Heat rushed to his face. ‘Yeah. But I didn’t get to see everything. My girlfriend got sick and we had to leave.’
‘Well, glad you could make it back. I guess you already know how the tour works.’
‘Right.’
‘Hope it goes better for you today.’
‘Thanks. I’m sure it will.’
Turning toward the house, Owen put his headphones on.
Some of those who’d preceded him through the ticket line were gathered in front of the porch, eyes on the hanging body of Gus Goucher. The big guy with the Beast House cap was snapping photos of Gus.
As Owen approached, the others climbed the porch stairs and went into the house. The big guy stayed, ducking and bobbing with the big black camera at his eye.
One of the guides seemed to be watching him.
She was the small, cute blonde who’d given Dana a ride to work in her Jeep. The same one who’d briefly gone into Beast House with her. She stood at the top of the porch stairs, leaning back against a support post, one ankle resting across the other, arms folded across her chest.
She frowned slightly as she stared at the camera-happy fat guy.
She didn’t even glance at Owen.
He felt like an intruder as he walked toward them.
He wondered if he should just keep moving. After all, he’d done Station One yesterday. He didn’t really need to stop and listen to it all over again.
But if I don’t stop, she’ll think I goofed. She’ll point out my mistake.
Besides, Owen really wanted to start from scratch. This time, with no Monica moaning and smirking by his side, he might be able to concentrate on the tour and really enjoy it.
He stopped a few paces away from the foot of the stairs, lifted the player to take a look at its control buttons, and was about to press Start when the big guy waved at him and called out, ‘Hey, buddy?’
Owen raised his eyebrows and pointed to himself.
‘Yeah, you. Wanta do me a big favor?’
Up on the porch, the guide uncrossed her arms and stood up straight.
‘Could I get you to take my picture with poor old Gus here? Okay? You mind?’
‘No, that’d be fine.’
The guy hurried toward him, smiling and nodding, reaching out with the camera.
Owen took it.
‘It’s all automatic. Just push this right here.’
‘Got it.’
The big guy rushed up the porch stairs to Gus, stood close to the dangling legs, put an arm around them and smiled.
‘Ready?’ Owen asked.
‘Just a sec.’ He turned his head toward the guide. ‘Why don’t you come over and be in the picture, too?’ he asked.
‘Aaaa, you don’t want me in it.’
‘Sure, I do. Are you kidding?’
‘You don’t even know me.’
‘I’m John,’ he said. ‘John Cromwell.’
‘Nice to meet you, John.’ She turned toward Owen. ‘And you are?’
‘Owen.’
‘Hi, Owen.’
‘Hi.’
‘I’m Lynn,’ she said, more to Owen than to John.
‘Now we all know each other,’ John said. ‘Hop on over and join me in the picture.’
‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’
‘Come on.’
Walking toward him, Lynn said, ‘We’d better hurry, though. We don’t want to be in the way of these people.’
Owen glanced back and saw a family of five strolling toward them. Earlier, they’d been directly behind him in the line. They’d seemed like nice people, the kids quiet and well-behaved.
When he returned his attention to the porch, he found John standing between Lynn and the lynched dummy – arms around both.
And Lynn seemed to have an arm around John.
Boy! How’d John manage that?
‘Better take it,’ Lynn said.
He snapped the photo.
John said, ‘Take a second one, just in . . .’ and squeezed Lynn in against his side.
She yelped and laughed as Owen took the second shot. Then she escaped and swatted John on his butt.
‘Spank me again,’ he told her. ‘Please.’
Laughing, she shook her head. ‘That’s more than enough, Johnny boy.’
Owen climbed the porch stairs, ready to return John’s camera.
‘Thanks for the help,’ John told him.
‘No problem.’
Lynn glanced at Owen’s chest. ‘Ah, ha! I see you’ve bought a ticket for the Midnight Tour!’
He blushed and smiled. ‘Yeah. I can’t wait.’
‘Doing it tomorrow night?’ she asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Me, too,’ she said. ‘I’ll be your guide.’
