Thrilled by the memory of how he’d scared the woman.
He realized his teeth were chattering.
What a rush!
‘I am the creeper. Creep-creep-creeping through the alleys of the night. I’m coming for you, sweeties. I’ll make you scream and piss your pants.’
He wondered if the woman had wet her pants.
He pictured her cowering at the gate in her white shorts and tank top. Imagined himself shoving his hand against her crotch, feeling the hot and soggy cloth.
The thoughts were giving Creeper an erection.
In his mind, he grabbed the woman by the ankles and dragged her away from the gate. He ripped open the waist of her shorts. He tugged the shorts down her legs, tore away her dripping panties and . . .
Enough of this sick puppy, Neal thought. I’m out of here.
A moment later, he was free.
Clear of the parked cars, he found himself speeding up the alley. He glimpsed the gate. The woman was gone. Nobody there at all, but her overturned trash bag lay on the pavement. Nothing had fallen out of its tied mouth.
Neal wondered if Creeper would sneak back to see if she’d left a puddle.
Fucking weirdo.
But not my weirdo, Neal thought.
With no effort at all, he sped to the end of the alley and over the street, then on into the next alley. He swept through the rear gate of his apartment complex. He soared up to the balcony, heading straight for his own front door.
Approaching his door, he tried to slow down.
Couldn’t.
He barged through the shut door and tried to stop. He wanted to sit down and wait for Rasputin. Or hover and wait. But he couldn’t even decelerate, much less stop. He blew through furniture and walls that had no more substance than air, and suddenly found himself outside again, speeding above the pool on his way toward the front of the building.
What’s going on?
It’s taking me back, he realized. Won’t let me stay.
Let’s just see about that.
Though unable to slow down, he found that he still had some control over his direction of travel. Not much, but some.
Scanning the streets below him, Neal spotted a man wandering along the sidewalk behind a leashed dog.
Try this guy out.
Neal dived toward him.
Hope this isn’t another weirdo.
Entered and exited, fast as an arrow, and kept on going.
Shit! I can’t stop!
Seventeen
But he did stop, and very soon.
He stopped when he reached Marta’s apartment, her bedroom, her bed, his own body.
What was that all about? he wondered.
The answer seemed obvious: there were a couple of rules to bracelet-travel that Elise hadn’t mentioned. For one, you can’t linger around very long, disembodied. For another, no people-switching.
Try again?
Not just yet.
He folded his hands beneath his head.
Let’s think about this for a minute. Gotta figure out a few of the rules.
For starters, they give you a while to scout around.
They? he wondered.
The bracelet police, of course.
Right.
There might be limits to the scouting time allowed, he thought, but at least they allow a while to search for someone interesting to ride.
You need to be careful, or you might end up inside someone by accident.
Me and Creeper boy, Neal thought.
Neal had not really intended to enter that guy. He would’ve preferred to avoid him and keep moving, but he’d approached closer and closer, hoping to get a look under the hat brim, and suddenly found himself sucked in, part of the guy.
From now on, he warned himself, keep your distance. And don’t even think about getting into somebody unless you’re ready to go ahead with it.
Never point your gun at anyone you don’t intend to shoot.
And then there’s the biggie – you can’t switch people in the middle of a trip. They just won’t let you hop from one to another. Once you leave the body you’ve been riding, you make a bee-line back to your own body. Whether you want to or not.
What a drag, Neal thought. Puts some real limits on things.
If you want to switch people, you apparently need to start all over again. Return to your own body, kiss the bracelet and go looking . . .
Neal wondered what other rules there might be.
What if Elise had left something really important out of her instructions and warnings?
The possibility made him uneasy.
I’ve got to trust her, he thought. She must’ve told me everything that worried her about the bracelet – gave me all kinds of warnings.
Don’t get addicted to it.
Don’t ride in people you know.
Bail out quick, if someone’s dying.
Be careful where you leave your body.
Where you leave your body . . .
