The Midnight Tour (10 page)

After checking the final room, Tuck and Dana returned to the corridor and headed for the stairs.

“Whoever did this,” Tuck said, “it looks like he only bothered Ethel. Could’ve been a lot worse.”

They started down the stairs.

“Do you think somebody on the staff might’ve done it?” Dana asked. “As a prank, or something?”

“Pretty heavy for a prank, ruining the gown like that. That sort of thing would get you fired. And maybe prosecuted. I’d probably bring charges against him for destruction of the property.”

“Him?”

“Had to be a guy, don’t you think?”

Dana shook her head. “Not necessarily. Might’ve been a gal wanting it to
look
like the work of a guy. There’re all kinds of possibilities.”

“I suppose,” Tuck said.

As they walked from the foot of the stairs to the front door, she added, “I still think it was probably a guy. No sign of a break-in, so I’d guess that he took the tour yesterday and liked the looks of Ethel.” She opened the door. Dana followed her onto the porch. “He made sure to get his cassette player back to us, then he hid somewhere in the house until we’d locked up and gone home. After that, he had all the time in the world to fool around with her.”

Though they walked into sunlight as they descended the porch stairs, Dana didn’t notice its brightness or feel its heat. Her mind was inside the Beast House parlor, gazing through the darkness at a figure hunched over the body of Ethel Hughes. In the dim moonlight from the window, she watched him rip at the mannequin’s gown with both hands. He panted for air. He moaned as his hands latched on to her bare breasts. Then he was kissing them, licking them, then kissing his way down her body until his mouth found the crevice between her legs.

Tuck must’ve been thinking about him, too. “If he got off,” she said, “at least he didn’t leave a mess on the floor.”

Dana felt heat rush to her face. “Considerate of him.”

“Maybe he used a condom.”

“He couldn’t have actually
penetrated
her.”

“Nah. Not very far, anyway.” Stopping, Tuck turned around and stared back at the house.

“What?” Dana asked.

“I wonder if I should go back in and check her mouth.”

“Good idea. I’ll wait here.”

Shaking her head, Tuck glanced at her wristwatch. “No time. We’re already a couple of minutes late for the meeting. Come on.”

She led the way across the lawn, then up a walkway alongside the house. When they stepped past the rear corner, Dana saw three people waiting in front of the snack shop. Clyde and two young women—Rhonda and Sharon. They all wore the tan uniform with the red and white Beast House logo on the back of the shirt. Clyde wore long pants; the other two wore shorts. Clyde, standing, had a white stryofoam cup in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The girls were seated at one of the small white tables. Rhonda, a husky brunette, drank from a cup while Sharon worked on a cigarette. Sharon, slim and deeply tanned, had a long tail of braided blond hair hanging down her back.

At the approach of Tuck and Dana, heads turned. Dana saw friendly smiles and nods from the girls, but Clyde looked somewhat annoyed.

“Hey, y’all,” Tuck said. “Sorry we’re late. How’s everybody this morning?”

No complaints.

“You remember my friend, Dana Lake?”

More nods and smiles and soft-spoken greetings came from Rhonda and Sharon.

“She’ll be the upstairs monitor today. Whose got downstairs?”

Squinting through pale smoke, Sharon said, “That’ll be me.”

“Good.” Tuck smiled at Dana. “Shaion’s our oldest hand.”

“Been here six years,” Sharon said to Dana. She looked as if she might be in her mid-twenties. Her voice was low and husky. With that voice, the sharp angles of her face and her excess of makeup, she seemed to Dana more like a barmaid than a tour guide. Not that Dana’d seen many barmaids, except in the movies. “You have any questions,” Sharon said, “just ask. I know damn near everything. What I don’t know, I improvise.”

Dana smiled and nodded.

“Okay,” Tuck said. “Who’s out front?”

“I’m tickets,” Clyde said.

“I’m tape players,” said Rhonda. She had rosy cheeks and big, friendly eyes.

“Sharon, you were tape players yesterday?”

“Right,” Sharon said, raising two fingers and the cigarette between them.

“The count turned out okay?”

“Oh, yeah. You damn betcha. What’s up? We have a hider last night?”

