Koontz, Dean R. - Hideaway

by Hideaway(Lit)

it crackling off her smooth pale skin, like an overcharge of

  electricity.

  He wondered how he might arrange her death to best symbolize her flaws.

  Soon he had a couple of good ideas.

  She was with a group of about six men and four women, though she did not

  seem to be attached to any one of them. Vassago was trying to decide on

  an approach to her when, not entirely to his surprise, she approached

  him. He supposed their encounter was inevitable. They were, after all,

  the two most dangerous people at the dance.

  Just as the band took a break and the decibel level fell to a point at

  which the interior of the club would no longer have been lethal to cats,

  the blonde came to the bar. She pushed between Vassago and another man,

  ordered and paid for a beer. She took the bottle from the bartender,

  turned sideways to face Vassago, and looked at him across the top of the

  open bottle, from which wisps of cold vapor rose like smoke.

  She said, "You blind?"

  "To some things, Miss."

  She looked incredulous. "Miss?"

  He shrugged.

  "Why the sunglasses?" she asked.

  "I've been to Hell."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Hell is cold, dark."

  "That so? I still don't get the sunglasses."

  "Over there, you learn to see in total darkness."

  "This is an interesting line of bullshit."

  "So now I'm sensitive to light."

  "A real different line of bullshit."

  He said nothing.

  She drank some beer, but her eyes never left him.

  He liked the way her throat muscles worked when she swallowed.

  After a moment she said, "This your usual line of crap, or do you just

  make it up as you go?"

  He shrugged again.

  "You were watching me," she said.

  ""So?"

  "You're right. Every asshole in here is watching me most of the time."

  He was studying her intensely blue eyes. What he thought he might do

  was cut them out, then reinsert them backward, so she was looking into

  her own skull. A comment on her self-absorbtion.

  In the dream Hatch was talking to a beautiful but incredibly

  cold-looking blonde. Her flawless skin was as white as porcelain, and

  her eyes were like polished ice reflecting a clear winter sky. They

  were standing at a bar in a strange establishment he had never seen

  before. She was looking at him across the top of a beer bottle that she

  held and brought to her mouth as she might have held a phallus.

  But the taunting way she drank from it and licked the glass rim seemed

  to be as much a threat as it was an erotic invitation. He could not

  hear a thing she said, and he could hear only a few words that he spoke

  himself: .... . been to Hell... cold, dark..

  sensitive to light.. ." The blonde was looking at him, and it was

  surely he who was speaking to her, yet the words were not in his own

  voice.

  Suddenly he found himself focusing more intently on her arctic eyes, and

  before he knew what he was doing, he produced a switchblade knife and

  flicked it open. As if she felt no pain, as if in fact she was dead

  already, the blonde did not react when, with a swift whip of the knife,

  he took her left eye from its socket. He rolled it over on his

  fingertips, and replaced it with the blind end outward and the blue lens

  gazing inward. Hatch sat up. Unable to breathe. Heart hammering.

  He swung his legs out of bed and stood, feeling as if he had to run away

  from something. But he just gasped for breath, not sure where to run to

  find shelter, safety.

  They had fallen asleep with a bedside lamp on, a towel draped over the

  shade to soften the light while they made love. The room was well

  enough lit for him to see Lindsey lying on her side of the bed in a

  tangle of covers.

  She was so still, he thought she was dead. He had the crazy feeling

  that he'd killed her. With a switchblade.

  Then she stirred and mumbled in her sleep.

  He shuddered. He looked at his hands. They were shaking.

  Vassago was so enamored of his artistic vision that he had the impulsive

  desire to reverse her eyes right there, in the bar, with everyone

  watching.

  He restrained himself "So what do you want?" she asked, after taking

  another swallow of beer.

  He said, "Out of what?"

  "Out of me."

  "What do you think?"

  "A few thrills," she said.

  "More than that."

  "Home and family?" she asked sarcastically.

  He didn't answer right away. He wanted time to think. This one was not

  easy to play, a different sort of fish. He did not want to risk saying

  the wrong thing and letting her slip the hook. He got another beer,

  drank some of it.

  Four members of a backup band approached the stage. They were going to

  play during the other musicians' break. Soon conversation would be

  impossible again. More important, when the crashing music began, the

  energy level of the club would rise, and it might exceed the energy

  level between him and the blonde. She might not be as susceptible to

  the suggestion that they leave together.

