Someone near the back of the bus must’ve raised a hand, because Patty nodded and asked, ‘Question?’
A man said, ‘Is it true that the stolen beast turned up in some sort of a freak show?’
Patty grinned. ‘And your name is?’
‘Marv.’
‘Well, Marv, you’re probably speaking of the Hairless Orangutan of Borneo. It wasn’t exactly in a freak show, but in an exhibit called Jasper’s Oddities at the Funland amusement park.’
‘Where’s Funland?’ Derek asked.
‘It’s in Boleta Bay,’ Patty explained. ‘On the coast just south of San Francisco.’
‘And it’s got the beast?’
‘Well, it had a creature on exhibit that might’ve been a beast. I saw it a long time ago, myself.’
‘So did I,’ said a man sitting a few rows ahead of Owen. ‘Name’s Wayne. Do you think it was the actual beast, or some kind of fake? I heard it was a fake.’
‘I can’t say for sure. Nobody can. Like so many other things that have to do with Beast House, it’s a mystery. And it’ll have to stay a mystery, because a positive i.d. was never made and the so-called Hairless Orangutan of Borneo disappeared in about 1988. All the Jasper’s Oddities exhibits vanished one night, and the building was demolished shortly after that.’
‘Did Janice Crogan ever get a look at the Hairless Orangutan?’ Wayne asked.
‘No, she never did.’
‘She should’ve taken it back,’ Derek said. ‘If it was her monster and somebody stole it . . .’
‘I talked to Janice about it, and she told me that she was glad to be rid of the thing. She didn’t want it back. When she was keeping it in her museum, she had to face it every single day. It was an awfully vivid reminder of those terrible experiences she’d had in 1979. Also, she told me that it didn’t smell terribly fresh.’
‘Oh, yuck,’ said the same girl who had cried out ‘BEAST HOUSE!’ a few minutes earlier.
‘And what’s your name, young lady?’ Patty asked.
‘None of your beeswax.’
‘And what an unusual name that is,’ Patty said. ‘Do you have a nickname? Wax?’
‘Try Bitch,’ Owen whispered.
Monica rolled her eyeballs upward.
‘Her name’s Shareel,’ said the man sitting beside her. Probably her father.
‘Thank you,’ Patty told him. ‘And thank you for your comment about the odor, Shareel. According to Janice, the odor was faint but very yucky. She said it smelled like a dead rat.’
Shareel went, ‘Ooooooo.’
‘Apparently, that’s what happens if taxidermy isn’t done just right.’
‘This is disgusting,’ Monica whispered.
‘Yeah,’ Owen said, smiling.
‘Don’t tell me you like it.’
‘Okay, I won’t.’
Patty pointed to someone and said, ‘Yes, Marv?’
‘What can you tell us about its apparatus?’
She grinned and blushed. ‘Its apparatus?’
‘You know.’
‘I certainly know, all right. But we don’t talk about that.’
‘It’s in the books.’
‘You’re right. It’s in the books. Not in the movies, though, and not on our tour. Not on this tour. If you’re really curious about that sort of thing, we do offer a special, adults only tour of Beast House. Maybe some of you have heard of it. The Midnight Tour? It’s quite an event. Saturday nights only. A trip through Beast House starting at midnight, with our best guide leading the way. It’s a hundred dollars per person, but the price includes a picnic dinner on the grounds of Beast House – with a no-host bar for the drinkers among you – followed by a special showing of The Horror at the town movie theater, and finally the special, unexpurgated tour in which you learn all the stuff that’s too nasty for our regular tours. If any of you are interested, you can make reservations at the ticket office.’
‘They only have it on Saturday nights?’ Marv asked.
‘That’s right. One night a week.’
‘Does the bus go out to it?’
‘There isn’t any special run for the Midnight Tour. What people sometimes do, though, is come in on the Saturday morning bus, spend the whole day, do the Midnight Tour, stay overnight at one of the motels in town, then catch the Sunday afternoon bus back to San Francisco. If you don’t have your own car, that’s about the only sensible way to do it. Imagine what it’d cost for a cab ride.’
