The Midnight Tour bhc-3

by Richard Laymon

  And Lib’s in the middle, but she isn’t the meat.

  Hope she’s happy. Should’ve kept her big mouth shut.

  Driving on past the bushes where the grave lurked, Sandy remembered how angry she’d been, that night. Everything had seemed so fine between her and Ub until Harry had shown up.

  He’d ruined it.

  We could’ve been a family.

  But Lib had gone nuts for the guy and turned into a slut.

  A talkative slut, a traitorous slut. Didn’t have an ounce of loyalty in her whole damn body. Couldnt wait to start spilling the beans.

  She didn’t even know the guy!

  Sandy shook her head.

  She felt like a different person from the girl sitting on top of the grave that night.

  God, I was so young then. And so angry.

  And Jealous

  Ridiculous.

  She wished she hadn’t killed Harry and Lib. She always wished she hadn’t done it.

  Not that she felt very guilty about it. They both got what they deserved. They’d turned against her. Sooner or later, they would’ve turned against Eric, too. If she hadn’t killed them, there would’ve been hell to pay.

  But she’d liked them.

  Both.

  If things had worked out differently. Lib might’ve been like a big sister to her. Harry might’ve been like a brother

  Or lover.

  Who knows?

  Ever since that night twelve years ago, she couldn’t drive past the grave without remembering it all.

  Couldn’t remember without wishing she hadn’t killed them.

  Wishing they hadn’t made it necessary.

  It all worked out for the best, she told herself.

  Not for them.

  Well, tough. They should have behaved.

  Better that they didn’t behave, she thought. Otherwise, I might’ve been lulled into trusting them. Then it would’ve been me and Eric getting the shaft.

  This way, I got in the first strike.

  What’s that military term?

  A preemptive strike.

  Yeah.

  I sure preempted the shit out of those two. Got them before they could get us.

  Off through the trees, Pacific Coast Highway came into sight. Sandy drove ahead slowly, then stopped a few yards short of the heavy, iron gate barring her way. She hopped out and strode toward it. As she walked through shadows and brilliant sunlight, her boots crunched the fallen leaves, pine needles and twigs. Mixed in with the heavy scents of the woods was a fresh, strong smell of ocean. And a feel of the ocean’s breeze, cooler and fresher than the sweet warm air of the woods.

  It always got her just about now, on her way to open the gate.

  My gate.

  . The dirt road hadn’t been gated in Harry’s days. Sandy, herself, had bought the barricade in town and hired a couple of guys to install it.

  The gate did a fair job of keeping people out.

  That, and the sign wired to its front:PRIVATE PROPERTY

  KEEP OUT

  VIOLATERS SUBJECT TO PROSECUTION

  AND TARGET PRACTICE

  The sign was her own creation. She thought the “target practice” bit, while threatening, showed a certain wit and style.

  The sign and the gate itself seemed especially cool considering that the private property wasn’t hers.

  The land belonged to Harry Matthews.

  He owned it. He was buried in it.

  After removing the padlock, Sandy walked backward, pulling the gate. When it was wide open, she stepped back, read her sign and grinned. then she hurried to the pickup. She rolled through, shut and locked the gate behind her, then drove slowly over the rough dirt tracks, bouncing and shaking until she reached the edge of the highway,

  She waited until an enormous RV roared by. After that, the road was clear. She made a hard right turn onto the pavement and stepped on the gas.

  The nearest town was Fort Platt, almost fifty miles up the coast. She turned on the radio. Reaching over in front of the passenger seat, she opened the glove compartment Half a dozen cassette tapes were piled inside. She found her favorite Warren Zevon tape—the one with “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner.” Then she shut the compartment, slid the cassette into the slot in her radio, and pushed the start button.

  “Now we’re cookin’,” she muttered.

  As much as she regretted leaving Eric behind—and worried about his safety—she couldnt help but enjoy being alone on the road.

  Free.

