‘How’s that?’
‘My mom called in sick.’
‘Your mother’s ill?’
‘No. I mean, she called in sick for me. So I’m officially absent today.’
Officer Chaney turned slightly toward him, rested her right elbow on top of the seatback, and smiled with just one side of her mouth. Mark supposed it would be called a smirk. But it sure looked good on her. ‘So you’re staying home sick today?’
‘That’s right, officer.’
‘In that case, shouldn’t you be home in bed?’
‘Well . . .’
He felt his gaze being pulled down to her throat, to the open neck of her uniform blouse, on a course that would soon lead to her chest. He forced his eyes upward, tried to lock them on her face.
‘Well?’ she asked.
I can’t lie to her. She’ll see right through it!
‘The thing is, I’m not all that sick. And I’m a really good student anyway and Fridays at school are always pretty much of a waste of time and it’s such a nice morning with the fog and all.’ He shrugged.
Eyes narrowing slightly, she nodded. Then she said, ‘And there are such few and such morning songs.’
Mark raised his eyebrows.
‘“Fern Hill”,’ she said. ‘Dylan Thomas.’
‘Oh. Yeah. The guy who wrote “A Child’s Christmas in Wales”.’
This time, she smiled with both sides of her mouth. She nodded again and said, ‘Have a good day, Mark.’
‘Thank you, Officer Chaney. You, too.’
She looked away from him, so he quickly glanced at the taut front of her blouse before she took her arm off the seatback. Facing forward, she put both hands on the steering wheel.
Mark took a step backward but remained bent over.
Just when he expected her to pull away, she turned her head again. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,’ she told him.
‘I won’t. Thanks.’
She gave him another nod, then drove slowly away.
Standing up straight, Mark watched her car move down the road, watched it turn right and disappear.
‘Wow,’ he whispered.
Chapter Five
When Mark resumed walking, his legs felt soft and shaky. He seemed to be trembling all over.
He could hardly believe that he’d actually been stopped by Officer Eve Chaney, that he’d gotten such a good look at her. It was almost like something too good to be true. But even better – and more unbelievable – she hadn’t balled him out, hadn’t lectured him, hadn’t busted him or driven him back to school or back to his house. She’d not only been friendly, but she had let him go.
Let him go with the caution, ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.’
What was that supposed to mean?
He knew it was just a saying. But it didn’t really make a lot of sense when you considered that he didn’t know enough about Officer Chaney to judge what she might or might not do. All he knew for sure was that she was a local legend. Since coming to Malcasa Point about three years ago, she’d made a lot of arrests and she’d even been in gunfights. She’d shot half a dozen bad guys, killing a couple of them.
Don’t do anything I wouldn’t?
‘Good one,’ he said quietly, and grinned.
Still shocked and amazed but feeling somewhat more calm, Mark came to the corner. He turned his head and looked toward Front Street, hoping to see Officer Chaney’s car again. But it was gone.
He shook his head.
Continuing across the street, he found himself wishing that she hadn’t let him go. If she’d busted him, he would’ve gotten to sit in the car with her. He would’ve had a lot more time to be with her.
Maybe she would’ve frisked me.
‘Oh, man,’ he murmured.
But he supposed it was just as well that she’d let him go. Nice as it might’ve been, it would’ve wrecked his plans for sneaking into Beast House. He still wanted to go through with that, or at least give it a good try – even though Alison suddenly seemed a little less special than usual.
It’s just temporary, he thought. Like sun blindness. After I’ve been away from Officer Chaney for a while, it’ll all go back to normal.
‘Eve,’ he said quietly. ‘Eve Chaney.’
He sighed.
Hell, he thought. If Alison’s out of my league (and she is), then what’s Eve? Like a grown-up, improved version of Alison, and probably at least ten years older than me. Not a chance, not a chance. The best I can ever hope for is a little look and a little talk. With Eve, it’ll probably never be better than what just happened.
Forget about her.
Yeah, sure.
He suddenly found himself only a few strides away from the dead-end barricade. A little surprised, he turned around. Nobody seemed to be nearby, so he waded into the weeds, descended one side of a shallow ditch, climbed the other side, and trudged through more weeds until he stood at the black iron fence.
Beyond it were the rear grounds: the snack stand; the outdoor eating area with chairs upside-down on table tops; the restroom/gift-shop building; and the back of Beast House itself.
He saw nobody.
The parking lot, off in the distance, looked empty.
Now or never, he thought.
After another quick look around, he leapt, caught the fence’s upper crossbar with both hands and pulled himself up. The effort suddenly reminded him of gym class.
He struggled high enough to chin the crossbar, then hung there, wondering what to do next. He tried to go higher, couldn’t. He tried to swing a leg up high enough to catch the crossbar with his foot, couldn’t.
Muttering a curse, he lowered himself to the ground.
There’s gotta be a way!
The rear side of the fence, extending along the eastern border of the lawn at the base of a hillside, was overhung in a few places by the limbs of trees outside the fence. Maybe he could climb one of the trees, crawl out on a limb to get past the fence, and drop inside the perimeter.
