The Beast House

“Geez, this is exciting.”

“Something must’ve gone wrong.”

“Stop worrying. Abe’s all right.”

“I’ll stop worrying when I see him.”

“You must really have it for that guy.”

“I do,” she said.

Hurtling around the curve at the bottom of the hill, she saw the Mustang’s dark shape glide to the curb. It stopped in front of the ticket shack. She glanced at the grounds behind the fence, but saw no one.

Where’s Abe? her mind screamed.

Jack leapt from the car. He left his door open, dashed around the front, and flung the passenger door wide.

Tyler steered in behind the Mustang. She hit the brakes. Her Omni skidded to a halt inches from the rear bumper. She jumped out, and took two quick steps before she saw, over the hood of her car, Abe come staggering from behind the ticket booth with a body slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

Without room to step between the cars, Tyler crawled across the hood. She swung her legs down and rushed to Abe’s side.

The girl he carried, wrapped in a blanket, was a blonde with hair hanging down over her face. Crouching, Abe lowered her feet to the sidewalk. Though she seemed conscious, her legs buckled. Jack grabbed her beneath the armpits, and the two men helped her into the Mustang’s passenger seat. Jack shut the door as Abe turned to Tyler.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He nodded.

“What happened? Who’s she?”

He shook his head. “I’ll go back in your car,” he said. “Quick, let’s get going.”

The sudden harsh knocking on Gorman’s door sent a jolt through him, reminding him of last night when Marty and Claire had startled him from sleep. His calm returned when he realized it must be Jack and Abe. He checked his wristwatch. Eleven ten. They’d been gone for an hour and forty minutes, so they must’ve spent at least an hour inside Beast House shooting pictures.

“I’m coming,” he called. He closed Captain Frank’s scrapbook, and slid it into a drawer of the lamp table. Before going to the door, he switched on his cassette recorder and pocketed it.

The man waiting under the porch light was neither Jack nor Abe.

“Captain Frank!” Gorman said, and forced a smile. “I’m glad you’re here. You must have come about your book.”

The old man looked angry.

“Come in, come in. I’m sorry I didn’t manage to get it back to you this afternoon, but the copy machine at that shop was out of order. They told me they’d have it repaired before tomorrow morning, so…”

“Where is it?”

“Safe and sound,” Gorman said.

With a wary look in his eyes, Captain Frank followed him around the foot of the bed and watched as he removed the volume from the drawer. “I’ll take it now, Mr. Wilcox,” he said.

“If you wish.”

“The fellow at the front desk, he says your name’s Hardy.”

“It’s true that’s the name I registered under.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Hardy. Wilcox, you see, is my pen name, my nom de plume. I use it for my byline when I write for People.”

“Is that so?” He sounded skeptical. “I think you aimed to steal my scrapbook off me.”

“Nonsense. I had every intention of returning it to you.”

“Aye. Maybe yes and maybe no.” Captain Frank pulled a scuffed leather wallet from a rear pocket of his Bermuda shorts, took out the pair of fifties, and held them toward Gorman.

Gorman stood motionless, the scrapbook in both hands. “I take it, then, that you don’t wish me to write the article.”

“Now I didn’t say that, did I?”

“I can’t write your story if you refuse to let me use this.”

He shook the volume. “It’s a treasure, and I realize it must be priceless to you. I most certainly had no intention of purloining it. I would have returned it to you, this afternoon, if I’d had any inkling you might suspect me of such treachery. Is it my fault that the copy machine malfunctioned?”

“I don’t ‘spect so,” Captain Frank admitted. He looked almost contrite. “All the same, I want you to take your money back and let me have the book. I just don’t feel right, letting it out of my hands. I tell you what, I’ll take it home with me and you come along tomorrow, if you’re still of a mind to write this up. I’ll drift on over with you, and we’ll get us a copy made.”

Gorman made himself smile. “That sounds perfectly reasonable,” he said. He handed the book to Captain Frank, took the money and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “I do apologize,” he said, “for inconveniencing you in this way. If I’d had any idea…”

“No, no. That’s just fine.”

“Would you care to join me for a drink? I’m afraid I haven’t any beer on hand, but does a martini sound agreeable?”

The old man’s eyes gleamed. “Why thanks.”

“Have a seat,” Gorman told him.

As Captain Frank lowered himself onto one of the twin beds, Gorman turned to the dressing table. He uncapped a fresh bottle of gin, and watched its clear liquid splash into the beaker from his travel bar. His hand trembled.

The bus is an arsenal, he thought. I could get myself shot, sneaking in there. With enough martini in his system, however, the old bastard ought to sleep like the dead.

Gorman added a dash of vermouth. He slowly stirred the mixture.

Like the dead.

He knows my name. He’ll make trouble if I rob him of his precious scrapbook. Assuming, of course, he doesn’t wake up and shoot me.

A pillow over his face while he’s sleeping in a drunken stupor…

It seemed too risky.

Gorman wanted the scrapbook. Photocopies, however, would serve almost as well.

If he goes into the store with me, he might find out I lied about the machine breaking down. He might rebel, at that point, and refuse to cooperate.

He’s an old man. The authorities in this podunk town might simply assume he died of natural causes. A pillow over the face in the wee hours…

Or he might commit suicide.

Gorman saw himself in the dark bus, taking the revolver from under the driver’s seat, pressing it against the sleeping man’s temple and firing.

No, no, no. Neighbors might hear the gunshot.

It was worth considering, though. If he could get away unobserved…

He filled two of the motel tumblers nearly to their brims, and turned to Captain Frank. “Here you go,” he said.

“Thank you, matey.”

Gorman sat on the edge of the other bed. He sipped his martini. The old man took a hefty swallow, and sighed. “Ah, that does hit the spot.”

“Drink up. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

“Did I tell you of the time I took the tour?”