“No way,” she muttered. She took her foot off the accelerator. Their speed dropped quickly. She gazed at the rearview, trying to fight her growing panic as the truck raced closer. It didn’t seem to be slowing. She braced herself for the impact. At the last instant, the pickup swung into the southbound lane and pulled alongside. Its horn blared like someone screaming into Tyler’s ears. Instead of passing, it kept even. The road ahead was clear, at least for now. She half expected the pickup to swerve and bump her, sending the little Omni careening into the hillside. Her foot hit the brake pedal. The pickup shot by, cut in front, and slowed. She mashed the brake. With a glance at the rearview mirror, she saw a Mustang bearing down fast. She was doing twenty, then fifteen, the pickup blocking her way.
“Oh, Christ!” she cried. She pulled onto the bumpy shoulder and stopped. The pickup swung over. The Mustang to the rear crossed the center line and sped past. The pickup backed up until it almost touched the Omni’s front bumper.
With a trembling hand, Tyler cranked her window. She elbowed the lock button. Through the rear window of the pickup’s cab, she watched the man take off his cowboy hat.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a gun handy?” Nora asked.
“Oh, sure.”
“I didn’t think so.”
The man scooted across the front seat. He opened the passenger door and climbed down. He didn’t look at them. He scowled at the ground as he ambled closer.
He was a big man, maybe thirty years old, with eyes that seemed too small for his massive face, and thick bulging lips. His jaw looked broader than his forehead.
“Fucking Neanderthal,” Nora muttered.
He suddenly looked up. His tiny eyes flicked from Nora to Tyler. His lips curled into a grin. He raised his middle finger and twisted his hand slowly as if screwing it in. Tyler pressed her knees together.
“Pig,” Nora said.
Using his middle finger, he gestured for them to come out.
Nora leaned close to the windshield. “Not on your life, shithead!” she yelled.
“For Christsake!” Tyler gasped.
Smirking, the man snapped off the Omni’s radio antenna. He swung it like a riding crop. Tyler flinched as it lashed the windshield.
“Shove it up your ass!” Nora yelled.
Tyler punched her shoulder. “Stop that! It’s bad enough! Christ, don’t antagonize him.”
He struck the windshield again. Tyler rammed the shift to reverse and sped backward, the car bouncing over the rough ground of the shoulder. She wanted to swing out onto the road, but a huge camper van was rushing in from the rear. Steering away to avoid it, she felt the car tip. She hit the brakes. The RV roared past, close enough to make the Omni shudder with its buffeting wind. She shifted to first, stepped on the gas pedal and let out the clutch. She heard a rear tire spin. But the car didn’t move.
The man, jogging toward them, stopped to pick up a rock the size of a softball.
Nora shoved her door open. She leaned out and glanced back and shut the door and locked it. “We’re hanging over the ditch,” she reported.
“Oh, great.”
“That rock, he can bash his way in.”
“I know, I know!”
The man hurried closer, rock in one hand, antenna in the other.
Tyler tried again to make the car move.
“Look,” Nora said, “he’ll just demolish a window and get in anyway.” She opened her door again.
“Don’t!”
She climbed out and stepped toward the front of the car.
“Nora!”
She leaned back, rump against the hood, and folded her arms across her chest. The man stopped jogging. One side of his mouth twisted up. He tossed the rock away, shifted the antenna to his right hand, and walked slowly toward her, switching the air.
With a groan, Tyler turned off the engine. She set the emergency brake and got out. Her legs felt rubbery as she walked to the front of the car. She rested against the hood, shoulder to shoulder with Nora.
About four feet away, the man stopped. His gaze roamed slowly down Nora’s body, then slid over to Tyler. She felt cold and sick inside. She tried not to squirm.
Nora said, “Like what you see, liver-lips?”
With a snarl, he whipped the antenna. It whistled by their faces.
“I’m shaking,” Nora said.
He pointed the antenna at a cluster of bushes beyond the ditch. “Get going,” he said.
“It can talk,” Nora said.
“Move!”
“What’ve you got in mind?”
“Gonna fuck your asses.”
“No fooling. With what?”