“Looks that way. Somebody ripped Ethel’s nightgown. I fixed her up so she’s decent enough for the public, and Dana and I did a quick search of the house. We didn’t spot any other problems. No obvious signs of forced entry. It probably
was
a hider.”

“The count came out right on the button,” Sharon told her.

“Okay. Well, keep an eye out when you’re inside today. Just because we couldn’t find him doesn’t mean he’s gone.”

“You bet,” Sharon said.

“Everybody look sharp today,” Tuck said, her eyes roaming the others. “The guy is probably some sort of pervert.”

“He fuck Ethel?” Sharon asked.

Clyde snorted out a laugh. Rhonda blushed.

“I don’t think so,” Tuck said.

“Nobody’d do
that,”
the Rhonda said, looking disturbed.

Sharon, grinning, shook her head. “Well, don’t let me burst your bubble.”

“I want everyone to be alert and careful,” Tuck said. “Watch for anyone who seems to be lurking about or acting strange.”

“That’d be about half our customers,” Sharon said, then tipped a wink at Dana and took a puff on her cigarette. “Poor Clyde, too. That boy’s a lurker if I ever seen one.”

Clyde smirked at her, lit up another cigarette and said, “You’re just upset because I stopped lurking in your pants.”

“All right, folks, it’s time we take our positions and open up. Any questions? No questions? Okay, let’s do it.”

Chapter Seven

SANDY’S STORY—August 1980

Sandy started Marlon Slade’s MG, pushed the dutch pedal down with her foot, and shoved the shift around for a while until she found what was probably first gear. Then she let the dutch up. The car jolted forward and died.

“No problem,” she muttered.

In her whole life, she’d never tried to drive any vehicle except for Agnes Kutch’s old pickup truck. And she’d only driven it a few times, off on back roads, because she was too young for a driver’s license.

She’d done just fine with the steering side of things. It was the shifting that had always given her trouble. She’d killed the engine again and again, mostly when trying to start out.

“
Yer poppin the clutch
, ”
Agnes bad explained from the passenger seat. “Ease off her gentle and easy, and step on the gas as ya let her up
.”

Following Agnes’s advice now, Sandy twisted the ignition key, gave the engine some gas with her right foot, and raised her left foot very slowly to let the clutch pedal rise beneath it. The car started rolling forward.

‟All right!”

She steered onto the road. Staying in first gear, she picked up speed. The engine revved, loud in her ears.

Gotta shift to second. Hope I don’t kill the thing
.

As she fingered the knob of the shift, she saw a pale, hazy glow of headbeams in the rearview mirror.

With a quick jerk of the wheel, she swerved off the pavement. The MG crunched over weeds and rocks, bouncing, jolting her. She floored the brake pedal. The car lurched to a stop. Its engine quit.

She glanced back and saw the car come around the bend. As its headlights swung toward her, she dropped sideways.

She lay across the passenger seat, gasping for breath, her heart slamming.

Had she been quick enough or had they already spotted her? What if the MG was so low that they would be able to see her lying across the seats as they drove by?

If they see me down like this, they’ll stop for sure.

The car rushed closer with a sound like a strong wind bearing down.

Sandy fumbled with the dish towel and pressed it snugly against her breasts.

Light skimmed over the car. She saw it on the dashboard, saw it fill the rearview mirror. It reflected off the mirror and shined down as if trying to point her out.

Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop. Just keep going, whoever you are. This is none of your business
.

She wondered if she would need the knife.

Before starting the car, she had bent over and tossed it underneath her seat.

Now, her legs were still in front of the knife. Her hip was on the seat above it. But her shoulder was planted in the passenger seat. She couldn’t possibly reach the knife. Not without sitting up first.

The approaching car slowed down.

No
,
don’t...

As its headlights moved on, the car itself crept up alongside the MG.

Sandy suddenly wondered if it had a trailer hitch.

Don’t even think about it.

Just go away, whoever you are.

With a quiet whine of brakes, the car stopped.

“She’s sure a peach,” a guy said.

He’s seen me!

No, maybe he means the MG.

He had sounded as if he might be standing over the driver’s door, peering in.

