He wanted a ride into town.
Or maybe he just bad to find out what I was doing. How come I was leaving him two days in a row? I’d never done it before. What was so special that I couldn’t wait?
Terry was so special.
DAMN IT!
If only she’d stayed home.
Or never met Terry at all, so he would still be alive.
Or never given birth to Eric.
No, don’t wish that.
I do! I do! I wish he’d never been born!
He was just trying to...
It had nothing to do with rescuing me, she suddenly realized. It was spite. It was jealousy.
He needs me all to himself.
After the shower, Sandy got blood on the towel.
She had so many wounds from the broken glass and Eric’s claws and teeth that it seemed pointless to worry about bandages.
None seemed to be bleeding seriously, anyway. Just leaking a little.
Besides, some of the injuries were where she wouldn’t be able reach them. On her back. Or inside.
In Terry’s bedroom, she put on a pair of his briefs and a T-shirt. They clung to the moisture of her skin and the seepage from her injuries.
In the living room, she picked up the skirt and blouse that she’d worn from home. No blood showed on them, so she put them on over the T-shirt and briefs. Then she stepped into her sneakers. She found her purse near the door and slipped its strap over her shoulder.
It was heavy with the weight of her pistol.
Turning around, she gazed at the ruin of Terry’s living room. And the dismembered remains of his body.
She had already made up her mind to leave everything in place.
No point in trying to clean the mess or destroy evidence.
Sure, the cops would realize Terry had been with a woman.
But there was no crime in that.
No woman had done this to him.
No man had done this to him, either.
Terry hadn’t been murdered, he’d been tom to shreds and partly devoured by a wild animal. You could tell that just by looking.
And if you did more than look—if you ran laboratory tests—the teeth and claw marks and saliva and semen would confirm what you already knew: Terry Goodwin had suffered his fatal injuries as the result of a vicious animal attack.
They couldn’t tell you what sort of animal, though.
Over the years, whenever the remains of Eric’s human victims had been found, the blame had always been placed on mountain lions, bears or coyotes.
Such an animal would probably catch the blame for this, too. Not that there’d be many facts to support such a theory. Just that the evidence pointed to some sort of wild carnivore with sharp teeth and claws. Something like a mountain lion, a bear or a coyote.
Some folks, of course, were bound to suspect that Terry had fallen victim to one of those beasts. After all, Malcasa Point was only about a hundred miles to the south. Everybody knew about the beasts. Most of the people in Fort Platt had probably gone on the Beast House tour at one time or another. Most had certainly seen the movies, too, and some had undoubtedly read the books.
People would wonder.
But nobody was likely to believe—or suggest—that a beast had killed Terry.
The beasts were like U.F.O.s. Only kids, drunks, and morons believed in them.
And me, Sandy thought. And me.
She opened Terry’s front door and stepped out onto the porch. Without even glancing around to see if there might be a witness, she turned to the doorway and raised a hand in farewell.
“See you later, Terry,” she said in a cheerful voice. “And thanks again. I really had a great time.”
When she said that, she had a sudden urge to scream.
But she kept smiling.
Nodding and smiling, she said, “Okay. Sure. Tomorrow would be great. See you then.”
Leaning inside, she pulled the door shut. Still smiling, she trotted down the porch stairs and walked toward her pickup truck.
She glimpsed a few neighbors here and there. But nobody was nearby. And nobody seemed to be watching her.
On her way to the pickup truck, she took the keys out of her purse.
Instead of walking around the front of the truck, she went behind it. Along the way, she glanced over the side panel. Her beach blanket was spread out on top of something lumpy the size of a man.
None of Eric stuck out.
From the contours, though, he seemed to be curled on his side in a fetal position.
I’ll take care of you when we get home, Sandy thought.
But she kept her mouth shut, kept walking, opened the driver’s door and climbed in behind the wheel.
On the long drive home, she couldn’t force her mind away from what had happened back at Terry’s place.
She had never felt so sick and horrible before.
Never.
So wracked by guilt and shame and loss.
I didn’t just lose Terry, I lost Eric. He’s not my son anymore. Not after this.
How could he do that to Terry?
How could he do that to ME?
Oh, my God! What if I get pregnant?
It could happen.
She heard herself let out a moan of despair.
I’d rather die...,
Driving south on Pacific Coast Highway, she often had a cliff just a few feet to her right. There was sometimes a low barrier, but frequently nothing...
Just a strip of gravel, then a few feet of dirt or rocks or weeds, then an edge.
And air.
A slight jerk of her arms, and she could put an end to it all.
A long fall.
A hard landing on boulders or beach.
An end for herself and Eric and the baby that might soon begin to grow inside her.
Eric’s brother, Eric’s son.
Another monster.
Another killer.
I’ve done enough damage, she thought. The beasts have done enough damage, too.