‘Really? Great!’
She turned to John. ‘You coming on it, too?’
The big guy’s mouth fell open. He blinked a few times. Then he said, ‘You’re the guide?’
‘I’m always the guide. It’s my tour. I originated it.’
‘Wow,’ John said. He looked awestruck.
‘So, are you gonna be there?’
‘Uh . . . Gosh . . . I guess I’d sure like to. But it’s like a hundred bucks, isn’t it?’
‘It is a hundred bucks.’
He grimaced. ‘That’s a lot of money.’
‘Worth every nickel.’
‘Bet it is,’ he mumbled, shaking his head. ‘But I don’t know.’
‘Well, I hope you decide to join us. I think there’re still a few openings.’
‘I just got number nine,’ Owen said.
‘That only leaves four,’ Lynn said. Reaching out, she patted John’s arm. ‘Better make up your mind soon, pal.’
‘I might just do it,’ he said.
‘I’ve gotta go.’ Lynn started down the porch stairs. ‘So long, Owen. So long, John. Hope I see you both tomorrow night.’
‘Bye,’ Owen called after her.
‘See ya,’ John called.
In front of the porch, Lynn made her way around the cluster of tourists at Station One and headed off to the side.
‘What a bitchin’ babe,’ John said.
‘Yeah,’ said Owen, and gave him the camera.
‘Wouldn’t kick her outa bed. Know what I mean?’
‘I know.’
‘Man, I gotta go on that Midnight Tour.’
‘It should be pretty cool.’
‘I need me a hundred bucks.’
Uh-oh.
‘They take credit cards,’ Owen explained, starting to feel embarrassed and guilty.
‘Who’s got credit cards?’
Everybody I know, Owen thought.
This guy hasn’t got credit cards?
‘I maxed ’em all out,’ John explained.
Brilliant, Owen thought.
John reached under the loose tail of his shirt and hauled out his wallet. He opened it. Owen caught a glimpse inside the bill compartment and looked away quickly.
He wanted nothing to do with any of this.
He wanted to be away from John and inside the house, alone, listening to the tape.
‘Got only twenty-three bucks,’ John announced. ‘Shit.’
It’s not my fault.
Owen wanted to say, ‘Well, I’d better get on with the tour,’ but he knew how awful that would sound. Why not just say, ‘I don’t give a rat’s ass about your money troubles, fella. I don’t even know you. Just leave me alone so I can enjoy the tour.’
‘Did you bring your check book?’ Owen asked.
‘Nah, it’s at home.’
‘Where’s home?’
‘Mattoon.’
‘Where?’
‘Mattoon. Illinois.’
‘My God, you’re a long way from home.’
‘You telling me?’
‘And you left your check book all the way back in Illinois?’
‘Sure. Closed the bank account before I took off.’
‘Ah. So how did you ge
t here?’
‘Drove.’
‘So you have a car?’
‘Well, it’s my brother’s. I borrowed it off him.’
‘And now all you’ve got to your name is twenty-three dollars?’
‘That’s about the size of it.’
Owen shook his head and laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You’re a couple of thousand miles from home and down to your last twenty bucks, but you managed to buy yourself a brand new Beast House hat and you blew fifteen bucks on today’s tour.’
John grinned. His teeth were crooked and needed to be brushed. Owen looked away from them. ‘That ain’t all,’ John said. ‘I blew fifteen bucks on the tour yesterday, too.’
‘Good God. You must be nuts.’
‘Nuts about Beast House,’ he said as if proud of himself. ‘Thing is, I always aimed to get here with enough money left over for the Midnight Tour and the whole shebang, but I ran into some car trouble along the way and had to buy me a whole new radiator. Car’s a piece of crap.’
‘Well, I wish I could help you out. But . . .’ He shrugged.
‘Forget it,’ John said. ‘I ain’t no freeloader. But you wanta do me a real big favor?’
Owen struggled not to groan. Trying to smile pleasantly, he asked, ‘What sort of favor?’
