Nora would open still another.
She considered it for a moment, then shook her head.
Abe smiled when she stepped out. “Lovely,” he said.
She glanced down at her blouse. “Dan always liked me in yellow.”
Abe gave her a strange look. He must suspect. Wasn’t her teasing a dead giveaway? Well, she would just let him wonder. At least for a while.
He gave her a plastic cup. Steam was still rolling off the coffee. “Nora knocked while you were changing. They’re just about ready to go.”
Tyler sipped the coffee, and wrinkled her nose.
“What can I say? It’s instant.”
“At least it’s hot.” She took her cup to the dressing table, sat down, and drank as she brushed her hair. Abe stood behind her, watching. “Was Jack there?” she asked, and saw him nod in the mirror.
“Lucky Jack,” he said.
“Lucky Nora.”
Abe put down his cup. He rubbed her shoulders, and she moaned.
Then came a quiet knocking. He let go of her, crossed the room, and opened the connecting door.
“All set and rarin’ to go?” Nora asked. She entered, followed by Jack. “We thought it’d be fun to go in town for breakfast. That sound good to everyone?”
“Sure,” Tyler said, getting up.
Nora was wearing a tube-top that left her bare to the tops of her breasts. A faint red line marked her shoulder where the man, yesterday, had struck her with the radio antenna. Her skin had a rosy glow, and her hair looked damp. She must’ve recently taken a shower, Tyler thought. Jack, too, was slightly flushed. Had they showered together? Made love under the hot spray?
Abe and I could’ve…
“Got your room key?” Abe asked her.
Nodding, she picked up her purse.
They went outside into the cool morning shadows, and Tyler slipped a hand around Abe’s back.
“I think,” Nora said, “I could go for pigs in a blanket.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Gorman dreamed they were after him. He was running down a sunlit slope, laughing at first and waving the paper—the contract—overhead to taunt them. “You can’t catch me,” he sang. He knew they couldn’t. He was fleet of foot while Marty and Claire were staggering after him like sleepwalkers. No, like zombies. It suddenly struck Gorman that they were, indeed, zombies. That notion took away some of the fun: what if they should catch him? Zombies would likely treat him to a horror or two.
Though he knew they were after him, they were somewhat preoccupied. Marty was busy ripping to shreds a pair of pink panties while Claire was digging out one of her eyes with a blunt stick.
I never did that, he thought. You’re doing that to yourself, sweetheart.
Looking forward, he saw Brian wave at him from on top of the fence. Janice was up there, too, straddling the spikes—one of them in her—writhing passionately on it while she sucked Brian’s cock. She saw Gorman and sat up. “Hey,” she shouted, “that’s my contract!”
“Finders keepers, losers weepers!” he yelled back, flapping it at her.
“Forget it,” Brian told her. “You’ve got me.”
With a shrug, she leaned down again and took him into her mouth.
Gorman turned away and raced alongside the fence. Looking back, he saw Marty and Claire. They were close behind him, which didn’t make much sense because he was running and they were shambling along slowly. Marty was stuffing bits of the shredded panties into his mouth. Claire, beside him, had one eyeball dangling over her cheek and was working on the other, trying to pry it out with her stick. Let her get that one, Gorman thought, and she won’t be able to see worth shit.
Then he tripped over the end of a bathtub. He fell toward the water. The water was red. A naked woman, reclining in the tub, stretched out her arms to catch him. Her wrists were crossed-hatched with slashes. Martha! He fell toward her, and fell, and fell. “Leave me alone!” he shrieked, and lurched awake.
The room was bright with daylight. Gasping for breath, he stared at the ceiling. He used the pillow to mop the sweat off his face.
Good Christ, he thought. What a nightmare.
He glanced at his travel clock. Nine twenty. He’d been in bed no more than three hours. But he’d had some sleep before Marty and Claire came knocking.
God, if only that had been nothing but a dream.
