The Midnight Tour (23 page)

The shelves were nearly full. Only a dozen or so players were still out.

She glanced at her wristwatch.

4:35

In less than half an hour, ticket sales would stop for the day.

But the house would remain open until 6:00, giving everyone time to complete the tour.

This could get boring.

She hopped up onto the stool.

Well, I’d rather be bored than have Clyde out here bothering me.

She supposed he was right about one thing, though: how could she spend the summer as a Beast House guide if the place made her feel ill?

I’ll just have to get over it, she told herself.

Won’t get over it by standing out here in the fresh air and sunlight. Why not go back in for the rest of the afternoon?

It seemed like a good idea.

She reached down for the walkie-talkie on her belt. But instead of pulling it free, she rested her hand on its warm plastic top.

I oughta stick this out. Tuck’s already had to change stuff around because of me. Let’s not cause any more trouble.

After this, she thought, I’ll bring a book to read.

The time passed slowly.

At five o’clock, Clyde closed the ticket booth. He came around the rear corner. “So, have you changed your mind about dinner?”

“Sorry,” Dana said.

“Your loss. I’ll be taking off, now. One of the perks of working the ticket booth, you get to leave an hour early. Have fun.”

Nodding, she said, “Bye.”

Clyde winked, stepped past her, then gracefully vaulted the tumstile and headed toward town. Not looking back, he waved.

Immediately, Dana felt a pleasant sense of lightness, of freedom.

Amazing, she thought, how one person can mess up your outlook.

He’s gone, now. Enjoy it.

And enjoy it she did. It was one of those great afternoons when the sun is hot but a cool, moist breeze is blowing in from the Pacific. Seagulls squealed. She thought she could smell the ocean and the beach and the candy smell of suntan oil.

She pictured herself strolling barefoot along the beach, Warren by her side.

But if he’s gay...

Doesn’t mean we can’t stroll on the beach together, she told herself.

Sure wouldn’t be the same, though.

It made her feel cheated.

It gave her a tight, unpleasant feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Instead of being eager for six o’clock to arrive, she started to dread it. Because she might have to face Warren, and she would
definitely
be facing Tuck.

Tuck would know the truth about him.

And Dana wasn’t so sure she wanted to find out.

I don’t have to ask.

As closing time approached, however, she began to have new worries.

The shelves where she stored the tape players were nearly full. But not quite.

They had three empty spaces.

By six o’clock, the three players had still not been returned.

Chapter Sixteen

SANDY’S STORY—August, 1980

“I’ll go and get a shovel,” Harry said. “Why don’t you ladies wait for me here?”

“Aren’t you afraid we’ll leave?” Sandy asked.

“Leave if you want You’re not my prisoners. But if you stay, I’ll help you bury the guy. And you can spend the night at my place. I think you two could use a little rest.”

“Dat’s for damn sure,” Lib said.

“While I’m gone, maybe you should strip him. We’ll take his clothes and stuff back to the cabin with us and bum everything.”

“Done this sort of thing before?” Sandy asked.

“Just common sense. His body might get found someday. Better if it can’t be identified.”

“Yeah, that’s probably we,” Sandy said.

“Want the flashlight?” Harry asked.

“Don’t you need it?”

“I can get by without it.” He handed the flashlight to Sandy, then said, “I’ll be back in about ten minutes.”

“Okay, see you.”

“Bring us someting to drink, huh?”

“I’ll see what I can find.”

After he disappeared into the woods, Sandy could still hear his footsteps for a while. The crackling, crunching sounds finally faded out.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“About what?” Lib asked.

“Him. Harry.”

“Yum yum.”

tom serious.”

“Me, too.”

“He’s seen Slade. And us.”

“Guess he aims to help us.”

“Do you really think so?” Sandy asked.

“He’s goin’ por a shovel.”

“Maybe he’s going to call the coups.”

“Nah,” Lib said. “Ip he was gonna do dat, he would ob made us go wit him.”

Sandy supposed she was right about that. The guy certainly hadn’t acted as if he wanted to have them arrested. He’d actually seemed shocked by their story, and sympathetic. But maybe he’d been too sympathetic, too eager to take their side.

Maybe he had something up his sleeve.

“I tink he’s gonna help us bury da bastard.”