The limbs looked awfully high.
Climbing high enough to reach any of them might be tough. And if he succeeded, the drop to the ground . . .
He murmured, ‘Shit.’
If only I’d brought a rope, he thought. I could rappel down. If only I knew how to rappel.
Screw a rope, I should’ve brought a ladder.
He’d heard that there were places where you could crawl under the fence, but he had no idea where to look for them.
There were also supposed to be ‘beast holes’ in the hillside . . . openings that led to a network of tunnels. But he didn’t know anyone who’d ever actually found one.
If only I’d brought a shovel, he thought. I could dig my way under the fence.
If I’d had a little more time to prepare . . .
I’ve gotta get in somehow! And fast!
He glanced at his wristwatch. Ten till nine. By nine-thirty, the staff would start arriving.
He sighed, then hurried back to the street and broke into a run.
The last resort.
He’d intended to hop over the fence. While planning the details of his adventure, it hadn’t seemed like such an impossible task. He’d seen people do that sort of thing all the time on TV, in movies, even in documentaries.
James Bond, he thought as he ran, would’ve hurled himself right over the top of a simple little fence like that.
Shit, Bond would’ve parachuted in.
As Mark ran, he realized that the real people he’d observed performing such feats in documentaries were Marines, Navy Seals, Army Rangers . . . not a sixteen-year-old high-school kid whose idea of a good time was reading John D. MacDonald paperbacks.
What would Travis McGee do?
The fence would’ve been a cinch for Travis. But he might do what I’m gonna do.
The new plan was risky. He’d kept it in the back of his mind only as a last resort.
If all else fails . . .
All else had.
br /> Nearing the front corner of the fence, Mark slowed his pace from a sprint to a jog.
If anybody’s watching, he thought, they’ll think I’m just running for exercise.
A car went by on Front Street. He glanced at it, saw the driver, didn’t recognize him. A moment later, the car was gone and he found himself staring at the Kutch house in the field across the street.
The sight of the old brick house sent a chill racing up his back. He knew what had happened there. And he couldn’t help but wonder what might still be happening within its windowless walls.
Old lady Kutch lived in there like some sort of mad hermit.
There were rumors of beasts.
Of course, there were always rumors of beasts.
The real things were probably long gone or all killed off.
But old Agnes Kutch was beast enough for Mark. Walking too close to her house late at night, he’d once heard an outcry . . . almost like a scream, but it might’ve been something else.
He looked away from the Kutch house and watched Beast House as he ran toward its ticket booth.
Blood baths had taken place inside Beast House. Men, women and children had been torn apart within its walls. But the place didn’t seem nearly as creepy to him as the Kutch house. Maybe because he’d been inside it so many times before. Maybe because it was flooded with tourists day after day.
Looking at the old Victorian house as he ran alongside its fence, the place seemed almost friendly.
He slowed down as he neared the ticket booth.
Looked around.
Saw a car in the distance, but it was still a few blocks away.
He walked casually to the waist-high turnstile and climbed over it.
Easy as pie.
On his right was the cupboard where the cassette players were stored. It had a padlock on it.
He walked past the cupboard, stepped around the back of the ticket shack, took a deep breath, then raced for the northwest corner of Beast House.
Chapter Six
In the area behind the house, Mark found several metal trash cans, one just to the left of the gift shop’s entrance. He dragged it a few inches closer to the wall, then climbed onto it. Touching the wall for support, he rose from his knees to his feet and stood up straight.
His head was only slightly lower than the roof.
This I can do, he thought.
He sure hoped so, anyway.
Not with the belly pack on.
Releasing the wall, he used both hands to unfasten its belt. Then he put one hand on the wall to steady himself. With the other, he tossed his small pack onto the roof. It landed out of sight with a quiet thump.
Now I have to get up there, he thought.
Hands on the roof, he leaped, thrust himself upward and forward and imagined his balance shifting, saw himself falling backward. But a moment later, he was scurrying and writhing, digging at the tarpaper with his elbows and then with his knees until he found himself sprawled breathless.
Made it!
He raised his head. His belly pack was within easy reach. The roof stretching out ahead of him had only a slight slope. A few vent pipes jutted up here and there. Near the middle was the large gray block of the air-conditioning unit, nearly the size of a refrigerator.
He picked up his pack, crawled over to the air-conditioner and lay down beside it. Braced on his elbows, he looked around.
Nobody should be able to spot him from the ground. Anyone on the hillside would be able to see him, but people mostly stayed away from there. His main problem would be the back windows of Beast House itself, especially the upstairs windows. The air-conditioner would do a fair job of concealing him, but not a complete job.
He was lucky to have the air-conditioner. He hadn’t known it would be here. Making his plans, however, he’d figured that the roof of the gift shop might be the only hiding place available to him.
He’d never intended to stay here all day, anyway.
He lowered his face against his crossed arms. Eyes shut, he tried to concentrate on his plans, but his mind kept drifting back to his encounter with Officer Chaney. He told himself to stop that. If he wanted to daydream he should daydream about Alison.