  He finally answered her question, told her a lie about what he wanted to

  do with her: "You know anybody you wish was dead?"

  "Who doesn't?"

  "Who is it?"

  "Half the people I've ever met."

  "I mean, one person in particular."

  She began to understand what he was suggesting. She took another sip of

  beer and lingered with her mouth and tongue against the rim of the

  bottle.

  "Whatis this a game or something?"

  "Only if you want it to be, Miss."

  "You're weird."

  "Isn't that what you like?"

  "Maybe you're a cop."

  "You really think so?"

  She stared intently at his sunglasses, though she wouldn't have been

  able to see more than a dim suggestion of his eyes beyond the heavily

  tinted lenses. "No. Not a cop."

  "Sex isn't a good way to start," he said.

  "It isn't, huh?"

  "Death is a better opener. Make a little death together, then make a

  little sex. You won't believe how intense it can get."

  She said nothing.

  The backup band was picking up the instruments on the stage.

  He said, "This one in particular you'd like deadlt's a guy?"

  "Yeah."

  "He live within driving distance?"

  "Twenty minutes from here."

  "So let's do it."

  The musicians began to tune up, though it seemed a pointless exercise,

  considering the type of music they were going to play. They had better

  play the right stuff, and they had better be good at it, because it was

  the kind of club where the customers wouldn't hesitate to trash the band

  if they didn't like it.

  At last the blonde said, "I've got a little PCP. Want to do some with

  me?"

  "Angel dust? It runs in my veins."

  "You got a car?"

  "Let's go."

  On the way out he opened the door for her.

  She laughed. "You're one weird son of a bitch."

  According to the digital clock on the nightstand, i
t was 1:28 in the

  morning. Although Hatch had been asleep only a couple of hours, he was

  wide awake and unwilling to lie down again.

  Besides, his mouth was dry. He felt as if he had been eating sand. He

  needed a drink.

  The towel-draped lamp provided enough light for him to make his way to

  the dresser and quietly open the correct drawer without waking Lindsey.

  Shivering, he took a sweatshirt from the drawer and pulled it on. He

  was wearing only pajama bottoms, but he knew that the addition of a thin

  pajama top would not quell his chills.

  He opened the bedroom door and stepped into the upstairs hall. He

  glanced back at his slumbering wife. She looked beautiful there in the

  soft amber light, dark hair against the white pillow, her face relaxed,

  lips slightly parted, one hand tucked under her chin. The sight of her,

  more than the sweatshirt, warmed him. Then he thought about the years

  they had lost in their surrender to grief, and the residual fear from

  the nightmare was further diluted by a flood of regret. He pulled the

  door shut soundlessly behind him.

  The second-floor hall was hung with shadows, but wan light rose along

  the stairwell from the foyer below. On their way from the family-room

  sofa to the sleigh bed, they had not paused to switch off lamps.

  Like a couple of horny teenagers. He smiled at the thought.

  On his way down the stairs, he remembered the nightmare, and his smile

  slipped away.

  The blonde. The knife. The eye.

  It had seemed so real.

  At the foot of the stairs he stopped, listening. The silence in the

  house was unnatural. He rapped one knuckle against the newel post, just

  to hear a sound. The tap seemed softer than it should have been.

  The silence following it was deeper than before.

  "Jesus, that dream really spooked you," he said aloud, and the sound of

  his own voice was reassuring.

  His bare feet made an amusing slapping sound on the oak floor of the

  downstairs hall, and even more noise on the tile floor of the kitchen.

  His thirst growing more acute by the second, he took a can of Pepsi from

  the refrigerator, popped it open, tilted his head back, closed his eyes,

  and had a long drink.

  It didn't taste like cola. It tasted like beer.

  Frowning, he opened his eyes and looked at the can. It was not a can

  any more. It was a bottle of beer, the same brand as in the dream:

  Corona.

  Neither he nor Lindsey drank Corona. When they had a beer, which was

  rarely, it was a Heineken.

  Fear went through him like vibrations through a wire.

  Then he noticed that the tile floor of the kitchen was gone. He was

  standing barefoot on gravel. The stones cut into the balls of his feet.

