The Midnight Tour bhc-3

by Richard Laymon

  Besides, no matter what I can do, nobody’ll hire me for any sort of legit job without an i.d. and Social Security number.

  Maybe there’s something I can freelance at. Something I can do part time.

  Clean houses? Do yard work? Wash cars?

  Beg on street corners?

  Done with breakfast, depressed, Sandy parted with her money and went outside. She crossed the road and walked on the beach.

  I’d better get to the store, she told herself.

  Later. Just a link later

  She always felt better about life when she walked on the beach. Something about the fresh breeze, the sunlight, the steady roaring wash of the surf, the feel of the sand under her feet. They gave her a feeling of freedom, of wonderful possibilities.

  She took off her shoes and socks, the better to feel the sand.

  I’ll think of something, she told herself as she strolled along.

  This was obviously Fort Platt’s main public beach. Though it wasn’t exactly crowded, several people were sunbathing, stretched out on towels, napping or listening to radios or reading paperback books. Some kids played in the water. A gal was running with her Golden Retriever through the wet sand near the water’s edge. A couple of young guys were tossing a Frisbee back and forth. Off in the distance, an artist was busy at a canvas. His subject appeared to be a tawny young man standing beside a surfboard.

  That’s it, Sandy thought. I’ll be an artist.

  A stick-up artist—the Jesse James of the Fort Platt beach.

  She smirked at the notion.

  But then she remembered Harry’s pistol in her purse.

  She could rob someone.

  No way. I’d rather be a whore than a thief.

  From another part of her mind, a voice chided, What’s a little armed robbery? You’re too good to be a thief? You murdered three people, remember? Four if you count slitting the throat of Lib’s husband.”

  He shouldn’t count, she told herself. He was probably dead already.

  Anyway, she thought, I’m not going to rob anyone. I won’t stoop to that. And even if I wanted to stoop that low, it’d be too damn stupid and dangerous. A stunt like that could get me thrown in jail. Then what would happen to Eric?

  Nearing the artist and his model, Sandy realized that she would be walking between them if she didn’t change course. The guy posing with his surf board was right at the edge of the water. A wave would probably catch Sandy if she tried to walk behind him. Besides, she didn’t really want to go anywhere near the guy. She supposed he was handsome enough to be a movie star, but he looked a little spooky to her. He was oily, muscle-bound, brown from the sun, and all he had on was the skimpiest, clingiest white bikini swimsuit she’d ever seen on a guy in real life.

  Maybe she’d better circle around behind the painter. He looked like a decent fellow. About fifty years old, she supposed. Somewhat frail but also vibrant. Tidy and dapper in his Panama hat, white shirt and white trousers.

  Either go around behind him, or just turn back. She really should be getting to the store.

  But as she stood there trying to make up her mind, the painter cast her a cheery glance and said, “Isn’t he just the most gorgeous specimen?”

  “Sure,” she said. “If you say so.”

  “Ha!”

  The model, smirking at her, flexed a mound of bicep and made it hop.

  “Oh, my,” the painter said. “Now you have him showing off.”

  “I know I’m bowled over,” Sandy said.

  “Fuck off, little girl,” the model said.

  “Tyrone!” snapped the artist. He seemed aghast. “How could you!”

  Tyrone answered with a snort.

  “I’ll not have you speaking to people that way! Especially not lovely young ladies. Not while you’re in my employ! I won’t have it!”

  “You won’t have it?” Tyrone asked, turning his smirk on the painter.

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Then fuck you, you old queer.”

  “How utterly charming. Go away.”

  “You owe me a hundred bucks.”

  “I believe the deal was for fifty.”

  “You believe wrong, asshole.” Tyrone let the surfboard fall to the sand, then strode forward.

  “Well, I suppose a hundred...” The artist reached into the back pocket of his white trousers and pulled out his wallet.

  Tyrone stepped around the easel, glanced at the canvas, then faced the older man and held out a hand.

