogs!”
“And it shows,” Monica whispered.
“You should definitely check out the snack shop’s menu. If nothing suits you, though, there are several good places to eat along the main street of town, easy to walk to. The bus doesn’t leave Malcasa Point until 1:30 p.m., so you’ll have three hours. That’s a pretty fair amount of time. Make sure you don’t miss Janice Crogan’s Beast House museum on Front Street. If you still have time left over, y
ou might take a stroll down to the beach. The beach is only a few hundred yards from Beast House. You might order a take-out lunch from the snack shop, and have yourselves a picnic. Just make sure to keep an eye on your watches. You’ll be amazed at how fast those three hours fly by, and we don’t want you missing the bus back to town. We like to pull out at 1:30 on the nose. That gets you back to your hotels by about four, so you’ll have time to rest and clean up before you go out for your evening fun. I hope you all have big plans for tonight—maybe a nice dinner at Fisherman’s Wharf. Now, I have some matters to take care of. I’ll get back to you in a few minutes, and we’ll talk a little about the history of Beast House.”
With a smile, Patty lowered her microphone and turned away.
“My God,” Monica said, “it’s the whole day.”
“We knew that,” Owen told her. “The brochure...”
“I know we knew it. It’s just now sinking in, that’s all.”
“If you didn’t want to do this, I wish you would’ve spoken up. I mean, it’s a bit late to be changing our minds.
“It’s all right,” she said. “It just seems like sort of a waste, when we’ve only got a week in San Francisco, to spend one entire day doing something like this. And our first day, too. We haven’t even had a chance to see any of the city yet.”
Owen was tempted to remind her that, after checking into their hotel late yesterday afternoon, they’d spent several hours roaming Fisherman’s Wharf. They’d eaten a fine dinner at Fisherman’s Grotto, inspected souvenir shops, visited the Wax Museum, and hiked to Pier 39 where they’d gone on a couple of rides, watched a juggling show, and explored more souvenir shops. It seemed to him that they’d seen at least something of San Francisco. But pointing it out to Monica would be a big mistake.
So he said, “If I’d known you felt that way, we could’ve done something else. We didn’t have to do this.”
“Well, that’s all right.” She smiled gently and patted his leg. “We’ll get it over with today, and then we’ll have the whole rest of the week for other things.”
Get it over with.
Oh, man.
“We didn’t have to do it at all,” he told her. “If you’d only let me know that you didn’t want to...”
“Why would I want to? What’s the big attraction of going to some crummy old house where a lot of people got murdered? In fact, I think the whole idea’s a little sick. They shouldn’t even allow tours of a place like that. And if they do, people ought to have the good sense not to go. It’s perverted. And it’s four hours on a damn bus.”
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