He imagined himself opening the back door of Beast House at midnight, Alison standing there in the moonlight. ‘You did it!’ she blurts.
‘Of course.’
‘I’m so proud of you.’ She puts her arms around him.
Some time later, Mark heard voices that weren’t in his head.
He lay motionless.
Just a couple of voices, then more. Some male, some female. He couldn’t make out much of what was being said, but supposed the voices must belong to the guides and other workers.
Soon, they seemed to hold a meeting. After a few minutes, it broke up and the voices diminished.
By the sounds of jingling keys and opening doors, he guessed that people were opening the snack stand, the restrooms and gift shop.
Mark raised his face off his arms and looked at his wristwatch.
9:55.
In five more minutes, the first tourists would start heading down the walkway to the front of Beast House. They would be stopping at Station One to hear about Gus Goucher, then entering the house and going into the parlor for Ethel Hughes’s story. Then upstairs. There, the earlier portions of the tour took place in areas toward the front of the house. Not until the boys’ room would there be a window with a good view of the rear grounds.
The first tourists probably wouldn’t reach the boys’ room until about 10:30.
Making his plans, Mark had figured that he ought to be safe on the gift shop’s roof until then.
Might be pushing it, he thought.
After all, the tour’s self-guided. He’d done it often enough to know that some visitors were more interested in seeing the crime scenes and gory displays than in listening to the whole story, so they pretty much ignored the audio tape and hurried from room to room.
Only one way to be sure nobody saw him from an upstairs windows: get off the roof as soon after ten o’clock as possible. But he didn’t want to leave his hiding place too early; he needed others to be around so he could mingle with them.
So he waited until ten past ten. Then he belly-crawled around the air-conditioner and saw the dog.
His mouth fell open.
The dog, big as a German shepherd, lay on its side a few feet from the far corner of the roof. It looked as if it had been mauled by wild animals. Hungry wild animals that had disembowelled it, torn huge chunks from its body . . .
Where’s it’s head? Mark wondered. Did they eat its head?
How the hell did it get on the roof?
Feeling a little sick, he belly-crawled toward the remains of the dog. He didn’t want to get any closer, but it lay between him and the corner of roof where he needed to descend.
Flies were buzzing around the carcass. It looked very fresh, though, its blood still red and wet.
Must’ve just happened, Mark thought. Not too long before I got here. If I’d shown up a little earlier . . .
His skin went prickly with goosebumps.
There didn’t seem to be a great deal of blood on the roof under and around the dog.
This isn’t where the thing got nailed, Mark thought. It must’ve been hurled up here afterward. Or dropped?
He found his head turning toward Beast House, tilting back, his gaze moving from the second-floor windows to the roof.
Nah.
A bear could’ve done something like this, maybe. Or a wildcat. Or a man. A very strong, demented man.
Suddenly wanting badly to be off the roof, Mark scurried the rest of the way to its edge. He peered down. Nothing behind the building except for a patch of lawn and the back of Beast House.
For now, nobody was in sight.
Mark swung his legs over the edge. As they dangled, he lowered himself until he was hanging by his hands. Then he let go and dropped. Dropped farther than he really expect
ed.
His feet hit the ground hard. Knees folding, he stumbled backward and landed hard on his rump.
It hurt, but he didn’t cry out.
Seated on the grass, he looked around.
Nobody in sight.
So he got to his feet and rubbed his butt. Walking casually toward the far back corner of Beast House, he removed the Walkman headphones from his belly pack.
By the time he arrived at the front of the house, he was wearing the headphones. The cord vanished under the zippered front of his windbreaker, where it was connected to nothing at all.
At least a dozen tourists were milling about the front lawn or gathered in front of the porch stairs. They all wore headphones, too. Not exactly like his, but close enough.
Mark wandered over and joined those at the foot of the stairs.
He stared up at the hanged body of Gus Goucher.
He’d seen Gus plenty of times before: the bulging eyes, the black and swollen tongue sticking out of his mouth, the way his head was tilted to the right at such a nasty angle – worst of all, the way his neck was two or three times longer than it should’ve been.
They stretched his neck, all right.
The sight of Gus usually bothered Mark, but not so much this morning. As gruesome as it looked, it seemed bland compared to the actual remains of the dog he’d just seen.
Gus looked good compared to the dog.
Gazing up at the body, Mark stood motionless as if concentrating on the voice from his self-guided tour tape.
A breeze made the body swing slightly. Near Mark, a woman groaned. A white-haired man in a plaid shirt was shaking his head slowly as if appalled by Gus or the story on the tape. A teenaged girl was gaping up at Gus, her mouth drooping open.
She didn’t look familiar.
None of the people looked familiar.
Not surprising. Though plenty of townies did the tour, the vast majority of visitors came from out of town, many of them brought here on the bus from San Francisco.
Several of the nearby people, including the teenaged girl, clicked off their tape players and moved toward the stairs.
Mark followed them.
Up the porch stairs, past the dangling body of Gus Goucher, across the porch and through the front door of Beast House.