Neal opened his eyes, sat up in Marta’s bed, and glanced around. The pistol was still by his hip. Everything looked fine.
He picked up the pistol, then made a trip through the rooms just to be sure that nothing had gone wrong while he’d been away.
No problems.
He used the toilet, then returned to Marta’s bedroom. Her clock on the headboard showed 11:55.
He certainly didn’t feel sleepy.
Give it another try?
As he stretched out on the bed, he realized that he didn’t want to make another trip to his own apartment. Rasputin hadn’t been there five minutes ago; he wasn’t likely to be there now. And having learned some more rules of bracelet travel, Neal figured it wouldn’t be possible to hang around and wait for the killer’s arrival.
Why bother making the trip? It was sure to be a waste of time.
Maybe give it a try in half an hour or so.
Neal thought about getting up, returning to the living room and turning on the TV. He might find some local news. Maybe Rasputin had been apprehended by now, or . . .
He didn’t want to watch the news.
There would be photos of Elise, tales of what had been done to her . . .
They would hurt.
Let’s take a trip, Neal thought, and kissed the bracelet.
He headed for his apartment building, even though he felt certain that Rasputin wouldn’t be there yet.
I’ll just take a quick look, then pay someone a visit.
Try not to pick a weirdo, this time.
The best way to avoid weirdos, he decided, was probably to stay away from people in alleys. And on streets. And in cars. Excluding cops and a few other types with night jobs, nine out of ten people roaming Los Angeles at this hour were probably oddballs, creeps, and criminals. Most normal people would be locked inside their apartments and homes.
Maybe I’ll try one of my neighbors, he thought.
As he approached the front gate of his apartment building, he realized he didn’t have to use the gate. He wished himself high. In moments, he was well above the complex. He moved slowly, gazing down into the courtyard.
Few lights seemed to be on. The balcony was deserted. He saw nobody in or near the pool. Most of the tenants, he supposed, were probably asleep by now.
Gliding past the rear of the building, he looked up and down the alley. He scanned the puddles of light, the patches of gloom, the black places where no light reached.
From this height, he could see a great many black places.
Where someone might be lurking.
Nobody can touch me, he told himself. I’m invisible, invincible.
Can’t do shit, but at least I’m safe.
Hearing a faint rattly-clattery-rolly sound, he peered to his left. A shopping cart had just entered the far end of the alley. Undoubtedly stolen from a local grocery store, it was now loaded with treasured junk and being pushed along by a squat person dressed in a knit cap and overcoat. Maybe a man, maybe a woman.
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Not Rasputin, he told himself. Unless the bastard’s not only bullet-resistant, but also a shape-changer – magically alters himself from tall and skinny to short and dumpy.
In a world where a bracelet like this really works . . .
Neal didn’t want to pursue that line of thought; it could lead into very dark, disturbing places.
I have to go along as if everything’s normal, he told himself. Everything except me. Right. The only supernatural stuff going on is me and my bracelet.
Sure as hell hope so.
What if that is Rasputin?
Tempted to check, he found himself racing toward the scavenger.
No!
He banked hard to the left, a panic turn that sent him through a stucco wall and into someone’s kitchen. Nobody there, but light came in through an archway to other rooms. Curious, he slowed down and headed for the light.
In the living room, he found a woman seated at the end of a sofa, reading a paperback book under the bright yellow glow of a lamp. She seemed to be the only person in the room.
She looked reasonably young and normal.
In her early twenties, Neal guessed. Her soft brown hair looked clean and neatly brushed. She wore glasses. She had a pleasant face, pretty but not strikingly beautiful. She wore a big, loose T-shirt with a neck so wide that it hung off one of her shoulders. The shoulder was bare.
Give her a try? Neal wondered.
Why not? I could do worse.
Just pay her a little visit, find out what’s . . .
He was in.
And reading.
The woman’s eyes rushed across the lines of her paperback, so Neal tried to read with her. The words, being read in unison, seemed oddly doubled. He heard the woman’s mental voice, but also his own. It sounded like a duet recitation.