  She settled back in the seat and smiled at the feel of the wind in her face.

  Resting her left arm on the sill of the open window, she steered with one hand. She was wearing a sleeveless white blouse. Air ruhed in through the arm hole, slid over her breasts, fluttered the front of the blouse She unfastened a couple of buttons to let more air come in.

  High above the ocean, she could see little more than the horizon when she looked straight to the left. Looking ahead, however, she could see down over the left side of the highway. A fabulous view stretched out ahead of her—miles of rough, rocky bluffs with patches of sandy beach down below, the ocean’s frothy rows of combers rolling in. The water was pale blue and glinting sunlight. Far off to the west, a bank of fog lay across the water like a mat of snow.

  To the right, she could see densely wooded hillsides and cloudless sky.

  This is the life, she thought.

  If you don’t mind biding your life away in the bills with a monster.

  She felt a quick flush of guilt.

  He’s my kid, she told herself. He is my life.

  He’s a monster.

  But he’s mine and I love him. And what choice do I have, anyway ?

  She knew the choices.

  She’d thought about them many times.

  Alone during her long drives into town, she rarely failed to think about the choices.

  There were only two, really. Either continue hiding out with Eric, or leave him.

  It’s not as if he really needs me anymore, she thought. He could get along just fine on his own.

  Years ago, Eric had started chasing down and killing wild animals (and sometimes people) for his meals. He ate them where they fell, though he often brought back gifts of meat for Sandy to cook up for herself. Sure, he enjoyed special treats like pizza, popcorn, cake, chocolate chip cookies—but he didn’t need anything like that.

  Didn’t need Sandy at all, really.

  Sure, he’d miss me. He’d miss his mom. But he could get along just fine without me.

  And I’d be free. I could have my own life.

  Without him.

  She felt hot and sick with guilt...and with a vast, overwhelming loneliness.

  I couldn’t, she thought. I could never betray him like that. And God, I’d miss him. I just couldn’t.

  But the alternative seemed almost as terrible.

  To spend her whole life in that little cabin, all alone except for Eric. No lovers, no real children.

  Real?

  Again, guilt surged through her.

  You know what I mean, she thought. I know he’s real. Do I ever! But my God, is it so awful to wish for a normal life? A husband and human kids?

  It’s not that I don’t love Eric, but...

  “Shit,” she said.

  She hated thinking about these things.

  Just then, the song came on. The song she liked best. The weird and spooky ballad about Roland, the headless Thompson gunner.

  She sang along with it and tried not to think about such matters as Eric and freedom.

  It was after ten o’clock by the time she drove over the bridge and entered town. At a public phone inside the Sea Breeze Cafe, she dropped in a quarter and tapped in a number that she knew by heart.

  After two rings, a familiar voice asked, “May help you?”

  “Hi, Blaze, it’s me.”

  “Darrriing!”

  “Could you use me today?”

  “Could I? Of course!
When could I not use you?”

  Just thought I’d check. Make sure you’re not off on a cruise or something.”

  “Oh, perish the thought! I may never go on a cruise again. I thought I’d die! Several people did! Ha!”

  “Fun. Anyway, do you want me to come up to your place or should I meet you somewhere, or...?”

  “Oh, come here first. If we decide on an outing, I’ll drive.”

  “Okay. Great. See you in a white.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “The Sea Breeze.”

  “Ah. Then I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”

  “So long, Blaze,” she said, and hung up.

  She drove down the main street of Fort Platt. The town had a bay with a wharf and plenty of boats, but she knew of no military installation in the area. Maybe they should’ve called it Port Platt.

  It always reminded her of Malcasa Point. Not that the two towns had much in common. Fort Platt sure didn’t have any tacky attractions like Beast House. It wasn’t very big on bait shops, liquor stores or cheap souvenir shops like Malcasa, either. No way. Fort Platt was a class act Or so it seemed to fancy itself,

  Like many other communities along the California coast, it had long ago acquired the reputation of being an “artist’s colony.” By the time Sandy had first ventured there, late in 1980, it had already mutated into a trendy vacation area.