“What’s it doing out here?” asked a different voice. The voice of someone farther away. Probably the driver.

A woman.

Sandy felt a sudden, vast relief.

“I reckon it broke down,” said the guy.

“Yeah. Or the dumb shit run outa gas.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it ain’t,” the woman said.

“Sure is a peach.”

“Get on out and see what’s in it, Bill. He might have some good stuff, a fancy-ass car like that.”

Don’t do it, Bill! Stay in your car!

“What if the guy’s just off in the trees takin’ a whizz or something?” he asked.

“Ya gonna do it, or ya gonna sit here all night?”

“Wanta get me caught red-handed?”

“Yer as yella as peed-on snow.”

“Am not,” Bill said.

“Yella, yella, yella!”

“Shut up.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck
you!
”

“Don’t you talk to me that way, ya yella bastard!”

Sandy heard skin hit skin. The woman blurted, “
Ow!
” Bill must’ve slapped her. “Yella cocksucker!” she squealed.

Then came a flurry of blows and the woman yelping and cursing Bill and pleading for him to stop while he pounded her and grunted with the effort and gasped, ‟Ya like that? How’s this? Ya like this? Fucking bitch. Ya like
this?
”

“Stop it!” She was crying like a kid being spanked. “Yer hurtin’ me!”

“Yella, huh?”

“No! Please! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it!”

The blows kept falling.

The woman, sobbing wildly, grunted and cried out each time she was hit. “I’m
sorry!
” she gasped. “Ya ain’t yella!”

“I’m fuckin’ tired of yer mouth, bitch!

“No!
OW!”

“Ya like that? How ‘bout
this?”

Smack!

Shoving her elbow into the passenger seat, Sandy pushed herself. up until she could see over the top of her driver’s door. The other car was stopped on the road beside the MG, only four or five feet away,

Still too low for a view inside, Sandy grabbed the steering wheel with her left hand and pulled herself higher.

Bill seemed to be kneeling on the front seat, hunched over as he thrashed the woman behind the steering wheel. Sandy couldn’t see her at all. But she could hear her crying and begging, could hear her clothes being tom, her skin being punched and slapped by Bill.

What’s gonna happen when they stop?

One of them’ll get out and find me, that’s what.

She wished another car would show up. If it came from behind, Bill’s car would be blocking the lane. Maybe he would quit beating the woman and make her drive away.

This was a back road, though. It didn’t get used much, especially at night. Another car might come along seconds from now—or maybe not for hours.

I’ve gotta get out of here.

Sandy pulled herself up the rest of the way. Though she hunkered low behind the steering wheel, she knew that her shoulders and head were in plain sight. If Bill stopped beating on the woman and either of them looked...

Reaching down, Sandy fingered the floor underneath the seat and found the knife.

Just let him try any crap with me.

She set the knife down across her lap, then twisted the ignition key. The engine spluttered, roared to life.

Bill twisted and ducked his head to see out the passenger window. “Hey!” he yelled.

Sandy stepped on the gas and let the clutch up. The MG jumped forward and died.

No!

In silence, it continued to roll forward.

Sandy tried to start the engine again. It sputtered, whinnied, didn’t catch.

Looking back, she saw Bill’s door fly open.

Her stomach knotted.

The engine caught.

Yes!

Easy does it! Easy does it!

She let up on the clutch and the tiny car surged forward, shoving her against the seatback. The leather was cool against her bare skin.

“Wait!” Bill shouted.

She looked back and saw him running toward her.

Gaining on her.

A big, heavy man with hair that was pale and curly in the moonlight. He wore a gray sweatshirt. The sleeves were cut off at the shoulders.

“Leave me alone!” Sandy yelled, swerving onto the pavement.

“Wait up! Where ya going? I ain’t gonna hurt you!”

The engine seemed to shout in protest against going so fast in first gear.

Sandy glanced over her shoulder again.

And gasped.

Bill was almost on her.

She shoved in the clutch, jerked the stick backward hoping for second gear, and let the clutch up. The gears made a nasty grinding noise, so she shoved the pedal down again.

Though she hadn’t killed the engine, she wasn’t in gear.