He lashed her shoulder. She flinched and gritted her teeth. “I’m gonna take you down, buddy,” she muttered, and lunged at the man. He rammed a knee into her belly, doubling her, and flung her sideways. As she tumbled into the ditch, Tyler drove a fist at the man’s face. She felt his nose smash under her knuckles. He blinked and shook his head. Blood gushed from his nostrils. Snarling, he clutched Tyler’s throat and shoved her backward. The front of the car collapsed her legs. He slammed her down on the hood. His other hand tore at her blouse. Blood spilled onto her face. She punched the side of his head. She kicked, but he was between her legs, leaning down on her, mashing her against the hood. Blinking his blood out of her eyes, she saw his fist rise like a hammer about to strike. Then he looked over his shoulder. He thrust himself off her and whirled around. Raising her head, Tyler saw his pickup racing toward them.
“Hey!” the man yelled.
Tyler sat up, slid forward, and got her feet on the ground as the truck skidded to a stop. She glanced to the side. Nora was scurrying up out of the ditch, hair in her eyes.
The truck’s passenger door flew open. A lean man in white pants and a polo shirt jumped down. He nodded to someone inside. The truck rolled forward. It veered to the right. The other door door swung open. A man leaped out, windmilling as he caught his balance.
“No!” the big man roared as his pickup nosed down the slope of the ditch. It stopped abruptly with a crunch of metal, a tinkling shatter of headlights. The man covered his ears. He fell to his knees as Nora, coming up behind him, lashed his back with the antenna.
Now that the truck was out of the way, Tyler saw a blue Mustang parked a distance up the road.
Nora tossed the antenna aside. She nodded at the pair of strangers who were standing just in front of the cowering man. “Are you ladies all right?” asked the one in the polo shirt. He looked from Nora to Tyler.
Tyler pulled her blouse shut, and nodded.
“Too bad about the truck,” said the one who had crashed it, shaking his head and sounding extremely sincere as he stared at the man. He was shorter than his friend, with a crewcut and a chubby boyish face. His neck was thick. His T-shirt was stretched taut over his broad shoulders and bulging chest. The brass buckle of his belt read Colt. He wore blue jeans that looked brand-new. Their cuffs were rolled up about three inches. He wore scuffed cowboy boots with pointed toes. Tyler figured he must be gay. That would mean his friend was, too.
The friend squatted down, bringing his face close to the kneeling man. “Now here’s the plan,” he said in a calm voice. “You get to your feet and apologize to the ladies. You pay them for the antenna. Then you go back to your pickup and stay there.”
“What if I don’t?” he muttered.
The man patted his shoulder. Gently, he said, “I’ll let Jack rip your face off.”
They stood up. The big man turned to Nora and Tyler. He kept his head down. He rubbed a sleeve across his mouth to wipe the blood away. He made gasping, sobbing sounds as he reached into a rear pocket and took out his wallet. He pulled out a tendollar bill and held it out to Tyler with a shaking, redstained hand. Jack leaned in close, and eyed the bill. “Cheap bastard,” he said. He snatched away the wallet. He plucked out a twenty, took the ten from the man, and gave them both to Tyler. Then he handed the wallet back.
“No
w apologize,” said the lean one.
“Sorry,” he murmured without looking up.
“It’s quite all right,” Nora said. She took a step toward him, arms stiff at her sides, and shot a fist into his groin. His breath exploded out. He dropped to the ground clutching himself, and Nora slammed a knee into his bleeding nose. The blow knocked him backward. The lean man hopped out of his way. The blocky one named Jack ginned at Nora and began to clap.
CHAPTER THREE
“Nora Branson.” She offered her hand to the muscle-bound man.
“Jack Wyatt,” he said, shaking it.
“Tyler Moran,” Tyler said, and shook hands with the lean one.
“Abe Clanton.”
“Names like a couple of gunslingers,” Nora said, shaking with Abe as Tyler squeezed Jack’s hand. She was surprised by his gentle grip.
“Yup,” Jack said. “We’re mean hombres.”
Looking past Abe, Tyler saw the big man stagger down the side of the ditch and climb into his pickup.