  The main road was lined with picturesque restaurants, boutiques selling candles and tea and handicrafts, bookstores that smelled of incense and carried books by environmentalists and obscure poets, and galleries featuring the works of local artists.

  Such as Blaze O’Glory.

  Just beyond the north end of town, Sandy turned right onto Buena Vista Parkway and headed inland. She followed the broad curvy road into the hills, turned onto Emerald Drive, then onto the narrow, twisty Crestline Lane. It led to the entrance of Blaze’s driveway.

  Stopping at the bottom of the steep driveway, she shifted to first gear. Then she started forward. The front of her pickup tilted toward the sky and she felt her weight shift against the seatback.

  At the top, her hood lowered. She felt as if she were coming in for a landing—on a runway in front of a fabulous house made of glass and weathered wood.

  She left her car in a parking area near the garage, then walked past the front of the house and climbed a dozen slate stairs to the porch.

  She pressed the doorbell button.

  Inside the house, chimes rang out a tune. The one about wanting a gal just like the gal who married dear old Dad.

  She chuckled and shook her head.

  Blaze opened the door. “My dear!” he cried out and flung his arms wide.

  Sandy stepped over the threshold.

  He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her.

  She gave his back a couple of pats. He was wearing a silk kimono. The fabric felt slick under her hands, and the heat of his skin radiated through it.

  He eased her away and held her by the arms. “Look at you. Oh, just look at you. Gorgeous! Absolutely gorgeous! As ever. Never change, darling! Whatever you do, never change!”

  “You look pretty good yourself, she said.

  Oh, dear, I know. I know! Ha! I look totally fabulous, don’t I?”

  “As ever.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad you chose today to come by. You’ve absolutely made my day.” He swept her aside, then closed the front door and whirled around to face her. “Oh, I do miss you when you’re gone. You’re such a delight! I do wish you’d move in. I have oodles of room.”

  “I know. Maybe someday.”

  “Oh, don’t torment me with your empty promises. I know you’ll never move in. But I do keep hoping, don’t I? We could have such fine times, you and I”

  “I’m sure we would.”

  “You are so gorgeous. And you’re such a chatneleon. So many moods and changes, so many shifts and nuances. If I had my way, you would be my only subject. I would spend every hour of my life painting no one but you.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  “We’d not only have a grand time, but we’d become filthy rich.”

  “How are we doing ?”Sandy asked.

  “Modestly well.” Wiggling his eyebrows, Blaze slipped a hand into a pocket of his robe. He drew out a fat pack of bills that were folded in the middle and held together by two rubber bands. “Your twenty percent,” he said. He dropped it into Sandy’s hand.

  “Wow,” she said.

  “Indeed. That’s two thousand three hundred smackarooes.”

  She grinned. “Pretty good.”

  Leaning toward her, Blaze narrowed one eye, lowered his voice and said, “We are an unbeatable combination, Ashley. Your beauty and my genius in capturing you on canvas...But you need to be here. I require your presence”

  “Well, I just can’t get out here very often, Blaze.”

  “How far away do you like?”

  “Far far.”

  “You have no desire to be wealthy?”

  Two thousand bucks a month ain’t hay.”

  “But we could be doing so much better. We could make a fortune.”

  “I thought you artistic types didn’t care about money.”

  “Am I not human? Do I not bleed ? Do I not crave goodies?”

  Laughing, Sandy stuffed the pack of money into a front pocket of her jeans. “Well, Mr. Greedy, we’d better get to it.”

  “Yes! The sooner, the better!” Smiling, he raised both hands like a kid trying to feel raindrops. “It’s a lovely day. Shall we go down to the sea again?”

  “Fine with me. You driving?”

