The tall man leaned forward, reached into the open drawer of the cash register, and started taking out money. He scooped up bills, tossed them into his satchel, and reached for more.
Meg, dazed, stared at the back of his coat.
The hole there was the size of a half-dollar. Blood was spilling out of it.
But he kept stuffing the bag with money.
“Yer coming with us, honey.”
The words seemed to come from a great distance. Meg thought, Is he talking to me? Must be. Nobody else in the store.
“Hey, you!”
She turned her head. The stocky man was looking into her eyes.
“You got a problem with that?”
She shook her head.
The tall one closed his satchel and lifted it off the counter. He turned toward Meg. He had a leaking hole in the middle of his chest.
Why isn’t he dead? she wondered.
“We’re taking this one with us,” said the stocky man.
“Fine by me, chief. She’s a knockout.”
Grabbing the front of her tank top, the stocky man yanked Meg forward.
And out of the store.
Toward a waiting black van.
“Would you like another drink?” Graham asked, seeing that she had nothing left in her glass but ice and a red swizzle stick.
She shook her head. Her hair swayed, shimmering golden in the soft lights of the cocktail lounge. “Not here,” she said. “But if you’d like to come up to my room…?”
“You’re staying here at the hotel?”
Instead of answering, she opened her clutch purse and took out a room key.
“Well, now,” Graham said.
“This is your lucky night.”
“I’ll say.”
He could hardly believe his luck. He’d been striking out so many times since JoLynn left him and he moved to Tucson. Even when he did score, it was with women who were as desperate as he was: they were older, or plain, or fat, and all had personalities that were either bland or grating on the nerves. On a scale of one to ten, they ranged from about three to five.
This gal, Patricia, was at least an eight.
Lovely, golden hair. Warm blue eyes. A sprinkle of freckles across her nose. A quick, sly wit that tended toward the sarcastic but stayed short of mean. And a slim, lithe body that her dress did little to conceal.
More like a negligé than a dress. Low cut and glossy white, with spaghetti straps and a slit that showed her left leg all the way to her hip. The smooth way it flowed down her body, Graham knew she wore nothing underneath.
She had only two minor flaws, or she would’ve been a ten for sure.
A face that was slightly too long. Not long enough to make her seem horsey, just enough so she couldn’t be considered gorgeous.
And she was pregnant. Not grossly pregnant, but enough so her belly pushed out the front of her gown.
Graham was keenly aware of what was pushing out the front of his slacks as he climbed off the barstool. He buttoned his sport coat, hoping to cover it.
Patricia took hold of his hand.
“Burrr,” Graham said, smiling.
She smiled. “Cold hands, warm heart.”
As they walked through the cocktail lounge, he thought about how her chilly hand would feel on his hot flesh.
They walked through the hotel lobby and entered one of the elevators. It was empty. Patricia pressed a button for the second floor. She looked at him and licked her lips. “I’m going to devour you,” she said.
He said, “Jesus.”
The elevator doors slid open. She led him through the corridor, and unlocked the door of 218. Graham entered first. No lights were on. When she shut the door, the room was dark except for a pale glow coming in through the glass doors on the far side.
She moved into his arms. He felt the firm mounds of her breasts and belly pressing against him. He kissed the side of her long, cool neck. He caressed her bare back. He ran a hand down to the slitted side of her gown, stroked the skin of her thigh and hip, inserted his hand beneath the fabric and found the silken smoothness of her rump.
She eased away from him, and for a moment he wondered if something was wrong. But only for a moment. Then she was undressing him: taking his coat off, opening his shirt and casting it aside, tugging at his belt, unbuttoning his waistband, skidding his zipper down, crouching as she drew his slacks and underwear down to his ankles.
He squirmed at the touch of her lips, her tongue.
“Delicious,” she whispered.
Then she stood up.
“Go in the bathroom,” she said.
“Sure. What for?”
“I like to do it in the shower.” She nodded toward the darkness of an open doorway. “I’ll be along in a minute. I’ll make us drinks and bring them in.”
Incredible, he thought.
He took off his shoes and socks, kicked his feet free of the pants, and went into the bathroom.
He turned on the light. The brightness made him squint for a moment. Then, he saw himself in the mirror.
One nervous-looking guy.
Ain’t nerves, buddy.
Jesus!
Shaking his head, he grinned at himself. His mouth was parched, so he stepped to the sink and turned on the faucet. He used a hand to cup cold water to his mouth.
He straightened up and turned off the water. He wiped his wet hand on his belly. He looked at himself again in the mirror, and again shook his head.
This can’t be happening.
But it sure is.
Trembling, he stepped to the tub. He ran the water until it felt good and hot, then turned a handle and watched the spray shoot out of the shower nozzle. It felt cold for a moment, then hot. He climbed into the tub. He slid the frosted door shut, and waited beneath the beating spray.
She likes to do it in the shower.
Oh man oh man.
First, we’ll wash each other.
He could feel it, feel her soapy hands sliding all over him, feel her breasts slick under his latered touch.
Graham moaned as he saw her vague form through the shower door. He couldn’t see much, just the pink tint of her skin.
The door slid open.
He saw the hammer in her upraised hand.
Saw the face behind her shoulder, bulgy eyes gazing at him, thick lips grinning.
The hammer crashed against his forehead. He fell. The back of his head slammed the bottom of the tub.
