‘Bastard!’
She threw herself at him, squealing, reaching for him with hooked fingers.
Neal lurched backward. ‘No!’ he gasped. ‘Jeez!’
‘Bastard!’
He flung his arms up to protect his face. She raked his forearms. ‘Ow!’ He shoved her away and glanced at the raw furrows on his arms. ‘Look what you did to me! Jeez!’
She came charging at him again. She was sobbing. Tears poured down her face.
‘No!’ he snapped.
She kept on coming, hands up, fingers ready for clawing.
Neal said, ‘Shit!’ Then he braced himself, rammed his left arm up to block her, and drove his right fist into her belly. She was soft there. His fist pounded deep. Her breath exploded out and she folded over his hand.
As she went down, he caught her under the armpits. He lowered her gently to her knees. When he pulled his hands free, she slumped over and pressed her forehead to the floor. She made noisy sucking sounds, trying to breathe.
Neal crouched in front of her head. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
She kept on gasping.
‘I’m sorry I had to do that, Karen. I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry. But as far as I’m concerned, this is the end of it. It was all a big mistake, and I’m sorry I found out about your . . . your thing with Darren. But I’ll never tell anyone, I promise. Your secret’s safe with me. Okay? Just don’t call the cops on me. I’m going. I’m going right now. You’ll never see me again.’
I hope, he thought.
Then he stood up, stepped around her, and hurried to the door. As he grabbed the knob, he looked back at her. She was still on her knees, her head to the floor. Neal expected her white bikini pants to show, but she didn’t have them on anymore. He glimpsed pale buttocks, a shadowy cleft, a glistening slit, hair. Looking away quickly, he jerked the door open.
He shut it gently, silently.
Then trotted down the stairs and ran for the rear gate of the courtyard.
Twenty
In Marta’s bathroom, Neal used toilet paper and water to clean the bloody scratches on his forearms.
Everything just keeps on getting worse, he thought.
How could he explain to Marta about the scratches? She was bound to notice them. He couldn’t make them go away. Nor could he hide them by wearing long sleeves, not every minute he was in Marta’s presence, not in July.
How does a guy get his arms scratched in the middle of the night?
He needed an explanation that didn’t involve leaving Marta’s apartment and having a fight.
Tell her I went back to my own place and tangled with Rasputin?
No!
He’d had enough of lying. Lies had gotten him into this mess.
Lies, and curiosity.
Never should’ve gone to see Karen, he thought.
That had been his first mistake. He made a second mistake when he stepped through her door. By then, he’d already seen her and confirmed the reality of his earlier visit. There’d been no need to enter her apartment.
So why did I do it? he wondered.
He wanted to think that he’d gone in because he felt sorry for her and hoped to distract her from her loneliness. That had been part of it, at least. But he’d also been attracted to her. He’d liked her mind, while inside it, and he’d liked her looks.
Hoping to get lucky?
No, he told himself. It wasn’t like that. I don’t cheat on Marta. Hell, I proved that, didn’t I? If I was going to fool around with anyone, I would’ve done it with Elise. She was much better looking than Karen. And willing. But I refused.
So why did I go into Karen’s apartment, if it wasn’t to mess with her?
Just to see what might happen?
Yeah, right. You wanted to see her in that T-shirt. And maybe without it. And maybe you’d get to fool around with her through no fault of your own.
He had gone in knowing that she was terribly lonely.
Figured you might at least get to hug her.
Maybe cop a little feel along the way, all innocent.
Never thought she’d attack.
He remembered punching her. He’d been scared at the time. He’d only hit her to defend himself, and he felt a little sick at the memory of it.
But the punch . . . feeling his fist drive into her soft belly . . . and grabbing her so she wouldn’t fall hard . . . knowing she was naked under the T-shirt . . .
He’d caught her beneath the arms, but he could’ve easily grabbed her breasts. Grabbed them, and told himself later that he’d done it by accident . . . just trying to help.
I didn’t, he reminded himself. I didn’t take any sort of advantage of her.
All I did was look . . . a glance back on my way to the door. Nothing wrong with that. Not my fault she’d taken off her pants. Besides, I didn’t really look. It’s not like I stopped and crouched down and inspected her. I left.
Remembering it, he felt aroused and guilty.
And I’m trying to tell myself I didn’t mess with her?
I messed with her, all right. Didn’t make love with her, but I sure as hell fucked her.
And she fucked me, he thought, looking at his ripped arms.
The scratches stung. She’d raked away strips of skin from both his forearms: three scratches on one, four on the other. Some were insignificant. On each arm, however, were two deep furrows that still leaked blood.
Her middle and ring fingers had done the main damage.
The wounds looked like exactly what they were. Nobody was likely to mistake them for scatches from thorns, a cat, or anything other than human fingernails.
Marta sees these, Neal thought, and she’ll start thinking maybe I am the guy who killed Elise.
He opened her medicine cabinet to look for an antiseptic.