“I guess this was our lucky day,” Nora said.
“We saw him force you off the road,” Abe explained. “We were right behind you.”
“Good thing. That was great of you guys to stop. A lot of people would’ve kept on going.”
“Yes,” Tyler said. “We sure appreciate it.”
Abe nodded slightly. He looked into her eyes with a steady, probing gaze. It made her nervous. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t. “Did he hurt you?”
Tyler shook her head. “Not much.”
“That’s his blood, I hope.”
“I think so.”
“Look,” Nora said, “you guys are heading north? Why don’t we all stop somewhere, we’ll buy you a drink?”
The suggestion made Tyler’s pulse quicken. She glanced down at her torn, bloody blouse. “I can’t go in anywhere like this.”
“So change,” Nora said.
“I guess I could.”
“How about it, fellas?”
“Fine by me,” Abe said.
Jack rubbed his hands together. “All right.”
“Why don’t you follow us?” Nora asked. “First decent place we spot, we’ll pull in.”
“It’s a deal.”
“Whoops,” Nora said. “One second. We’re stuck here.” She nodded toward the rear of the car.
“Gotcha,” Jack said.
Abe leaned over the driver’s seat. He released the emergency brake. He gripped the steering wheel and open door, and pushed while Jack shoved the rear end. The little Omin rolled away from the ditch. Abe reset the brake. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll wait up ahead for you.”
“See you in a bit,” Nora said.
As the men started toward their car, Tyler knelt on the passenger seat and took a plastic container of Wet Ones from the glove compartment. She crawled out. Plucking one of the moist towels from the pack, she scrubbed her face. The paper came away smeared brown-red. “Did I get it?”
“Most of it.”
“God.” She gave the pack to Nora.
They went to the rear of the car. While she opened the hatchback and unfastened her suitcase, Nora cleaned herself. Her arms were dirty and grass-stained and scraped from her fall into the ditch. The knee she’d driven into the man’s face was smudged with his blood.
Tyler waited for a car to pass, then took off her blouse. She stuffed it into a corner of the trunk. “Damn,” she muttered, seeing the blood spots on her white bra. Well, she couldn’t change into a clean one—not here by the road. Her skin, too, was stained as if sunburnt in splotches. Taking a towelette from Nora, she cleaned most of it off her shoulders and chest and belly. She turned to Nora. “Is that it?”
“Under your chin.”
“God.” She rubbed.
“That’s got it. Shit, he bled like a stuck pig.”
“Pig is right,” Tyler said. She made sure her hands were clean, then took a fresh yellow blouse from her suitcase and put it on.
“How am I?” Nora asked, turning round.
Tyler brushed some dirt and bits of weed from the back of Nora’s T-shirt. “Okay,” she said.
She shut the suitcase and hatchback. They hurried to the front and climbed in. A van sped by. Then the lane was clear. She pulled out and glanced at the pickup as they passed it. The cab was low in the ditch, blocked from view by the tailgate. She was glad she couldn’t see the man inside.
“Asshole’s gonna need a tow truck,” Nora said. “Not to mention a new set of nuts.” She waved at the Mustang as they drew alongside it.
Abe nodded. He was at the wheel. He pulled out behind them.
“Not bad, huh?” Nora asked. “An escort.”
Tyler picked up speed. The blue Mustang kept pace, staying several car lengths back.
Nora rubbed her shoulder.
“Hurt?”
“Not like the knee in the guts, the bastard.”
“You got him pretty good.”
“We both did. Scares me, though. If Jack and Abe hadn’t come along, he would’ve had our asses on a plate.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“That Jack’s a hunk, isn’t he?”
“He must lift weights,” Tyler said.
“You suppose they’re gay?”
“They’re nice guys, regardless.”
“Yeah. Well, there’s nice and there’s nice.”
“I don’t think they’re gay. I mean, I sort of wondered at first…”
“Yeah. But that Abe sure looked you over.”
Tyler felt heat rise to her skin.
“Still, two guys travelling together.”
“We’re traveling together.”