He crawled to the edge of the bed and sat up. The bruise on his stomach where Marty had punched him (he started it) looked like a smudge of dirt. There were a few minor scratches on the backs of his hands, but his knuckles weren’t even skinned from rapping Claire’s face. He walked to the mirror above the dressing table, and peered at his own face. Except for the bloodshot eyes, it looked fine.
He went into the bathroom. Kneeling beside the tub, he looked closely for traces of blood on the enamel, especially around the drain. The tub looked fine. It should—he’d bathed in the ocean before returning to the room and showering.
He turned on the shower, adjusted the temperature, and stepped beneath its hot spray. As he washed himself, his mind went over every detail. Had he overlooked anything?
The contracts. He had burned them both and flushed the ashes down the toilet.
The tape. He’d pried open the plastic cassette, stripped out the tape, and held it dangling over the toilet while it burned, making greasy black smoke.
The recorder. Since he’d touched its casing with his bloody hand, it had to go. It went into the ocean.
The camera. Same problem. Same solution.
His clothes. After tearing off the tags, he’d weighted each garment with a rock and hurled each into the surf. The shoes hadn’t required rocks.
The cars. In Gorman’s estimation, his solution to that problem had been brilliant and daring. At the time he’d taken Marty’s keys, he hadn’t known why he wanted them. But the scheme must, even then, have been brewing in his subconscious. Not until he reached the cars did the plan come fullblown to his mind.
Since he couldn’t risk leaving even a minute trace of Claire’s blood in the Mercedes, he left it untouched and drove Marty’s car to the beach. He’d been very lucky finding the beach; the very first road leading west had taken him within a couple of hundred yards. He’d simply followed a moonlit path along a hillside and voilà—the ocean.
Farewell to the cassette player, the camera, and his clothes. The worst part was washing his body in the ocean. No, perhaps the worst part was the trek back to Marty’s car, naked and wet and freezing, and frightened half to death that someone might see him. The area was desolate, though, and the only building with a view of the parking area appeared to have no windows.
He’d found a rag under the car’s front seat. He’d used it to wipe the seat and steering wheel before climbing in, just in case some blood remained on them. Later, after parking behind the Mercedes, he’d used the same rag to wipe the car for fingerprints. When he’d finished, he wiped its outside handles and flung the keys far up the wooded slope. Then he had simply climbed into the Mercedes and driven it back to the motel. Stark naked. Right through the center of town. But he hadn’t seen a living soul, thank God, and all the bungalows of the Welcome Inn were dark when he arrived.
Looking back on it now, he was amazed that he’d succeeded in carrying it off—amazed, indeed, that he hadn’t allowed the panic of the situation to overwhelm and destroy him. For he would have been destroyed if he’d simply fled without taking elaborate precautions.
As matters now stood, even if suspicion should fall on Gorman, he was confident that he’d left no evidence connecting him to the crimes. And he had a marvelous bonus in his favor: investigators would naturally assume that the same perpetrator had dispatched Brian, Marty and Claire. It would be obvious to anyone that Gorman was physically incapable of impaling Brian on a seven-foot fence.
Only one possibility worried him—that he may have been seen. Janice was unaccounted for. If she’d been alive on the hillside and witnessed the murder
s…Possible, but highly unlikely since she neither appeared nor called out during the search. More than likely, she was dead. But Gorman had committed the murders within view of Beast House. Someone watching from a window could have watched it all. If that had been the case, however, and his crimes reported, certainly the police would have intercepted him at the cars. Since the police didn’t show up, he could assume that either he wasn’t seen or the witness had crimes of his own to hide—such as the murders of Brian and Janice.
The thought that he might have been watched by their killers sent a chill through Gorman. He suddenly felt squirmy. His scrotum tightened and his penis drew in as if to hide.
Who could have done such a thing to Brian? The strength it must’ve taken!
Perhaps, he thought, there is a beast.
He was no longer enjoying the hot spray of the shower. He finished rinsing the soap from his body, and climbed out. To perk himself up, he concentrated on his good fortune as he dried and got dressed.