‘But kids aren’t allowed?’ Derek asked, sounding disappointed.
‘No kids under the age of eighteen. Beast House rules.’
‘That stinks.’
‘I know. But, just figure, it’ll give you something to look forward to doing when you’re a little older.’
‘It still stinks.’
‘Well, there won’t be much said on the Midnight Tour that isn’t in Janice Crogan’s books. So if you’re really interested, Derek, read the books. Speaking of which, we’ve come back to where I was heading; one of the main participants in the Beast House mayhem of 1979 was an eighteen-year-old girl named Janice Crogan. You’ve all heard of her, right? She happens to be a very good friend of mine, and my employer.
‘After surviving her ordeal, she wrote a nonfiction book called The Horror at Malcasa Point. It contains portions of Lilly Thorn’s diary, a general history of Beast House, and a detailed account of the terrible experiences she had there in 1979. It also has quite a few photographs, including those photos I mentioned of the dead beast.’ She smiled toward someone at the rear of the bus and said, ‘Unfortunately, Marv, the photos don’t show the area you’re so interested in.’
‘I’m not that interested,’ he protested. ‘Just wondering if what they say is true, you know?’
‘Well, can you make the Midnight Tour?’
‘Not likely. I’ve gotta get back to Chicago on Saturday.’
‘In that case,’ Patty said, ‘I’ll let you in on a little secret. I have it on good authority that the matter you’re curious about is true. But you didn’t hear it here. For those of you who don’t know what we’re talking about, you can satisfy your curiosity by going on the Midnight Tour or by reading either of Janice’s books. One of which is The Horror at Malcasa Point, a nationwide bestseller published in 1980. How many of you have read it?’
Owen raised his hand. Looking around, he saw that only three other people had their hands up. One of them, a heavy bald guy near the back, he suspected of being Marv.
‘Four out of about fifty. Not bad, considering it is a book. How many of you have seen any of the Beast House movies?’
Owen raised his hand. So did Monica. So did nearly everyone on the bus.
‘Let’s not get into the movies just yet. I need to finish plugging Janice’s books. First came the big bestseller, The Horror at Malcasa Point. It only took her two months to write, which is a truly remarkable feat in itself, considering her injuries and all the horrors that she’d just gone through. I think it’s amazing that she was able to write about those things at all. But she’s such a strong person . . .’ Patty stopped and looked away for a few seconds. Then she faced the passengers again and continued. ‘Anyway, the book has been in print ever since 1980, and has been published in over fifteen different languages. If you’re interested in purchasing a copy, they’re available at the Beast House gift shop and at Janice’s museum. You can buy the book in paperback, hardbound, or in a special limited edition with a white leather binding that simulates beast skin. Janice is usually around to sign the books, but she’s off on an extended vacation with her husband. She did autograph a bunch of copies before she left, though, so nobody will have to be disappointed in that regard.’ A grin spread across Patty’s face. ‘Though why anybody cares about autographs is beyond me.’
‘It makes them more precious,’ said an elderly woman sitting near the front. She had a soft, sing-song voice. ‘I’m Matilda.’
‘Nice to meet you, Matilda.’
‘I ha
ve an autographed copy of A Light in August by Mr William Faulkner, and it just means the whole world to me.’
‘Well, Janice Crogan ain’t no Faulkner, as the saying goes. But she is a whole lot prettier. And she did sign a pile of books before she left on her trip. If you’re interested, you’ll be able to buy autographed copies at the same price as those that aren’t. Of both books. Which brings me to Janice’s second book, Savage Times, which is also available. It was published in 1990, and . . . How many of you are familiar with that one?’
Owen raised his hand. So did Marv. Nobody else.