“Right!” She snorted. “They’re probably wondering right now if we’re a pair of dykes. Ha ha.” She rubbed her belly. “How about that Abe? I wouldn’t kick him out of bed, either. Did you hear how he talked to that bastard? ‘Now here’s the plan. First you apologize…’ Sounded like Dirty Harry, didn’t he? More to that guy than meets the eye, I tell you that much right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s a way you don’t get in ballet school. Hard eyes. They both had hard eyes, did you notice that? Except when old Abe was checking you out. Then they got very soft.” She chuckled. “And maybe someplace else got unsoft, if you know what I mean.”
“Nora.”
“You’re right. I don’t think they’re fags. God, I hope not.”
“I don’t see what difference it makes,” Tyler said. “It’s not like we’ll be dating the guys. We’re just gonna buy them drinks, right? We’ll probably never see them again.”
“You never know, hon. You just never know.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Wonderful! Fabulous! Swing over, Brian, get some shots. Too good to be true, wouldn’t you say? Beast House. What do you think?”
“Nice,” Brian said.
“Nice? It looks positively dripping with evil.”
The Mercedes moved slowly past the small, roadside shack that appeared to be a ticket booth. On its wall, a sign weathered to the dirty gray of the driftwood read beast house in crimson block letters that dripped as if recently painted with blood. Looking over his shoulder, Gorman Hardy saw a girl inside the booth’s open window, a blonde of fourteen or fifteen. She held an open paperback on the counter shelf.
Gorman, who had celebrated his fifty-sixth birthday by hurling an empty bottle of Chivas Regal into his mirror to destroy the fat, gray-haired man looking back at him, still had eyes sharp enough to spot his own book covers at a hundred paces. The book in the girl’s hands was Horror at Black River Falls.
Several cars were parked along the walkway fronting the grounds. Brian eased into a space between a Datsun and a grimy station wagon with a tail end like a family album of stickers. Glancing over the array of red hearts, Gorman gathered that the clan had loved Hearst Castle, the Sequoia National Park, Muir Woods and the Winchester Mystery House. It had left its heart in San Francisco, and it wanted t
he world to know that one nuclear bomb could ruin the entire day. That one, he thought, should sport a bleeding heart. A Beast House bumper sticker, if such were available, might very well add a dripping valentine to the collection.
“You getting out?” Brian asked.
“I’ll wait here. Try to keep a low profile.”
“Just a tourist with a Nikon,” he said, and climbed out.
As the door thumped shut, Gorman opened the glove compartment. He took out his Panasonic microcassette recorder. Holding it near his lap, out of sight in case someone might be watching, he said, “Preliminary observations on Beast House, August 1979.” He turned and stared out the open car window as he spoke.
“The house, set back about fifty yards from the main street of Malcasa Point, is surrounded by a seven-foot fence of wrought-iron bars, each bar tipped with a lethal point to keep intruders out, or perhaps to keep the beast inside.” He smiled. “Good one. Use that.” In ominous tones, he repeated, “Perhaps to keep the beast inside.
“The only access appears to be through an opening behind the ticket booth, where a lithe teenaged girl is engaged, even now, in reading my previous book, Horror at Black River Falls.” Why not? he thought.
“In contrast to the lush green of the wooded hills that rise up beyond the fence, the grounds of Beast House appear singularly flat and dreary. No trees or flowers bloom inside the fence, and even the grass is mottled with brown patches as if the earth itself has been poisoned by the evil contagion of the house.”
Now we’re cooking, he thought. Lay it on, lay it on!
“Though the day is cloudless and bright, a sense of insufferable gloom chills my heart as I gaze at the bleak building.” He nodded. Not bad. Rather Poe-ish. The Victorian structure seems a monument to things long dead. Its windows, like malevolent eyes, leer out at the quiet afternoon as if seeking a victim.” Nonsense, of course. The windows were simply windows. From the rather rundown appearance of the house, Gorman was surprised that none was broken. The owners, obviously, were taking some care of the place. The lawn could use more water, and the weathered wooden siding could use a good coat of paint. Such improvements, however, would take away from the aura of deterioration they probably wished to cultivate.