A shadow of consciousness clung to him.
“Turn off the water,” he heard through the ringing in his ears. Patricia’s voice.
The spray stopped.
The two seemed rimmed with electric blue light as they climbed into the tub. They were naked.
“Shut the drain, honey,” Patricia said. “We don’t want to lose his blood.”
She crawled over him.
They both crawled over him.
He felt their teeth.
“Okay,” Vicki said. “We’re here.” She rested her paddle across the gunnels. Paul did the same. The canoe glided silently over the moon-sprinkled surface of the river.
Paul looked over his shoulder at her. “We’re where?” he asked.
“The special place.”
“We’re in the middle of the river.”
“So we are.”
She crawled toward him, the canoe rocking gently as she moved. Paul turned around.
On her knees, she spread the blanket. She lay down on it, feet toward Paul. Lifting her head, she watched him come to her.
“What’s the idea?” he asked.
“Gee, I don’t know.”
Vicki turned onto her side. Paul stretched out next to her.
“Hope we don’t get run over by a powerboat,” he whispered.
They moved closer together until their bodies touched.
“I’ve always wanted to do this,” Vicki said.
“The Huckleberry Finn in you.”
“Finn never had it so goo
d.”
She hooked an arm over Paul’s back, slid her other arm beneath his head, drew herself more firmly against him. She could feel his heartbeat and the soft warm touch of his breath on her face. The river gently lifted the canoe, turned it, lowered it, rocked it.
Something thumped the hull.
Vicki flinched.
“Just a piece of driftwood, or something,” Paul said.
Rigid against him, she listened.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
“What was it?” she whispered.
“I’ll check.” He stirred, but Vicki clenched him hard against her body. “I can’t check if you’re going to hang onto me like that.”
“Stay down.”
“Vicki.”
“Please.”
“Okay. God, you’re shaking.”
“Just hold me. Hold me tight.”
“I’ll do better than that.” He rolled, climbed onto her, covered her with his body.
“No! Get down here!”
“Oh,” he muttered. “Aw, Vicki.”
She fought to hold onto him, but he pushed himself up and leaned out over the river. She heard a swish of water. Then he brought up a club of tree branch. He held it above her for a moment. Chilly water streamed off it, splashing her face and running down her cheeks. Then Paul flung the branch away. It plopped into the river.
Straddling her, he took off his shirt. He gently dried her face with it. “Just driftwood,” he said in a low voice. “It wasn’t Charlie Gaines coming up to get you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I’ve been looking forward so much…I thought it’d be so neat.”
He rolled his shirt and tucked it beneath Vicki’s head. “You just lie there, I’ll take us back to shore. The bed may not be as romantic, but it’ll be a lot more comfortable.”
Reaching up, she caressed his chest. “I don’t want to go.”
“Maybe next year.”
“Next year, I’ll still wonder if he’s down there. And the year after that. He’s never going to be found.” She slipped her hands around Paul’s sides and drew him down onto her. “If Charlie’s after me, let him come.”
“Maybe we’d better go home.”
“I don’t think so.” Vicki pressed her open hands against Paul’s ears and shouted into the night, “HEY, CHARLIE! CHARLIE GAINES! IT’S ME, VICKI! NOW OR NEVER, OLD FRIEND! COME AND GET ME, OR FOREVER HOLD YOUR PEACE!”
For a long time afterward, they lay motionless in the bottom of the canoe—listening.
Rave Reviews for Richard Laymon!
“I’ve always been a Laymon fan. He manages to raise serious gooseflesh.”
—Bentley Little
“Laymon is incapable of writing a disappointing book.”
—New York Review of Science Fiction
“Laymon always takes it to the max. No one writes like him and you’re going to have a good time with anything he writes.”
—Dean Koontz
“If you’ve missed Laymon, you’ve missed a treat.”
—Stephen King
“A brilliant writer.”
—Sunday Express
“I’ve read every book of Laymon’s I could get my hands on. I’m absolutely a longtime fan.”
—Jack Ketchum, author of Peaceable Kingdom
More Praise for Richard Laymon!
“One of horror’s rarest talents.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Laymon is, was, and always will be king of the hill.”
—Horror World
“Laymon is an American writer of the highest caliber.”
—Time Out
“Laymon is unique. A phenomenon. A genius of the grisly and the grotesque.”
—Joe Citro, The Blood Review
“Laymon doesn’t pull any punches. Everything he writes keeps you on the edge of your seat.”
—Painted Rock Reviews
“One of the best, and most reliable, writers working today.”
—Cemetery Dance
Other Leisure Books by Richard Laymon:
ENDLESS NIGHT
BODY RIDES
BLOOD GAMES
TO WAKE THE DEAD
NO SANCTUARY
DARKNESS, TELL US
NIGHT IN THE LONESOME OCTOBER
ISLAND
THE MUSEUM OF HORRORS (Anthology)
IN THE DARK
THE TRAVELING VAMPIRE SHOW
AMONG THE MISSING
ONE RAINY NIGHT
BITE
Copyright
A LEISURE BOOK®
March 2005
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 1989 by Richard Laymon
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
E-ISBN: 978-1-4285-0872-9
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Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Epigraph
Senior Year
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Homecoming
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
One Year Later
Chapter Thirty-Four
Praise
Other Books By
Copyright
Richard Laymon, Resurrection Dreams
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