‘We have a couple of real fans here. Savage Times is an absolutely gorgeous book, but it’s not cheap. It’ll run you eighty-five bucks, plus tax. And as far as I’m concerned, it’s worth more. We’re talking about a very complete, detailed history of Malcasa Point and Beast House, and it even gets into the background of the beasts. Janice prepared the book in collaboration with an old-time native of the area, Captain Frank Sullivan. If you’ve read Horror, then you know about Captain Frank. The thing is, he had special knowledge of the beasts and kept an extensive scrapbook over the years. Janice and Captain Frank worked together on the book for almost ten years, collecting information, interviewing people, and gathering photographs and illustrations. Make sure and take a look at a copy of it sometime today. Even if you don’t buy one, you shouldn’t miss the opportunity to thumb through it.
‘Now, let’s talk about the movies. Everybody’s seen the movies. At last count, there were seven of them. They’re all available on video tape at the Beast House gift shop and at the museum. But of course, the “must see” film is the original. The Horror. 1982. It was done by an independent film company that called itself Malcasa Pictures. Directed by Ray Cunningham. Screenplay by Steve Saunders based on Janice’s nonfiction bestseller, The Horror at Malcasa Point. The film starred Melinda James in the role of Janice Crogan, and introduced Gunther Sligo as “The Beast.” It almost didn’t get made at all. I bet someone can tell us why.’
Owen raised his hand.
Patty smiled at him and nodded. ‘You are?’
‘Owen.’
‘Hi, Owen.’
‘Hi, Patty.’
A quiet grunting sound came from Monica.
‘The reason it almost didn’t get made?’
‘Well, for one thing, they didn’t know how to deal on film with the beast’s “apparatus.”’
Several passengers laughed. Monica groaned.
‘But that’s not what you’re looking for.’
‘It’s something I try very hard to avoid,’ Patty said.
More laughter.
‘What I think you were getting at,’ Owen continued, ‘is that a couple of things happened just before they were supposed to start principle photography. For one, the guy who was originally going to direct it . . . I don’t recall his name.’
‘Marlon Slade.’
‘Yeah, that’s him. He apparently assaulted Tricia Talbot, who was supposed to be playing Janice Crogan. I guess he tried to, you know, nail her. But she got away from him and left town that night. And then he disappeared the next night.’
‘“He” being Marlon Slade, the director.’
‘Yeah. And I guess nobody ever found out what happened to him.’
‘That’s right,’ Patty said. ‘He vanished into thin air, went kaput, disappeared without a trace and has never been seen again. There is speculation that he ran off with a teenaged girl named Margaret Blume, who was the guide for the real Beast House tours before the arrival of the movie company. Slade’s assistant told authorities that he’d gone looking for the girl’s trailer home that evening. Evidently, he was planning to offer her the Janice Crogan role vacated by Tricia Talbot. But he never returned, and the beautiful young guide also disappeared, along with her trailer. Maybe she and Slade ran off together. Maybe there was foul play. Nobody knows. Another Beast House mystery.’
Chapter Five
Sandy’s Story – August, 1980
After their shower, Sandy kissed Eric and lowered him into his crib. This time, she didn’t bother trying to lock him in; he’d already broken out to save her from Slade, destroying two of the wooden slats at the front. The gate of his crib looked to Sandy like a smile with two missing teeth.
Besides, he seemed groggy and ready for sleep.
Sandy turned off his bedroom light, eased the door shut, then walked quietly into her own bedroom. Her tan shirt and shorts were still on the floor. She picked up the shirt, studied it in the red light, and found several drops of blood.
‘Thanks a lot, Marlon,’ she muttered.
She went ahead and put it on.
Her shorts had caught some blood, too.
As she stepped into them and pulled them up, she figured that her days as a Beast House guide were probably over, anyway. She had to leave town. Someone – if only Slade’s assistant – knew that he’d intended to pay her a visit. He probably wouldn’t be missed until morning. When they did miss him, though, suspicion would quickly turn toward Sandy. She and Eric had to be long gone before that happened.
Fastening her shorts, she scowled at Slade’s body. The pudgy corpse lay sprawled on the floor, arms and legs in awkward positions that he never would’ve put them in on purpose. His shirt and trousers, ripped by Sandy’s knife, looked as if they’d been twisted crooked and pasted to his body with gore. His face looked horrible: torn, purple and slimy. His blood-sotted hair was flat against his scalp.