The killer, whether man or beast, had done him a splendid service. Gorman may or may not be able to use the incident in his book, depending on the outcome of the investigation. Regardless, all the proceeds would now come to him. Every last cent. Even if Janice should miraculously reappear, the contracts were destroyed. The initial correspondence implied no commitment (perhaps he could find those letters and destroy them…awfully risky…why had he thrown away Marty’s keys?) but basically Janice wouldn’t have a leg to stand on without the contract itself.
Besides, she’s dead.
Please, let her be dead.
As he finished buttoning his sport shirt, he heard a knocking on the door—a light, tentative rapping but it made his stomach lurch. It came from Brian’s room. He took a deep breath, cautioned himself to remain calm, and stepped through the connecting doors. Both of Brian’s beds were intact. He rushed silently to the closer bed, raked back its cover and sheet, and mashed the pillow. Then he opened the door.
“Good morning, Mr. Hardy,” the woman said in a cheerful voice.
She was young and attractive, rather tall and nicely put together, looking fresh and altogether sexy in yellow shorts and a green tube-top that left her shoulders bare and hugged her sizable breasts. Gorman knew that he had met her before. Then he remembered where. The cocktail lounge. Yesterday evening. One of those librarians.
“Oh,” he said, smiling. “Nina, is it?”
“Nora.”
“How are you this fine morning, Nora?”
“Just terrific. How about you?”
“Couldn’t be better.” He took a deep breath. The warm air had a pine aroma. “A gorgeous day to be alive,” he said.
“Every day’s good for that,” Nora said. “Anyway, the reason I dropped by, you mentioned you might be going on that tour today. Beast House?”
‘Yes, I intend to.”
“Well, my friends and I are also going over there in a while. They’ve got a ten-thirty tour. We were wondering if you and Mr. Blake might want to come along with us.”
Gorman glanced at his digital wristwatch. Nine fifty-two. It would be comforting, he thought, to take the tour with acquaintances. Far better than entering that awful house with a group of strangers. “I would be delighted,” he answered, “though I’m not certain about Brian. He seems to have wandered off, and I have no idea when he might be back.”
Nora glanced at the Mercedes. “You think he went for a walk?”
“Apparently.” Gorman shrugged. “Too bad for him. I’d be glad to…” He snicked his tongue. “Oh, I do have an errand to run first. Suppose I meet you and your friends at the ticket booth?”
“Fine. Great.”
“At ten thirty, correct? I’d best get moving.”
Nora nodded, smiling. “Okay, we’ll see you there.”
She turned and started away. Gorman watched for a moment, enjoying the way her buttocks moved in the tight shorts.
Back in his own room, he uncapped his gin bottle and took a swallow. He found a telephone directory in a drawer of the night stand. Nursing the bottle, he searched the yellow pages. Under the heading PHOTOGRAPHIC EQUIPMENT AND SUPPLIES—RETAIL were several listings. Most of the shops seemed to be located elsewhere; the book covered a county-wide area. Only Bob’s Camera and Sound Center was in Malcasa Point. On the three-hundred block of Front Street. “Marvelous,” Gorman muttered. He took a final swig of gin, and hurried out to the car.
Five minutes later, he drove past the store. He noted its location, and continued down Front Street, passing the dirt road he’d taken to the beach only a few hours earlier, then turning his eyes towards the grounds of Beast House. His gaze followed the rear fence until the building got in the way. On the other side, he picked it up again. He turned his head, watching the fence until the hillside rose up to block his view. From the two angles, he was almost certain he’d seen the entire length of the fence. Brian’s body was gone. He hadn’t noticed the other two, either, but of course their bodies wouldn’t be easy to spot at this distance.
He’d half expected to find a gathering of police, but the region back there looked deserted.
Perhaps they had already completed their on-scene investigation and departed. That seemed unlikely, though. Surely there would still be officers scouring the area for evidence.
He continued up the road. Marty’s old Plymouth, shrouded by morning shadows, was still parked on the shoulder where he’d left it. No police cars there. No coroner’s van.