‘Take my camera with you on the Midnight Tour? Get me some pictures of the good stuff? And a couple pictures of Lynn, too. That way, at least I’ll be able to see what I missed. How about it?’
‘Well . . .’
John thrust the camera at him.
Owen held it away. ‘No, no, wait. Just keep your camera, okay?’
‘You won’t . . .?’ John looked ready to cry.
‘The tour isn’t till tomorrow night. I don’t want to be . . . responsible for your camera. Look. Look. Tell you what. Are you hungry?’
‘Starving.’
‘Me, too. Why don’t we go on over to the snack stand and have something to eat.’
John shook his head. ‘Gotta save my money.’
‘My treat. Come on. We can do the house tour later.’
‘Well. Okay. Sure. Why not?’
Side by side, they trotted down the porch stairs.
How the hell did I get into this? Owen wondered.
Payback for dumping Monica?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sandy’s Story – July, 1992
Reaching the beach ahead of Blaze, Sandy looked around. Nobody seemed to be out on the water. She studied the rocky bluffs on both sides of the beach and saw no one. Good thing. Because this was such a secluded patch of shoreline, Blaze probably intended her to pose in the nude.
She lowered the easel and cooler onto the sand, then sat on the cooler to wait for him. She could see him a distance up the trail, making his way carefully down its switchbacks, the wind fluttering his white shirt and trousers.
‘Be careful!’ she called.
‘I’m quite all right,’ he called down to her.
A few minutes later, huffing and red, he walked out onto the sand. ‘Invigorating,’ he said.
‘Well, don’t invigorate yourself into a heart attack.’
He flung back his head and filled his lungs. Then he said, ‘Ahhhhh. Is this not delightful?’
She had to smile. ‘It’s pretty nice, all right.’
Blaze looked all around. ‘I see we have our privacy.’
‘Nobody else is nuts enough to come all the way down here.’
‘Let’s hope it remains that way. The sooner we start, the better.’
‘I’m ready when you are.’
He laughed, then got to work setting up his equipment. Sandy remained seated on the cooler, but swiveled around to watch him. She knew better than to offer any help. Blaze, very particular about the positioning of his easel and canvas, wanted no interference.
He set up on the firm, damp sand just beyond the reach of the waves, his canvas at about a forty-five-degree angle to the shoreline.
‘Where am I gonna be, in the ocean?’
He grinned at her. ‘Precisely! It promises to be brilliant! You’ll be trudging out of the sea, wet and bedraggled, half drowned – as if perhaps your ship went down a mile or two offshore. I’ll call it, Sole Survivor.’ He clapped his hands and blurted, ‘Ha! I’ll call it Soul Survivor, s-o-u-l. Or is that a bit too precious?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Well, I’ll think of something. We should get started.’
Sandy stood up. Fingering the front of her gown, she said, ‘You want this off?’
‘I think not. You don’t mind getting it wet?’
‘Whatever you want.’
‘I’m afraid if we’re sans attire, we may lose the narrative. People will think you’re returning from a frolic. We’d have all the drama of a skinny-dipping episode. No, no, we must have the gown! It will tell everyone that you’ve survived a mishap. You had no intention of taking a plunge. Perhaps your ship went down. Or you fell off a yacht, or leaped overboard to escape a madman. No one will quite know for sure why you were in the water. Do you see?’
‘I see.’
‘We attain elusiveness. Elusiveness, my dear, is what separates the artist from the mindless painter. We hint at mysterious vistas and depths.’
‘So you want me to keep this on.’
‘Precisely.’
‘And wade into the water.’
‘I need you to be drenched.’
‘Including the hair?’
‘Certainly!’
‘My hair won’t look too great if its all wet and stringy.’
‘Be that as it may . . . You’ve been swimming for hours, struggling to reach land, so of course your hair has to be . . . No! No, no, no! Your hair shall be dry! Dry and windblown and fabulous, just as it is now. And the people will gaze in amazement and ask themselves why? Why is her hair dry? It will mystify everyone!’
‘It’ll give you some more of that elusiveness,’ Sandy pointed out, grinning.
