leaned across the seat.
On the steering column where the ignition should be, he saw only a round hole.
Strange, all right.
He climbed out, silently shut the door, and stepped to the front. His fingers searched beneath the lip of the hood. He found the latch and released it. He raised the hood, hinges squawking.
No battery.
No radiator, no fan belt, no carburetor, no air cleaner. The engine had been cannibalized.
“Jesus,” he muttered, and lowered the hood.
He ran across the driveway to a dilapidated Grand Prix. Raised its hood. Gazed into the darkness where the engine should have been, and found no engine at all. The car was an empty shell.
What kind of a motel was this, leaving useless cars in front of its rooms like—decoys?
With a sudden chill of dread, Lander wondered if the entire place was deserted: lights left on in rooms, hulks of cars rolled into place like props in a play…
A play. Its stage constructed by the smiling man in the office—by the strange person lurking behind his door.
“Cordelia!” Lander shouted. “Cordelia! Ben!” He waited, listening for a reply. He heard wind in the trees, crickets and distant frogs, the sounds of birds singing in the night as if nothing were wrong, the laughter of a television audience.
At the end of the courtyard, a door swung open. Ruth stepped out. “Lander? What’s wrong?”
He ran to her.
“For heaven’s…”
He pushed her inside and shut the door.
“What is it, what’s wrong?” Her frightened eyes begged him for a quick answer. “The kids?”
“I didn’t see them. I don’t know where they are, but something’s wrong here. All those cars, they’re fakes.”
“I don’t…” She shook her head.
“I don’t know what’s going on, but… Remember Norman Bates?”
“Who?”
“Anthony Perkins.
“Lander, stop it!”
“I don’t think this is a real motel, at all. I think it’s some kind of a trap.”
“No!”
Lander leaned against the door and rubbed his face. Always a pacifist, he’d detested firearms. Now he wished to God he had one.
“What’ll we do?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Cordelia’s out there!”
“Look, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s all… innocent, and the kids are out in the woods, or something, having the time of their lives. I don’t know.”
In a quiet voice tight with control, Ruth said, “We’d damn well better find out.”
“How?”
“We’ll march ourselves right over to the office…”
“Oh, that’s a great idea.”
“What do you suggest?”
He looked at the telephone, and immediately gave up the idea. No way to call out for help, not without going through the motel switchboard. “We could go for help,” he muttered. “There must be police, a sheriff…”
Ruth reached for the doorknob.
He grabbed her wrist.
“I’m going out there and finding my daughter,” she said. “Now let go of me.”
“Wait! We’ve got to think.”
“My ass! While you’re thinking, God-knows-what could be happening to Cordie.” She jerked her hand free, and gripped the knob. She tugged the door open.
Lander dropped backward, slamming it shut. “Damn it, Ruth!”
“Let me out!”
The telephone rang, its harsh clamor sending a shock of alarm through Lander. Ruth’s head snapped sideways. They both stood motionless, staring at the black instrument as it blared again.
Lander suddenly rushed to it. As it rang a third time, he picked it up. “Hello?”
“Mr. Dills, this is Roy in the office.”
“Yes?”
“Your daughter’s here with me. She would like a word with you.”
Lander waited, his eyes on Ruth.
“What is it?” she mouthed, the words barely coming out.
Lander shrugged.
“Daddy?” His daughter’s voice was shrill with panic.
“Honey, what’s wrong?”
“Oh Dad! They… Ben! I think he’s dead!”
“Where are you?”
“No. Don’t come. They’ll kill you.”
“Are you in the office?”
“Don’t let them get you!”
He motioned to Ruth. “Here, your mother wants to talk to you.”
She hurried across the room. He handed her the phone. “Hello, Cordie?”
“Keep her talking,” Lander whispered.
Ruth nodded.
He ran to the door, jerked it open, and rushed out. Something—a wire?—snagged his foot. As he pitched headlong, he glimpsed a grinning old woman sitting cross-legged on the hood of his car, cradling a hammer. He slammed into the dirt by the wheel.
With a squeal of delight, the woman pounced.
CHAPTER FIVE
The pickup truck lurched over a rough, dirt road. After the flare-up about Timmy, the men had kept a cold silence.
Neala wished they would talk, even fight. Their quarrel over the horny creep of a kid had pulled her mind away from thoughts of her own situation. Now, the distraction was gone. Her fear returned, black and paralyzing with images of rape and slaughter.
She began to cry. She didn’t want to, didn’t want the men to see her weakness, didn’t want Sherri to draw more fear from her own desolation. She couldn’t help it, though. She felt alone and helpless. Like the time she was lost in the woods.
She’d been only six, then, but she still remembered how it felt. Her family had been camping near Spider Lake in Wisconsin. Dad told scary stories by the campfire, while they all drank hot chocolate. The hot chocolate did it: she woke in the middle of the night with a horrible strain on her bladder. She shook Betty awake, but her older sister refused to budge from the sleeping bag.
Neala had to go so badly she didn’t bother to dress. Wearing only her underpants, she crept out of the pup- tent. The chilly breeze made her shake. She crossed the campsite barefoot, the ground moist and cold under her