  “I’ve already packed the gear. All we need to do is change into more suitable attire, and we’ll be off.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  STAFF ENCOUNTERS

  In the parlor, Ethel looked as if she hadn’t been tampered with overnight.

  “So far, so good,” Dana said.

  They searched more and more of the house.

  Nobody jumped them.

  Nothing seemed out of place.

  All the mannequins appeared to be in their usual condition.

  Done with the walk-through, Tuck and Dana headed for the front door. “Maybe everything’ll go a little more smoothly today,” Tuck said.

  “We’re getting off to a good start—if we don’t include the intruder at your house.”

  “Oh, thanks for reminding me.”

  “You’re welcome

  “He’s probably after you, you know.”

  “Thank you,” Dana said.

  “My pleasure.” She opened the door and Dana followed her onto the porch. “Just be careful,” she said. “Keep your eyes open, okay? Don’t think you’re necessarily safe just because it’s broad daylight and there’re lots of people around...” She shook her head. “The house has a lot of little empty places. Places where things could happen. So don’t let your guard down.”

  Noddihg, Dana said, “You watch out, too.”

  “You bet I will.”

  Side by side, they trotted down the porch stairs. As they headed around the house, Dana felt her heartbeat quicken. “Warren doesn’t show up for the staff meetings, does he?” she asked.

  “Not the guide meetings.” Tuck flashed a grin at her. “So sorry,.”

  “Just asking.”

  “Sure you are. Anyway, he’s not actually staff. Not anymore. He owns the snack stand.”

  “Owns it?

  “Oh, yeah. Makes a nice little profit off it, too. But he doesn’t attend the guide meetings.”

  “Ah.” .

  “Don’t worry, you’ll see him sooner or later.”

  “I know. I wasn’t...”

  “Sooner if you buy yourself a cup of coffee before we get started.”

  “He’s here now?”

  “Maybe.”

  They stepped around the rear corner of the house.

  “Yep,” Tuck said. “He’s here.”

  Dana only saw the three o
ther guides. Rhonda smiled and waved. Sharon lit up a cigarette. Clyde, off by himself with one foot up on a chair, held a cigarette in his lips and a white styrofoam cup in one hand. Seeing Dana, he looked away.

  “Warren’s inside the snack stand,” Tuck explained.

  Dana squinted at it. Though sunlight glared on the glass front, she could see that one of the serving windows was open.

  She smiled at Tuck. “Can I get you anything?”

  “I’m fine. But you’d better hurry.”

  “Right back.” Quickening her pace, she angled away from Tuck and hurried over to the stand.

  Warren stepped up to the window and smiled out at her. “Moming, Dana.”

  “Hi. Could I get a cup of coffee?”

  “What size?”

  “What sizes have you got?”

  “Tom Thumb, Madame Blavatsky, and Cyclops.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

  “I hope it doesn’t get around.”

  “I only try it out on special friends.”

  Dana felt heat rush to her face. “Well, thanks. So I guess your medium sized coffee is the Madame Blavatsky?”

  “You got it.”

  “I’ll have one.”

  “Take anything in it?”

  “Just coffee.”

  “Coming right up.” Warren stepped away from the window.

  Looking over her shoulder, Dana saw that the other guides were gathering around Tuck.

  “Here you go.”

  She reached into her pocket.

  This one’s on me,” Warren said.

  “Well...thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. How did it go yesterday? Did those cassette players ever turn up?”

  “Two out of three. One’s still out.”

  Warren grimaced slightly.

  He shook his head. “It’s been happening a lot lately, that’s all. Maybe people stealing them. Anyway, I think Lynn’s waiting for You.”

  “I’d better get going. See you later, okay?”

  “You bet,” he said.

  “Thanks again for the coffee.” She picked up the stryofoam cup, turned away and started toward the group. She walked slowly, her eyes on the steaming, dark surface.

  Is he still at the window? she wondered. Is he watching me?

  Is he interested? . .

  He gave me free coffee, didn’t he?