“Why would he want to do that?” Sandy asked.

“He’s a guy. We’re a couple ob babes. What da you tink? Probably wants to get in our pants.”

“If he tries anything with me,” Sandy said, “I’ll kill him.”

“Well, don’t kill him till apter da hole’s dug.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Shine dat light down here,” Lib said, and crouched over Slade’s body.

Sandy lowered the pale beam.

“Dat’s good. You just hold it dare, and I’ll strip him.”

First, Lib removed Slade’s wallet. Hardly giving it a glance, she tossed it to Sandy.

Sandy caught the wallet.

“Myting good in dat, we’ll split it pipty-pipty, okay?”

“Sounds fair,” Sandy said. She stuffed the wallet into the back pocket of her shorts.

Lib searched the rest of Slade’s pockets, but didn’t take anything out. Then she removed his boots, his socks, and all the rest of his clothes. She stuffed his socks, underwear and ascot into his boots. After laying out his trousers on the ground, she spread his bloody, torn silk shirt along the legs and rolled them up together.

“Dare,” she said.

“Don’t forget his wristwatch and rings.”

Lib took them. “Dese oughta be wort a pew bucks,” she said.

“We’d better just get rid of them.”

Standing up, Lib asked, “Gib ’em a toss?”

“Not here. Later.”

“Okie-doke.” Lib dropped them into the pocket of her Blazing Babes shirt. They made the silk bulge and sag over her left breast.

Sandy swept the flashlight down Slade’s body for a final check.

“How da hell many times you stab dis guy?” Lib asked.

“A few.”

“Damn sight more dan a pew. Whoo! Hope you don’t nebber get mad at
me!
”

“Just be good to Eric and you won’t have to worry about it.” Sandy shut off the light.

“Hey, dat boy, he’s aces wit me.”

Soon, Harry returned. Though he walked in darkness, he carried a lantern. It made quiet squeaking, clinking sounds as it swung by his left side. A shovel and pick ax, resting on his right shoulder, clanked together with each step he took.

“Hello, ladies,” he said.

He crouched and set down the lantern. Using both hands, he lifted the tools off his shoulder and lowered them to the ground. “Brought you some refreshmmts.” he said. The front pockets of his trousers were bulging. He reached in and pulled out two cans. “A beer for you, ma’am,” he said, stepping forward and handing a can to Lib. And a Pepsi for you, Charly.” He gave a cold can to Sandy.

“Thanks,” Sandy said.

Lib popped open her tab and took a long drink. Then she sighed. Then she said, “You’re a lipe-saber, Harry. Nuttin’ beats a cold brew, and dat’s a pact.”

“Glad to be of service,” he said. Then he turned away, squatted over his lantern and worked on it until it came alive, hissing like a bag of snakes and filling the clearing with brilliant light.

“Jeez, that’s bright,” Sandy said.

“It’s supposed to be,” Harry said.

“What if somebody sees it?”

“Not much chance of that.” Rising, he picked up the lantern by its wire handle and turned toward the body. His back stiffened. He muttered, “Holy shit.”

Sandy couldn’t blame him; Slade looked
awful.
She supposed he’d been no prize to begin with: soft and pudgy, his figure shaped like a bulb. In the glaring light, however, his dead skin was bluish-gray, his blood purple, his wounds raw, pulpy lips that looked wet and slippery.

“You must’ve really hated him,” Harry said.

“Yeah,” Sandy said. She sipped her soda, then added, “He wasn’t easy to kill, either.”

“Well, let’s get him under ground.”

Harry picked up the shovel. Carrying the lantern low by his side, he wandered the clearing with his head down. Every so often, he paused and jabbed the shovel against the ground. Then he stopped near a far edge of the clearing, set down the lantern, and stomped the shovel in with his foot. “Somebody want to bring me the pick?”

Sandy hefted the pick off the ground. With Lib by her side, she carried it over to Harry.

“Don’t need it quite yet,” he said.

Sandy let the pick fall to the ground.

Sipping their drinks, she and Lib watched Harry cut a shallow rectangle with the edge of his shovel. Then, slab by slab, he removed small sections of the surface soil along with the weeds and grass growing out of it. He set the slabs aside. When he was done, he had a three-by-six bed of bare earth. He started digging, piling the loose dirt at the opposite end from where he’d laid out the sod.