Though the words matched, the images they called up in the woman’s mind were different from those Neal was experiencing.
Her images seemed a lot more vivid than his.
They ought to, Neal thought. I’m just jumping in. She’s halfway through the book. She knows what’s going on, what the characters are supposed to look like . . .
He noticed something odd.
The female in the scene, whose name was Nora, looked very much like the woman reading the book.
He read on.
According to the writer’s words, Nora was supposed to be a redhead.
But not in this gal’s mind, she wasn’t.
Ignoring the writer’s description, the reader had given Nora brown hair the same as her own.
This gal’s really into it, Neal thought.
Fascinated, he tried to keep on reading. The conflicting images were too confusing, though. Nothing looked quite the same in the woman’s mind as in his. She saw the same words as Neal, but it was as if she were watching a movie of the book – a film with the same script as Neal’s version, but with a different director and cast.
He gave up on the words, and turned his attention to the woman.
That, in itself, was confusing.
She seemed to have a split life. She existed simultaneously as two women in separate places, doing different things but joined and flowing together in strange ways.
The reading woman sat motionless on her sofa, leaning back comfortably in its soft cushions, one leg crossed and tucked beneath the other. Though deeply involved in the story, she was also aware of herself. She felt safe, cozy, and mildly aroused.
Neal found it quite pleasant, being in her.
He wondered what her name was.
No way of finding out, at least not yet.
She’s Reader, he decided.
Reader and Nora.
Reader sat on the sofa, book in her hands, while Nora now sat astride a black stallion that trotted along a beach. Clear blue water rolled in calmly against the sand. The day was lovely, cloudless and warm. A sea breeze blew in softly, tossing Nora’s hair so it flowed out behind her like a gleaming brown banner. She wore a loose, white nightshirt – the sort of garment Neal had seen men wearing in illustrated editions of Dickens novels.
He had no idea why she might be wearing such a thing for her horse-back ride on the beach. Obviously, she’d acquired it before his arrival in Reader.
She seemed to be naked under the garment. At least in the mind of Reader, she was. Reader felt the horse, hot and powerful between Nora’s bare legs, pounding up against her, writhing and rubbing her. As it trotted, her breasts leaped about wildly inside the nightshirt.
Naked under her T-shirt, Reader felt it all. Not just the horse but the sunlight, the sea breeze, and Nora’s breathless excitement. She took a deep, trembling breath. She squirmed a little. The front of her T-shirt stirred against her nipples, caressing them. Neal could feel their hardness. They felt so sensitive that the soft brush of the T-shirt sent a thrill of pleasure rushing through her.
Nora suddenly spotted a man in the distance. He was on foot, walking toward her along the water’s edge. Too far away to recognize, but . . .
Tyrone?
Reader seemed very familiar with Tyrone. Along with Nora, she felt a surge of excitement. Nora urged the stallion to a gallop. She and Reader raced along the beach, hunched low on the horse and clutching its mane, the wind in their faces, hair blowing behind them, horse throbbing under them.
Is it my Tyrone? Nora wondered.
Of course it’s him, Reader thought.
And she was right. When they were near enough, they recognized him.
In Reader’s mind, Tyrone was slim and strong, dressed like a swashbuckler. His floppy white shirt, wide open to his waist, revealed a smooth and tawny chest. He wore a colorful sash instead of a belt. The sash held a dagger at one side, some sort of old-fashioned pistol at the other. He wore tight-fitting leather pants, and shiny black boots that reached up past his knees. His hair was long, dark, and flowing in the breeze.
Though Reader and Nora had already settled their doubts about the man’s identity, Neal couldn’t quite make out his face. Not that the distance or the jolting of the horse caused a problem: he could see Tyrone’s face just fine.
It seemed, however, somewhat vague in Reader’s mind. Almost as if the face kept undergoing subtle changes. One moment, Tyrone appeared to be the spitting image of Clark Gable’s Rhett Butler. Another moment, he looked like Tom Selleck as Magnum. Then, Pierce Brosnan. Then Selleck again. Then Brosnan. As if Reader couldn’t make up her mind which image she preferred.