And he realized that he’d never been inside this cabinet before. Its shelves were lined with Marta’s private things: her toothbrush, dental floss, paste, little plastic bottles of aspirin, Tylenol and prescription drugs, cotton balls, tubes of ointments and creams, a dispenser of birth control pills.
Talk about invading someone’s privacy . . .
He didn’t want to know what she kept in here.
This is almost as bad as riding someone, he thought.
As good as.
Embarrassed, he tried to ignore the labels. And he listened, afraid Marta might arrive home early for some reason and catch him looking at these things.
When he found a tube of antiseptic ointment, he turned his back to the cabinet, twisted off the tube’s cap, and squeezed some goop onto a finger.
As he spread it onto his wounds, he wondered how to deal with the real problem: not the injuries themselves, but how to prevent Marta from finding out about them.
He could think of only one solution.
Leave.
Disappear, and not come back until they’re healed.
My God, he thought, that might take a couple of weeks.
It seemed like an awfully extreme way to solve the problem. But also an attractive way.
As he finished applying the ointment to his injuries, he thought of some very good reasons to disappear. Mainly, it would save him from Marta’s curiosity about the scratches. Also, however, it would take him away from his apartment: the place where he was most in danger from Rasputin.
If I’m not there, he thought, the bastard won’t have a chance of finding me.
Neither will the police. In case they should come looking.
And the same with Karen. Neal was probably the last person she ever wanted to see again. But she knew his real name. If she looked him up in the phone directory, she would find that he was her neighbor. For one reason or another, she might come looking for him.
Nice not to be there, if she does.
He capped the ointment, put it away, then cleaned his fingertips with toilet paper. He flushed all the toilet paper that he’d used on his wounds.
Then he headed for the bedroom.
To
pack.
Is there any reason not to take off? he wondered.
Wouldn’t miss any teaching jobs, since this was summer break. As far as he could remember, he had no appointments set for the next couple of weeks. Though he had a few screen projects in various stages of development, no deadlines or meetings were coming up in the near future. He’d planned to spend all his time fooling around with some new ideas for screenplays.
Money shouldn’t be a problem, either. He still had more than five thousand dollars in his checking account – money left over from the payment he’d received for the first draft of Dead Babes. And another good chunk was due in September, when primary filming was scheduled to begin on Depth of Night.
Assuming they don’t blow it, he thought.
Can’t ever count on a damn thing with these film jerks.
Yeah, you can count on something – that one way or another the whole deal will be blown out of the water so they never get to the primary filming of ANYthing.
September doesn’t matter, he told himself. I’ve got the money for my getaway.
Two weeks, probably.
Or until my arms heal. Or until I figure a great excuse for the scratches.
Before Neal had driven over to Karen’s apartment, he’d put the video tape of his statement, along with the bracelet and pistol, into the bottom of his overnight bag. He’d hidden them beneath his toilet kit, gym shorts, socks and underwear.
They were still there.
He left the video tape where it was, but took out the bracelet and gun. He slipped the bracelet onto his wrist. He stuffed the pistol into the right front pocket of his trousers.
Then he took his bag into the living room. Leaving it near the door, he entered the kitchen. Marta’s old, Royal portable typewriter was still on the table. Neal rolled a sheet of paper into it, and typed.
Dear Marta,
You’ve probably noticed that I’m gone. I decided to take the proverbial ‘powder.’
Don’t be alarmed, okay?
Everything is fine, really.
It just seems like a good idea to pull a disappearing act for a while.
For one thing, I don’t like getting you involved in all this. It might be dangerous. After all, I am the only living witness to Elise’s murder. Not that I actually saw it happen – but as good as. Also, I shot the guy and hurt him. He would probably like to kill me if at all possible.
If he makes a try for me, I don’t want you to be anywhere nearby.
I don’t want him even to suspect that you are a person who has anything to do with me.
I don’t want him to know that you exist.
I hate to think what he would do to you.
Anyway, there’s less chance of Rasp coming after you if I take a leave of absence.
Also, I don’t want to get you in trouble with the police.
At this point, I don’t know where I’ll be heading. Somewhere out of town, where I can relax and not have to worry about either the police or Rasp.
I probably won’t get in touch with you. The less you know, the better.
I’m awfully sorry for dragging you into my mess. I would’ve kept it all to myself, but I cared too much for you, and couldn’t lie.
I love you, Marta. I’ll be thinking about you, and missing you. Again, please don’t worry. I’ll be a lot safer, hiding out. And I won’t stay away any longer than I have to.
Adios for now.
All my love,
After signing the letter, Neal slipped its bottom edge into the rear of the typewriter’s roller so that the sheet stood upright.
Then he picked up his bag, turned off the lights in Marta’s apartment, and left. He went out to his car. He needed to return to his own apartment and pack a few things before taking off for anywhere.
Where should I go? he wondered as he started to drive.
To a motel or hotel. Outside of Los Angeles, since he didn’t want to run a risk of bumping into anyone he knew. Outside Southern California, for that matter. Why take chances? It’s a small world. Try hanging out at the Disneyland Hotel, for instance, and he very well might run into someone he knew. San Diego seemed a little risky, too.