“Is there something we can do to help?” Sandy asked.

“Not at the moment,” he said. “Thanks, though.”

A while later, he climbed out of the shallow hole. He took off his shirt, dropped it to the ground, and grabbed the pick ax.

In the hole again, he swung the pick furiously, ripping into the earth. Sandy watched his muscles bulge and slide under his tanned skin. Soon, in spite of the night’s chill, his back was shiny with sweat.

Switching to the shovel, he scooped out heaps of loose dirt and rocks.

When he paused to rest, the grave was knee deep. He was gasping for air. His hair was wet, matted down and clinging to his head. His dripping skin gleamed in the glare of the lantern.

“Hand me my shirt?” he asked.

Before Sandy could make a move for it, Lib snatched it off the ground. Instead of taking the shirt to him, she stepped backward. “Whatcha want it por?”

“Just hand it over, okay?”

“Not ip you’re gonna put it on.”

He smiled and shook his head. “I just want to wipe off my sweat.”

“Reckon I’ll let you hab it, den.” With that, she stepped forward and gave it to him.

“Thanks.”

Lib and Sandy both watched closely as he mopped the perspiration off his face, his broad shoulders, his chest, his belly.

“Dat’s hot work, ain’t it?” Lib said.

“I’ll say.”

“Betcha’d feel better ip you took opp dem pants.”

He let out a short, breathless laugh. “Well, thanks for the suggestion. Think I’ll keep them on, though.”

“Chicken.”

“Cut it out, Lib,” Sandy said.

“Don’t he look
hot?
”

“I’m sure he is hot.”

“I’m fine,” Harry insisted.

“You’re
mighty
pine,” Lib told him.

“Well, thanks. You can hold this for me,” he added, and tossed his shirt to her. Then he hefted the pick and began swinging it again.

The next time he stopped to rest, Lib tossed the shirt to him without being asked. As he wiped his dripping body, Sandy said, “Isn’t that about deep enough?”

“Not even up to my waist, yet.”

“Pretty near,” Lib said.

“How deep are you planning to make it?” Sandy asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Deeper than this.”

“Maybe
we
should dig for a while,” she suggested.

“It’ll go quicker if I do it.”

“
Bullshit?
” Lib blurted. “I’m stronger dan
ten
men!”

With that, she stepped to the edge of the grave. Stopping there, she waved a hand furiously at Harry. “Outa my way! Make room por da best dang gnbe-digger ebber walked da planet!”

Gazing up at her, Harry shook his head. “Why don’t you just wait up there, and I’ll...”

She jerked open her Blazing Babes shirt and pulled it off.

Twisting sideways, she flung the shirt to Sandy. Bare to the waist, she threw her arms high and leaped into the grave.

Harry scurried backward to get out of her way.

She landed on her feet, stumbled, bumped against the steep dirt wall of the grave, pushed herself away from it and stood up straight. Turning around, she gave Sandy a thumbs-up. Then she faced Harry.

“Howdy!” she blurted.

He shook his head. He glanced up at Sandy and shook his head some more. Then he said, “Howdy, Bambi. Maybe you should climb out, now. We can’t really get
any
digging done with both of us in here.”

“You get out and
I’ll
dig,” she said.

“It’d be better if
you
got out.”

“Come on, Mom,” Sandy said.

“Tink I can’t dig? I’m
strong!”
Stepping up close to Harry, she raised her right arm and brought her fist toward her face like a bodybuilder posing. “See dat bicept?”

“Very nice,” Harry said.

“Peel it.”

“What?”

“
Peel
my muscle.”

“She wants you to
feel
it,” Sandy translated.

He made no move to feel it. “I’m sure it’s a fine muscle,” he said.

“You damn betcha. Gib it a peel.”

“Thanks, but...”

“Den how ‘bout peelin’ my tits?”

He glanced up at Sandy as if looking for another translation.

“She wants you to feel her tits.”

He grimaced. “I know, I know. I figured that out.” To Lib, he said, “You really shouldn’t be doing this in front of Charly. I mean, come on. This is embarrassing. Why don’t you just climb on out of here and let me finish digging...”

She threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around his back and squeezing herself against him.