  “A hundred bucks,” Tyrone said, and snapped his finger.

  “Don’t give it to him,” Sandy said.

  The painter gave her a defeated look. “Oh, I believe I will.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “I’d rather enjoy my health than...”

  “I’m not even so sure you ought to give him fifty,” Sandy added. “I mean, you had to fire him. You’re not even done with the painting, are you?”

  “No. I’d hardly gotten started on it.”

  “Well, then...”

  Tyrone turned on her. “Look here, bitch. I already warned you once. Now get the fuck outa here. Or do you want to me to hurt you?”

  “You’re trying to rob this man,” Sandy pointed out.

  “Ihat’s quite all right, dear. Please. I’ll pay him the money, and...”

  “Just the fifty, then.”

  “Okay, that’s it.” Tyrone trudged toward her, hunched over, arms out. “You’ve had it.”

  But he lurched to a stop when Sandy pulled the pistol out of her purse, jabbed it straight out toward the middle of his chest and said in a low, calm voice, Just try it, bub. I’ll blow your ass to Kingdom Come.”

  Tyrone gaped at her.

  The painter, smiling gently, clapped his hands. “Bravo, young lady! Bravo!”

  After accepting his fifty dollars, Tyrone hefted his surf board and trudged away, muttering.

  “You are simply a marvel,” the painter told Sandy.

  She put away the pistol, stepped up to him and offered her hand. “My name’s Ashley.”

  “I’m Blaze.”

  “Could you use a new model, Blaze?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “For fifty bucks, you can paint me.”

  “I’d be most delighted.”

  “Only thing is... What do you do with the paintings when you’re done with them?”

  “Sell them. They afford me a modest income.”

  “So...like, other people might see them?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Well, considering your delicate age, I have no intention of asking you to disrobe.”

  She blushed. “It’s not that.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t want a bunch of strangers looking at me.”

  He smiled gently. “You want to be the subject of a painting, but you don’t want people to look at it? I’m afraid that does present a bit of a difficulty.”

  “Suppose the painting doesn’t look like me?”

  “And who should it look like?”

  “Well, it can sort of look like me.”

  “I should hope so. Otherwise, I fail to see the point in using you as a model.”

  “I need the money.”

  “I’d be happy to give you the fifty dollars. After all, you prevented Tyrone from stealing it.”

  “I don’t want a handout.”

  “And I want you to pose for me. You have a special radiance, a strange and wonderful beauty. I must paint you. Suppose I raise the offer to a hundred dollars?”

  “That’s very nice of you, Blaze, but I’d still have the same problem even if you made it a thousand. The deal is, I’m sort of hiding from certain people. If you do a painting of me and they see it...” She shook her head. “It’d be really bad.”

  Blaze nodded, scowling. “I see. You’re on the lam. A desperado, of sorts. That explains the gat.”

  “The truth is, there’s a guy after me
. This jerk named Steve from back home in Santa Monica. He’s got the hots for me. He sort of...attacked me. He raped me, in point of fact. When I was still a little kid.”

  “My God, how dreadful.”

  “Well, they got him for it and sent him to prison. But now they’ve let him out.”

  They let him out? A man like that should never be allowed out of prison. Never! That’s an outrage!”

  “You’re telling me. Anyway, I knew he’d be coming after me so I ran away from home. The way I see it, he can’t rape me if he can’t find me.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “Dead.”

  “Oh, how awful.”

  “I was living with an aunt. But she has a couple of kids of her own—little girls about the same age I was when Dad attacked me. So I figured I’d do us all a favor and hit the road.”

  “Dad?”

  “Huh?”

  “Dad attacked you?”

  “I didn’t say that. Steve.” But she realized that she had said it. Her phoney story had veered too close to the truth—and they’d collided. She could feel herself blushing. The blush was probably a dead giveaway.

  “Steve’s your own father?” Blaze asked. “You were molested by your father?”