‘Precisely! Look at her! She has barely escaped extinction in the briny deep, yet her hair is totally dry! Why? Why is the carcass of a leopard to be found near the summit of Kilimanjaro?’
‘Huh?’
‘Hemingway.’
‘Muriel?’
‘Bite your tongue.’
‘Maybe we should keep the gown dry, too.’
‘Don’t be silly. Now, go on into the water. Drench yourself, but be careful of the hair.’
She slipped out of her sandals and walked over the warm, damp sand to the edge of the ocean. A wave was coming in. She waited for it, watched it curl and tumble and flatten out, sliding its frothy edge up the sand. The cold water washed over the tops of her feet, making her flinch.
As the wave receded, she hurried forward, splashing through the water until it reached her thighs. A wave washed against her, wetting her to the waist. After it had passed, she crouched down enough to let the next wave wash against her chest. Then she stood up straight and cupped water onto her shoulders.
Looking down, she saw that her shoulders and the tops of her breasts gleamed in the sunlight. The gown clung to her, blue and transparent. It revealed every detail of her body. But it didn’t feel so great. No longer light and airy, it felt like a layer of someone else’s wet skin.
She turned toward Blaze. He was gazing at her from behind his easel. ‘How’s this?’ she called.
‘Supurb! You look glorious! But be a dear and take a few steps forward. We don’t want to have the water hiding those extraordinary legs.’
‘Want me to stand on the beach?’
‘No, no.’
As Sandy walked slowly closer to the shore, Blaze scurried over to her. He stepped into the water. Taking her gently by the shoulders, he moved backward. ‘This way,’ he said. ‘A little more. Yes. Here. Right leg forward. Yes. Exactly. Lean into it. Now we turn you toward me.’ He adusted her position. ‘Yes. Now, hunch over. You’re bone weary, barely able to stand on your feet
.’ He stepped back and studied her. ‘Put your right hand on your knee. Yes, that’s it. No. You’re hunched over too much. We can’t have your left arm dangling so much. It’s in the way of your boobie. Stand a trifle straighter. More. Yes. Excellent.’
He hurried away. Once again standing behind his easel, he squinted at her. ‘Now, look toward me, darling. Stare intently over my left shoulder as if perhaps you see something far down the beach. Yes. Exactly.’ He squinted at her for a while, then frowned. ‘No.’
‘What?’
‘It’s simply not the way I . . . You need to look more . . . done in.’
‘Want me to sprawl on the sand?’
‘Not that done in. We need to maintain the illusion of movement.’ He frowned at her for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Don’t move,’ and scampered back to her. ‘I’m afraid we may have to ruin your lovely dress.’
‘Whatever works.’
He pulled out a Swiss Army knife, pried open one of its blades, and slit the left shoulder strap of Sandy’s gown. The soaked fabric still adhered to her breast, so he peeled it down. ‘Much better,’ he said. ‘Now, you look distressed.’
‘I feel a lot better,’ she said, glad to have the clammy fabric off her breast. ‘Maybe we should take it all off.’
‘No no no. I already explained.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘This will be brilliant.’ He started trotting back to his position behind the easel.
‘Blaze?’
‘Yes?’ He glanced back.
‘How about this?’ Not waiting for a reply, she reached down and tore a slit up the front of her dress, baring her right leg all the way to her hip.
Blaze beamed at her. ‘Perfect! You’re a genius!’
‘That’s how come you give me twenty per cent.’
‘No no no. I give you twenty per cent because you gave me no choice.’
‘Feel free to dump me any time.’
‘Don’t tempt me.’
She knew he couldn’t be tempted. The amount of money Blaze was making with his paintings of Sandy, he would probably be willing to part with fifty per cent if she gave him no other choice.
He seemed ready to begin, so she gazed intently into the distance beyond his left shoulder.
Not that there was much distance to gaze into.
About twenty feet behind Blaze was the side of a rocky outcropping. Sandy pretended it wasn’t there, and gazed through it as if trying to identify something a few hundred yards away. An approaching stranger, maybe.