Kill Eric, kill myself and whatever chance be has for an offspring, and that’ll be the end of it.
No more beasts.
It can all end here and now.
As she watched the side of the highway, waiting for an opening in the guard rails, she felt a trickle inside her. She wasn’t sure what it might be. Blood or semen, she supposed.
Whatever it was, it dribbled slowly downward.
Terry’s semen?
If I do get pregnant, she thought, maybe it’ll be from him.
It’d be a fifty-fifty chance.
Clenching the steering wheel, she groaned.
Just like Mom, she thought.
Her mother had gone through an entire pregnancy not knowing whether she was carrying the child of her dead lover or the child of a beast.
I probably won’t even get pregnant, Sandy told herself.
But if I do, it’ll be the same.
Way too much the same.
Too damn weird.
It would just be a coincidence, she told herself.
But it felt like much more than a coincidence. It felt almost like an inescapable destiny. As if she were trapped in a sequence of events planned out well in advance by unseen forces.
This is all meant to be, she thought.
I’m meant to do a replay of what happened to Mom.
Maybe it hadn’t gone according to plan with her, and Somebody needs to try again.
“Ridiculous,” she muttered.
What Somebody is doing is playing games with me.
“I’m not playing,” she said.
Even as she spoke the words, however, she knew that she had no choice. If her life was being manipulated by God or the Fates or some other prankster, the game was out of her control. She could do nothing to change anything.
Am I meant to fly off the next cliff? she wondered.
Who the hell knows?
“Who the hell cares?” she asked. “I’ll do what I want.”
>
Which is what They want.
Is it?
What do I want? she wondered.
For starters, how about staying alive long enough to find out whether I’m pregnant. And then to find out if it’s Terry’s child. For starters.
So I won’t be driving off any cliff today, she thought. So what’ll I do about Eric?
Shoot him.
The pickup bounced and lurched as Sandy drove over the bumpy dirt road. The rough ride punished her body, but she was hardly aware of the many pains. She seemed to be far away from them, watching from a distance.
She stopped at the gate.
And stared at it.
I can’t do this, she thought.
She seemed to be far away from the thought.
The woman in the driver’s seat twisted off the ignition and pulled out the key. Turning sideways, she reached into her purse. She pulled out the revolver.
I bet I’m not meant to do this, she thought.
I can’t.
Watch.
She watched.
She seemed to be two places at once.
One place was outside her body, standing maybe a few feet away, observing the behavior of this grim and battered and heart-broken woman and wondering what she might do next.
The other place was inside herself, where she was full of pain but numb and dazed and determined.
Revolver heavy in her right hand, she swung open the driver’s door and jumped to the ground.
Do it fast while he’s still under the blanket, she told herself. Before he knows what’s happening.
Before he looks at me.
If he looks at me, I won’t be able...
She sidestepped, keeping her back to the pickup truck.
Then she thumbed back the hammer and whirled around, raising the weapon, taking quick aim over the side panel and down at the beach blanket.
It was rumpled and bloody.
It no longer covered Eric.
He was gone.
Chapter Thirty-nine
FLYING FISTS
“A fabulous dinner,” John said. “I thank you from the bottom of my stomach.”
“You’re welcome,” Owen muttered. He added a twenty percent tip to the credit card slip, wrote down the total, and signed his name.
“Ready to go?”
“I believe so.”
They scooted over the soft leather cushions of the booth and made their way through the dimly lit restaurant. Along the way, they were thanked by their waitress and by the host. Owen returned a “You’re welcome” that was far more enthusiastic than the one he had bestowed on John Cromwell.
Outside, the sunlight looked dusty and golden. The shadows of the trees were long.
They walked through the parking lot toward their room.
“Okay,” Owen said. “You got your dinner at the Carriage House. Now what’s your big plan for a night I’ll supposedly remember the rest of my life?”
“How would you like to pay a little visit to your honey?”
“Dana?”
“Who else? I know where she lives.”
“Sure you do.”
“Oh, I do.”
Owen took out his room key and unlocked the door. As he stepped inside, he turned his eyes to the telephone.
No blinking red light.
No messages.
He was disappointed, but not surprised. He and John hadn’t left the room until 6:30. Dana almost certainly would’ve called by then if she’d had any intention of seeing him tonight.
Her “date” was obviously with someone else.
Assuming she had a date at all.
John might’ve made up the whole business.
Dropping onto the end of his bed, Owen asked, “Even if you do know where she lives, she’s out with some guy tonight. Remember?”
“Dates don’t last forever,” John leaned backward, his rump sinking into the front edge of the dresser in front of Owen. He folded his arms. He raised his eyebrows. “When she gets back, my boy, we can be waiting for her.”
“Oh, that sounds like a really fine idea. Then what, we jump her?”
“Wanta?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
John chuckled. “How would you like to fuck her?”