  “Yeah”

  “And you’re running away from him?”

  She nodded.

  And she could see the belief in Blaze’s eyes.

  Why shouldn’t he believe it? she thought. It’s damn near the truth. Except that the name should be Roy, not Steve. And Roy’s pursuit of her had come to a messy end in Beast House a couple of years ago.

  Comes right down to it, Dad is the reason I’m on the run.

  Dirty fucking bastard.

  Blaze, staring into her eyes, put both his hands on her shoulders. He squeezed them gently. “Do you need a place to stay?”

  “No. Thanks, though. I have a place. It’s a good hideout, but its sort of far away.”

  “You have a place, but no money.”

  “Not much.”

  “I’ll paint you. I’ll pay you a hundred dollars today. And you needn’t worry about being recognized. I’ll capture your essence and beauty but conceal your identity.”

  “Do you think you can do that?”

  “Bite your tongue! You’re speaking to Blaze O. Glory, the greatest artist of the age...whether anyone else knows it or not.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  OWEN TRIES AGAIN

  Watching through the bars of the fence, Owen had seen Dana come around from behind Beast House with the other guides.

  Near the corner of the house, three of them, all females, had walked toward the ticket booth. Dana, followed by the male guide, had headed for the front porch.

  She hadn’t slowed down to walk with the guy.

  Maybe she doesn’t like him.

  Good taste, Owen thought.

  Owen hadn’t seen much of him yesterday, but figured he knew the type. Handsome, big and muscular, arrogant, acts like he owns the world. Exactly the kind of jerk who always ended up with all the most beautiful women.

  Like Dana.

  The sort of women who couldn’t be bothered with guys like Owen.

  Maybe Dana’s different, he told himself. She sure seems nice and friendly.

  But I bet she wouldn’t go out with me.

  Not that I’d have the guts to ask.

  He’d watched her climb the porch stairs, her calves smooth and dark, the tan seat of her uniform shorts pulling briefly smooth against one side of her rump, then the other. Her shorts had rear pockets with button-down flaps. The pockets didn’t bulge. They seemed to be empty, the way they showed Dana’s curves.

  The male guide had chased her up the stairs, dodged the legs of Gus Goucher, and opened the door for Dana. Then he’d followed her into Beast House.

  Earlier, Dana had gone inside with the small, cute guide.

  They’d come out about five minutes later. But Owen figured that she’d be staying inside, this time. She and the guy were probably taking their places to get ready for the tours.

  Through the front window of the ticket booth, Owen saw a side door open. A guide entered and shut the door. It was the plump, friendly girl who’d taken their tickets yesterday.

  Monica had gotten snippy with her.

  Monica. Oh, my God.

  Owen suddenly felt hot and squirmy.

  What’ve I done?

  He glanced at his wristwatch. Two minutes till ten. Though Monica was a late sleeper, she would certainly be awake by now.

  Awake and wondering where the hell Owen had disappeared to.

  How could I do this to her?

  She had it coming, he told himself.

  But to just abandon her...

  She’ll be fine, he thought. Soon as she gets used to me being gone, she can relax and enjoy herself, explore all the wonders of San Francisco without the nuisance of my presence.

  The hotel’s on my credit card. I left her airline ticket behind so she can fly home if she gets the urge. She has plenty of money, plus her own credit cards.

  She’ll get along just fine.

  Never acted like she wanted me around in the first place.

  Well, now she’s got what she was asking for. Hope she’s happy.

  I did you a favor, bitch.

  So why do I feel so guilty about it?

  Owen had gone through these matters before.

  Many times.

  In the cab on his way to the airport, then during the long drive back through San Francisco, over the Golden Gate Bridge and up the coast to Malcasa Point, he’d studied his actions, struggled with guilt, tried to justify what he’d done, and wondered what the consequences might be.

  He supposed he must’ve spent the better part of four hours going over it all.