  As his heart began to race, he looked around the kitchen with a

  desperate need to reaffirm that he was in his own house, that the world

  had not just tilted into some bizarre new dimension. He let his gaze

  travel over the familiar white-washed birch cabinets, the dark granite

  countertops, the dishwasher, the gleaming face of the built-in

  microwave, and he willed the nightmare to recede. But the gravel floor

  remained. He was still holding a Corona in his right hand. He turned

  toward the sink, intent on splashing cold water in his face, but the

  sink was no longer there. One half of the kitchen had vanished,

  replaced by a roadside bar along which cars were parked in a row, and

  then-he was not in his kitchen at all. It was entirely gone. He was in

  the open air of the April night, where thick fog glowed with the

  reflection of red neon from a sign somewhere behind him. He was walking

  along a graveled parking lot, past the row of parked cars. He was not

  barefoot any more but wearing rubber-soled black Rockports.

  He heard a woman say, "My name's Lisa. What's yours?"

  He turned his head and saw the blonde. She was at his side, keeping

  pace with him across the parking lot.

  Instead of answering her right away, he tipped the Corona to his mouth,

  sucked down the last couple of ounces, and dropped the empty bottle on

  the gravel. "My name-" he gasped as cold Pepsi foamed from the dropped

  can, and puddled around his bare feet. The gravel had disappeared. A

  spreading pool of cola glistened on the peach-colored Santa Fe tiles of

  his kitchen floor.

  In Redlow's Pontiac, Lisa told Vassago to take the San Diego Freeway

  south. By the time he traveled eastward on fog-filled surface streets

  and eventually found a freeway entrance, she had extracted capsules of

  what she said was PCP from the pharmacopoeia in her purse, and they had

  washed them down with the rest of her beer.

  PCP was an animal tranquilizer that often had the opposite of a

  tranquilizing effect on human beings, exciting them into destructive

  frenzies.

  It would be interesting to watch the impact of the drug on Lisa, who

  seemed to have the conscience of a snake, to whom the concept of

  morality was utterly alien, who viewed the world with unrelenting hatred

  and contempt, whose sense of personal power and superiority did not

  preclude a self-destructive streak, and who was already so full of

  tightly contained psychotic energy that she always seemed about to

  explode. He suspected that, with the aid of PCP, she'd be capable of

  highly entertaining extremes of violence, fierce storms of bloody

  destruction that he would find exhilarating to watch.

  "Where are we going?" he asked as they cruised south on the freeway.

  The headlights drilled into a white mist that hid the world and made it

  seem as if they could invent any landscape and future they wished.

  Whatever they imagined might take substance from the fog and appear

  around them.

  "El Toro," she said.

  "That's where he lives?"

  "Yeah."

  "Who is he?"

  "You need a name?"

  "No, ma'am. Why do you want him dead?"

  She studied him for a while. Gradually a smile spread across her face,

  as if it were a wound being carved by a slow-moving and invisible knife.

  Her small white teeth looked pointy. Piranha teeth. "You'll really do

  it, won't you?" she asked. "You'll just go in there and kill the guy to

  prove I enoughúta want you."

  "To prove nothing," he said. "Just because it might be fun. Like I

  told you"

  "First make some death together, then make some sex," she finIshed for

  him.

  Just to keep her talking and make her feel increasingly at ease with

  him, he said, "Does he live in an apartment or a house?"

  "Why's it matter?"

  "Lots more ways to get into a house, and neighbors aren't as close."

  "It's a house," she said.

  "Why do you want him dead?"

  "He wanted me, I didn't want him, and he felt he could take what he

  wanted anyway."

  "Couldn't have been easy taking anything from you."

  Her eyes were colder than ever. "The bastard had to have stitches in

  his face when it was over."

  "But he still got what he wanted?"

  "He was bigger than me."

  She turned away from him and gazed a
t the road ahead.

  A breeze had risen from the west, and the fog no longer eddied lazily

  through the night. It churned across the highway like smoke billowing

  off a vast fire, as if the entire coastline was ablaze, whole cities

  incinerated and the remains smouldering.

  Vassago kept glancing at her profile, wishing that he could go with her

  to El Toro and see how deep in blood she would wade for vengeance.

  Then he would have liked to convince her to come with him to his

  hideaway and give herself, of her own free will, to his collection.

  Whether she knew it or not, she wanted death. She would be grateful for

  the sweet pain that would be her ticket to damnation. Pale skin almost

  luminescent against her black clothes, filled with hatred so intense