Too bad Disneyland isn’t a few hundred miles from here, he thought.
There’s always Disney World.
But that seemed too far away. Besides, he’d heard that Florida could be awful in summer: terrible heat, humidity so bad that you’re never dry, and mosquitos.
He liked the idea of going somewhere with an amusement park, though. If he had to run off and hide, why not make the best of it? Treat it as a holiday.
He liked amusement parks.
Couldn’t get enough of them.
Disneyland and Disney World were great places; friendly and pleasant and fun and non-threatening, and full of cuteness.
Knott’s Berry Farm had some reality going for it. In addition to having plenty of rides and nifty shops, there were real horses, real museums full of old-west artifacts, and live performers doing gunfights in the streets.
Magic Mountain didn’t have much to offer except thrill rides. It was also a favorite hangout for gang types. Neal wouldn’t like to spend much time there.
Besides, Disneyland, Knott’s and Magic Mountain were all too close to home.
He needed to go at least a couple of hundred miles.
The Santa Cruz Boardwalk was a possibility. Neal had been born too late for such grand old parks as the Long Beach Pike and Pacific Ocean Park in Venice, but the Santa Cruz Boardwalk still survived. It was one of Neal’s favorite places. He’d been there five times, over the years.
How about it? he wondered.
Not a good idea. He’d taken Marta there.
That’ll be the first place she thinks of, if she tries to figure out where I’ve gone.
So how about Funland? he wondered.
Funland, in Boleta Bay, was a lot like Santa Cruz. A boardwalk amusement park on the beach – old, tacky, creepy.
Maybe too creepy.
A few years ago, a bunch of people had gotten killed there. Something to do with an abandoned funhouse. Indigents had gotten into it and turned it into some sort of torture chamber, or obstacle course. Grabbed people off the beach and sent them through. That sort of thing.
Neal had been to Funland before all that. And he’d found it too spooky for his taste, even then. Take the Santa Cruz Boardwalk, age it and run it down, fill it with carny types who looked like they might want to cut your throat, load the crowd with outlaw bikers and loving couples like Starkweather and Fugate, and there you’ve got Funland.
Not to mention the freak show.
Not actually a freak show, he reminded himself. Weird stuff.
Jasper’s Oddities. That’s it.
‘Shit,’ he muttered.
He still sometimes had nightmares about what he’d seen in there.
‘Forget Funland,’ he said.
What’s left? he wondered.
He’d heard of a place called the Fort, over in Nevada. It was supposed to be an amusement park with an old-west theme. He’d never been there, he didn’t think he’d ever talked to Marta about it, and it was probably four or five hundred miles from Los Angeles. Just about the right distance. Though near enough to reach with a full day of driving, it probably didn’t draw huge crowds from Southern California.
From what he’d heard, the Fort didn’t draw huge crowds from anywhere.
It had opened a few years ago with a lot of fanfare. But it hadn’t caught on.
Hope it hasn’t shut down, he thought.
Last he’d heard, it had still been up and running.
Give the place a try, he decided.
Twenty-One
Neal felt excited about the trip. But he grew nervous as he turned into the alley that ran behind his apartment building and Karen’s.
No cop cars, thank God.
Karen probably hadn’t called the police, fearing that Neal might tell them about her relationship with Darren.
br /> Must be terrified somebody’ll find out.
Though the alley looked all right, Neal drove slowly, searching the area beyond his headlights.
He saw nobody. No Creeper, no bums, no Rasputin.
No Karen.
I’m gonna have to move, he told himself. Can’t go on living here.
But a final decision about that could wait. For now, he just wanted to put some miles behind him.
He swung into his parking space and shut down his car, then wondered if he should use the bracelet for a quick scouting expedition through his apartment.
And what, leave my body here?
Not a great idea, he thought.
He could feel the weight of the pistol against his thigh.
Hope the bastard is up there waiting for me.
Sure I do.
Nervous, he climbed out of his car and walked quickly. He looked all around as he hurried through the rear gate and up the stairs to the balcony. Everything looked okay. In front of his own door, he took the pistol out of his pocket. He held it ready in his right hand, finger against the trigger guard, while he used his left hand to unlock and open the door.
Inside, he flicked a light switch. A lamp came on. The living room looked okay, so he shut the door.
Then he walked through every room, gun in hand.
Nobody.
We’re in business.
It took Neal half an hour to pack, and another ten minutes to study road maps. After figuring out how to reach the Fort, he tucked his maps under one arm and carried a single, heavy suitcase down to his car. He tossed the suitcase into the trunk, climbed into the driver’s seat, and took off.
He drove through backstreets, taking much the same route he’d used Sunday night on his way to Video City. Robertson would’ve been faster, but the boulevard seemed more dangerous to Neal than the hidden roads that twisted through this quiet residential neighborhood.
He didn’t want to encounter a car full of trigger-happy gangsters.