He rounded a bend, then made a U-turn. Coming back down the road, he kept his gaze on the wooded slope. The instant the rear fence appeared, he raced his eyes along it. From this vantage point, he could see almost to its far corner.
His doubts vanished.
The bodies had been removed.
But by the police? He didn’t think so.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Janice rolled in her sleep and tumbled. Shards of pain tortured her awake. She lay motionless on her side, gasping, eyes squeezed shut.
Oh God, she thought, it hurts.
She whimpered from a searing rush of pain inside, and curled up. Her knees pushed against something soft and yielding.
What happened to me? her mind screamed.
Clutching her belly, she felt tape. She explored it with shaky fingers. It seemed to be holding a pad in place. A bandage? It ended just below her ribs. Moving her hands higher, she touched strips of tape on the underside of her left breast. The bandage started just above her nipple, covered the top of her breast and wrapped over her shoulder. The flesh beneath it felt burning. Her other shoulder was bandaged, too. Her right breast was bare, but tender as if bruised. Another bandage ran along her side to the hip. There, she found an elastic belt. She traced it to her groin and fingered the thick pad of a sanitary napkin.
What happened to me?
Raped. She must’ve been raped. The awful hurt inside. What did he use, for Christsake, a tree?
She started to sob, and the jolting spasms sent blasts of pain through her.
Who did this to me? God, why?
Brian? Did Brian? She remembered being with him, but…had he gone nuts or something?
Where am I, a hospital?
It didn’t smell like a hospital, it smelled like a zoo. And she knew she wasn’t on a bed. She was on the floor, a soft nap of carpet against her bare skin.
She opened her eyes. In the dim blue light, she saw a heap of pillows beside her. She must have been lying on that until she rolled off.
Blue light. Pillows.
Where am I?
Gingerly, gritting her teeth as pain ripped through her, Janice got to her hands and knees. She forced herself to stand. She swayed, and raised her arms for balance. Then she turned slowly.
Nobody here. Just me.
The room was slightly smaller than her own bedroom. Looking up, she saw that the ceiling was covered by mirrors. Except for the carpet and pillows, the room was bare. No furniture, no windows…
No windows!
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The Kutch house?
“Oh God,” she whispered.
Flinching with each step, she staggered to the single door. She reached out an arm, slapped the jamb, and tried to brace herself. The arm folded. She fell against the door. But she grabbed the knob and held on tightly until the worst of the pain subsided. Then she tried to twist the knob. It wouldn’t budge.
I’m locked in.
It came as no great surprise.
Still, she rattled the knob and yanked it, shaking the door in its frame.
Finally, she gave up.
She was out of breath, shuddering with pain.
She sank to her haunches. The bandage on her breast had pulled loose at the bottom. Blood was trickling from under it. She tried to press the tape down, but it wouldn’t stick. Her skin was too slippery. Raising the bandage like a thick blue flap, she blinked sweat and tears from her eyes and stared at the wounds.
Her shoulder was torn and raw as if she had been gnawed by a dog. Below that, her flesh was ripped by four long scratches. Smoothing the bandage gently into place, she looked at her other breast. The skin was unbroken, but dark with bruises like a crescent of half a dozen dots. She lifted it and found a similar half-circle under the nipple.
Teeth marks?
But not from the teeth of a man.
Some kind of wild animal? A coyote, maybe?
Who are you trying to kid? she thought.
It was the beast.
Elizabeth Thorn’s beast.
She couldn’t remember any of it, but she knew it had to be so.
Oh God, the thing had raped her.
Quavering, she hugged her belly and leaned forward. She pressed her forehead against the door.
It had raped her. But it hadn’t killed her. Someone had bandaged her wounds. And now she was a prisoner in the windowless house of Maggie Kutch.
It’ll be back, she thought.
It wants me again.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hardy, a distance up the sidewalk, paused near the fence and took a photo of Beast House. As he lowered the camera, Nora waved. He nodded a greeting, and came forward. In spite of the mild breeze, Tyler thought he must be stifling inside his sport jacket. She was too warm, herself, and wished she’d worn shorts or a skirt instead of her corduroys.