‘My love!’ Nora suddenly cried out. The horse hadn’t even stopped running before she leaped from its back. She stumbled over the sand toward Tyrone – who currently looked like Brosnan.
Reader wondered how he’d escaped, but she was in no mood for an explanation. Right now, she needed Nora to throw herself into Tyrone’s arms.
Which Nora did.
Tyrone embraced her and Reader. Nora hugged him hard, mashing her breasts against his powerful chest. ‘Oh, my love!’ she gasped. ‘I feared I should never see you again.’
‘Come on, knock off the chatter,’ Reader told her.
‘How ever did you escape from the stockade?’ Nora asked.
Reader thought, Oh, crap, here we go. Do we need this? Do we really? Give me a break. Make love to the guy, don’t interrogate him.
Frustrated, she turned the page.
New chapter.
Reader scanned the first few lines, and realized this was going to be a flashback. Tyrone’s daring escape from the stockade.
‘Poohy,’ Reader muttered.
‘Not me, pals. Lost me, there.’
Feeling mildly annoyed, she reached down by her side and picked up a bookmark – a glossy triangle that looked like a corner torn from a magazine page. She tucked it in and shut the book.
That was enough for now, anyway. Tune in tomorrow, folks, and find out everything you always wanted to know about Tyrone’s fabulous escape.
Then maybe we can get back to the beach, where the good stuff’s going on.
> Reader began thinking about herself on a beach. As her mind roamed, her eyes happened to be gazing at the book’s cover. The Wild Buccaneer, Neal read. By Amanda Burns. Gotta be a pseudonym, he thought.
The guy on the cover wore a costume similar to Tyrone’s, but he bore little resemblance to Reader’s image of him. With a long and somewhat equine face, shoulder-length blond hair and bulging brown pecs, he could never be mistaken for Gable, Selleck or Brosnan: he looked like a bulked-up chorus line dancer.
The gal on the cover, cradled in Tyrone’s bulging arms, had russet hair and bosoms bulging over the top of her bodice. Her soft, innocent face appeared hopeful and twenty years old.
She looked nothing at all like Nora – who looked exactly like Reader.
Attention on the cover, Neal was taken by surprise when Reader twisted sideways and dropped the book onto the lamp table.
She stood up. Her left leg felt a little stiff; she must’ve had it tucked up underneath her other leg for quite a while. She didn’t give it much thought, though. She was mostly thinking about making a trip to Venice beach next weekend.
Call up Trudy, see if she wants to go. Do I really want to go with her? She’s always on the make, she’ll get herself picked up by some guy and that’ll be the last I see of her and I’ll be stuck at the beach alone. Might as well go alone in the first place, save myself the aggravation.
While thinking those thoughts, she wondered (vaguely, less distinctly) if she had remembered to lock the front door. She took a few steps toward the door and saw that it was locked.
I oughta go by myself. Not Venice beach, that’d be too yucky. What a freak show. And now they’ve got gangs over there shooting at each other every weekend. Don’t wanta get myself shot. What about Santa Monica beach? Probably just as bad. Malibu? That might be okay.
Pleased by the idea of an adventure at Malibu beach, she reached up and turned off the lamp. The room went dark except for the murky haze coming in through the curtains.
Might meet a nice guy. Who knows? Miracles do happen.
As she stepped carefully through the near-darkness, she imagined herself walking along the beach, slim and tanned and wearing a white bikini. And along comes the cutest dog she has ever seen. She squats in front of it, says ‘Hi, ya, fella,’ and rubs its neck. Then a voice says, ‘His name’s Growler.’ She looks up, and there stands a gorgeous, tanned man in white swimming trunks. He looks a lot like Pierce Brosnan. ‘And I’m Tom,’ he says. Reader stands up, smiling and flustered. ‘I’m Karen,’ she says.