  For a while, he’d worried that Monica might call the police. She probably would have called them except for one thing: his luggage had disappeared with him. Which made it fairly clear that he’d gone away on purpose.

  No crime in that, as far as he knew.

  After all, it wasn’t as if he’d run off and abandoned his spouse.

  Owen had decided that he could stop worrying about the police.

  But that still left him with plenty of other concerns.

  Again and again, he’d concluded that he was definitely a jerk for ditching Monica. No question about that. A gentleman would never do such a thing. He should’ve stuck with her, no matter what.

  But he was delighted that he hadn’t.

  She had it coming. What did she think, I’d hang around and take her crap forever?

  Inside the ticket booth, the plump girl slid open the window.

  A big, heavy guy with glasses was first in line. He stepped up to buy his ticket.

  He was one of the eight or ten people who’d arrived before Owen. He wore a black cap backwards, its bill sticking out behind his head. Though it looked like a baseball cap, it bore a Beast House logo the same as the guides wore on their uniform shirts.

  Earlier, Owen had been tempted to approach him.

  Say hi, introduce himself, ask where he got the neat hat.

  Why not? The guy seemed to be alone. He was about the same age as Owen, and he looked friendly enough.

  But maybe he didn’t want company.

  Owen had decided not to bother him.

  The guy stepped away from the window, clamped the ticket between his front teeth, and stuffed some bills into his wallet. Then he lifted the drooping tail of his shirt and shoved the wallet into a seat pocket of his plaid Bermuda shorts. His calves were round and pale. He wore moccasins and no socks.

  Kind of a slob, Owen thought and watched him stroll around the corner of the ticket booth.

  The others in line ahead of Owen seemed like ordinary tourist types. Three of them were gals, but they didn’t interest him. They couldn’t compare to Dana.

  He pulled out his wallet and slipped a Visa card out of its slot in the leather.


  Then he wondered if he should use cash, instead. His wallet was bulging. Here was a chance to slim it down by a hundred and fifteen dollars, especially if he paid with small bills.

  But what if I get over to the Welcome Inn and find out they don’t take credit cards?

  I’d better hang on to my cash, he thought. Better safe than sorry.

  What if they haven’t got a vacancy?

  Don’t worry about it, he told himself. Just take things as they come.

  He stepped up to the ticket window.

  “Good morning,” the girl said. “Welcome to Beast House.”

  “Thanks.” He smiled in at her. The name tag on her chest read Rhonda. Though he remembered her from yesterday, he hadn’t been able to recall her name.

  Does she remember me?

  “I’d like one general admission,” he told her. “And can I also buy a ticket for tomorrow night’s Midnight Tour?”

  “The Midnight Tour? Let me check for you.” She turned aside and typed something into a computer. Nodding, she faced Owen. “You’re in luck. It hasn’t sold out yet.”

  “It sells out?”

  “Oh, sure does. We like to keep it small and intimate, so we only allow thirteen guests.”

  “Thirteen?”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll just be number nine. Somebody else can be thirteen.”

  “Lucky him. Or her.”

  “We normally don’t tell whoever it is.”

  “Then how do I know I’m not thirteen.”

  Rhonda blushed. “You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

  “Happy to.”

  A warm smile spread across her face. “Will that be a single admission for you?”

  “Right, just one.”

  “That’ll be a hundred dollars. Plus fifteen for today. How would you like to pay for that?”

  “I guess I’ll have you put it on this.” He pushed the Visa card across the counter.

  After signing for the charge, he was given a receipt, his ticket for the daytime audio tour, and a large red ticket.

  “Both tickets have coupons for discounts at the snack stand, gift shop and museum.”

  “Right.”

  “The red one, that’s your ticket for the Midnight Tour. It’ll be your admission to the picnic which takes place here on the grounds tomorrow night at eight. After the picnic, there’ll be a special ten o’clock showing of The Horror at the theater up the street. Then comes the tour itself.”