Got what he had coming, the crud.
It had sure felt good, stabbing him. Maybe she shouldn’t have done it so many times, though. She’d gotten a little bit carried away.
For a while there, he’d fought her. That accounted for plenty of his wounds. Sandy’d had to cut through his thrashing hands and arms to get at the vital areas. And he’d kept on struggling while she pounded the blade into his chest and neck and face. But she hadn’t quit stabbing him even after he’d stopped fighting back.
Even after she knew he was dead.
Because he’d thrown Eric. He’d flung her son across the room and hurt him. That was Slade’s worst offense. But he’d also inflicted himself on Sandy. If Eric hadn’t come to the rescue, he would’ve raped her for sure.
‘You’re lucky I ever stopped stabbing you,’ she muttered, then smiled as she realized what she’d said.
‘Lucky,’ she repeated. ‘You’re just brimming over with luck.’
But she’d made such a mess.
Too bad I didn’t strangle him, she thought, and shook her head. It would’ve been impossible to strangle the man. Without Agnes Kutch’s butcher knife, she wouldn’t have stood a chance.
He would’ve raped her, beaten her, maybe even killed her.
And God only knows what he might’ve done to poor little Eric.
The knife had been her salvation.
The bloody mess was part of the price that had to be paid for survival.
Before getting into the shower with Eric, Sandy had decided to leave the cleanup for later. First things first. Get the hell out of town, then worry about disposing of Slade’s body and trying to scrub the blood off the walls and floor.
She finished fastening her belt. Barefoot, she walked over to the body. The rug felt sodden and sticky under her feet.
Now I’ll be tracking blood through the place!
Annoyed, she crouched beside Slade’s right hip. She patted the outside of his front trouser pocket, felt a flat object and heard a slight rattle of keys.
She reached into the pocket. The wet lining clung to her hand. She wrinkled her nose, but dug deeper until she wrapped her fingers around the key case.
She pulled it out.
She wiped the black leather case against her shirt to clean it off, then dropped it into a front pocket of her shorts. Her hand felt tacky from Slade’s pocket, so she rubbed it on her shirt.
She hoped the sticky wet stuff was only blood.
Standing up, she wondered how to avoid leaving a t
rail of bloody footprints on her way out.
Earlier, she hadn’t been clear-headed enough to worry about such things. She’d carried Eric from the bedroom to the bathroom without giving a thought to the mess she was making. Those tracks would have to be cleaned up. But why double her work by making a new set all the way to the front door?
Her shirt was already ruined, anyway.
She took it off. Standing on her right foot, she used the shirt to wipe the blood off the bottom of her left foot. Then she took a giant step toward the bedroom doorway and set her clean foot down on a section of rug that didn’t seem to have much blood on it. She shifted her weight to that foot. Standing on it, she crossed her right foot over her knee and wiped it clean.
When she started down the hall, her feet felt dry against the rug. She knew she wasn’t leaving a trail, so she didn’t bother looking back. There wasn’t enough light to see much, anyway. Ahead of her, the bathroom light was still on. It filled the short hallway with a dim glow so she could see where she was going. She didn’t want more.
She entered the bathroom, filled the sink with cold water, and stuffed her shirt into it. The water turned rosy. As she swirled the shirt around, hoping to rinse off the worst of the blood, she looked at herself in the mirror and found no blood on her face or chest or belly.
She didn’t want to put the shirt back on. It would be cold and wet. Worse, it would still be stained with Slade’s blood in spite of the washing. The idea of his blood touching her skin . . . She couldn’t wear the shirt again. Wouldn’t. But she didn’t want to go for a clean one, either. She’d seen enough of Slade for a while. She’d smelled enough of him, too. And if she returned to her bedroom, her feet would get bloody again.
She let the water drain out of the sink, then held the shirt underneath the spigot and ran clean, cold water over it. She started to scrub the ruddy stains with a bar of soap.
And tried to think of something she might wear instead of the shirt. She didn’t have a great many clothes. All that she owned, she kept in her bedroom dresser and highboy.