“Shut up.”
“Just pulling your chain.”
“Well, stop it.”
“Wouldn’t you like to see her, though?”
“Not with you around.”
“I have to be around. I know where she lives. And I’m the guy with the good camera. How would you like some more photos of her?”
Owen stared at him.
“You were drooling all over those pictures of her and Lynn.”
“Was not.”
“Were, too. And you think she looks hot in those, just imagine how she must look when she goes on a date. Bet she doesn’t wear that uniform. She probably puts on a nice dress, you know? Maybe a low-cut little number that shows off her cleavage. Know what I mean? Maybe a nice, tiny little skirt that’s hardly big enough to hide her snatch.”
“You’re a pig.”
“You love it.”
“I do not.”
“Bet you’ve got a big ol’ stiffy right now just from thinking about her.”
“Do not.”
“Prove it. Let’s see?”
“Go to hell.”
“Stand up, man.”
“If I do stand up,” Owen said, “I’m gonna punch your face in for you.”
“Oooo, I’m trembling.”
Owen got to his feet.
John pointed at the front of his trousers. “See? What’d I tell you?”
“What’d I tell you?” Owen asked, and slammed him in the side of the face. John made a quick, hurt sound. The blow knocked his head sideways. Spit flew out of his mouth. The glasses leaped off his face, clattered against the wall and fell to the dresser top.
Uncrossing his arms, he put up one hand to fend off Owen.
With his other hand, he tried to push himself off the dresser.
Owen planted a punch deep in his big, soft belly.
John squealed. He started to fold over, but Owen blocked his way, shoved him up, pounded him in the chest and stomach with a left and a right and a left. Each time he was hit, he made a quick whimper.
Owen backed off.
John slumped forward and fell to the floor. Wheezing and sobbing, he pushed himself up. He hobbled to the queen-sized bed and eased himself down on it. Kneeling, he pulled the pillow out from under the bedspread. Then he flopped on his belly and buried his face in the pillow.
“I warned you,” Owen said. He felt sick.
John just kept crying.
“You shouldn’t have said that stuff.”
Voice muffled by the pillow, John said, “You...didn’t have to...hurt me.”
Owen had never done anything like that before...not pounded someone.
He’d thought it would feel great to punch the crap out of a fat, obnoxious slob like John.
Maybe if the guy had fought back.
This is how you must feel if you stomp on a parakeet, he thought. Or kick a cat across a room.
He had a tightness inside his throat and chest. A heaviness inside his stomach. He felt as if he might throw up or begin to cry.
“Are you okay?” he asked. His voice sounded high-pitched.
“No. You hurt me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“All I wanted was...just to be...your friend.”
“I’m really sorry.”
John, sobbing, rolled onto his side. He looked odd and vulnerable without his glasses, as if his face had been stripped naked. His arms were hugging his belly.
“I’ll get your glasses,” Owen said.
John snuffled.
Owen went over to the dresser. He found John’s glasses on a plastic tray beside the ice bucket. When he picked them up, the right lens dropped out and struck the dresser top and broke into three pieces.
“Sh
it,” Owen muttered.
“What?”
“They’re broken.”
John sighed loudly. He sobbed a couple of times, then said, “Lemme see?”
Owen picked up the pieces of the lens. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to wreck your glasses.”
Sitting up, John swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
He cupped his hands above his lap, and Owen gave him the broken remains of the glasses.
“Some friend you are,” he said.
Owen sat on the edge of the other bed and leaned toward him.
“How do you feel?”
John shook his head.
“Do you need a doctor?”
“How would I know? I’ve never gotten beat up before.”
“That’s surprising.”
“Hardy-har,” John said.
“Do you want to hit me?”
“No. Why would I want to hit you?”
“I hit you.”
“Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“Come on, why don’t you take a swing at me?”
“No thanks.”
“Come on.”
“I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
Owen laughed. John looked up at him, a slight smile on his face.
His left cheek was swollen and red.
Owen felt bad again.
“Maybe we can get your glasses repaired in the morning,” he said.
“Gonna need a new lens. And frame. See how the frame’s busted?”
Owen saw.
“You did that,” John said.
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll get you a nice, new pair.”
“You think that’ll make everything okay?” John asked.
“No. But I do wish I hadn’t hit you.”
“Not as much as I do.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Look, should we go out and get some ice cream or something? Would that make you feel better?”
“Nice, big dessert for the fat boy.”
“I could go for some, myself. There’s an ice cream shop across from the photo place.”
“Yeah.”
“Wanta drive over there? I’ll treat you to a cone.”
“Wonder if they’ve got waffle cones,” John said.
“Probably.”
“I love waffle cones.”
“Let’s go see.”
“Promise you won’t hit me anymore?” John asked.
The Midnight Tour bhc-3 Page 41