“Under your chin.”
“God.” She rubbed.
“That’s got it. Shit, he bled like a stuck pig.”
“Pig is right,” Tyler said. She made sure her hands were clean, then took a fresh yellow blouse from her suitcase and put it on.
“How am I?” Nora asked, turning round.
Tyler brushed some dirt and bits of weed from the back of Nora’s T-shirt. “Okay,” she said.
She shut the suitcase and hatchback. They hurried to the front and climbed in. A van sped by. Then the lane was clear. She pulled out and glanced at the pickup as they passed it. The cab was low in the ditch, blocked from view by the tailgate. She was glad she couldn’t see the man inside.
“Asshole’s gonna need a tow truck,” Nora said. “Not to mention a new set of nuts.” She waved at the Mustang as they drew alongside it.
Abe nodded. He was at the wheel. He pulled out behind them.
“Not bad, huh?” Nora asked. “An escort.”
Tyler picked up speed. The blue Mustang kept pace, staying several car lengths back.
Nora rubbed her shoulder.
“Hurt?”
“Not like the knee in the guts, the bastard.”
“You got him pretty good.”
“We both did. Scares me, though. If Jack and Abe hadn’t come along, he would’ve had our asses on a plate.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“That Jack’s a hunk, isn’t he?”
“He must lift weights,” Tyler said.
“You suppose they’re gay?”
“They’re nice guys, regardless.”
“Yeah. Well, there’s nice and there’s
“I don’t think they’re gay. I mean, I sort of wondered at first…”
“Yeah. But that Abe sure looked you over.”
Tyler felt heat rise to her skin.
“Still, two guys travelling together.”
“
“Right!” She snorted. “They’re probably wondering right now if we’re a pair of dykes. Ha ha.” She rubbed her belly. “How about that Abe? I wouldn’t kick him out of bed, either. Did you hear how he talked to that bastard? ‘Now here’s the plan. First you apologize…’ Sounded like Dirty Harry, didn’t he? More to that guy than meets the eye, I tell you that much right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s a way you don’t get in ballet school. Hard eyes. They
“Nora.”
“You’re right. I don’t think they’re fags. God, I hope not.”
“I don’t see what difference it makes,” Tyler said. “It’s not like we’ll be dating the guys. We’re just gonna buy them drinks, right? We’ll probably never see them again.”
“You never know, hon. You just never know.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Wonderful! Fabulous! Swing over, Brian, get some shots. Too good to be true, wouldn’t you say?
“Nice,” Brian said.
“Nice? It looks positively dripping with evil.”
The Mercedes moved slowly past the small, roadside shack that appeared to be a ticket booth. On its wall, a sign weathered to the dirty gray of the driftwood read beast house in crimson block letters that dripped as if recently painted with blood. Looking over his shoulder, Gorman Hardy saw a girl inside the booth’s open window, a blonde of fourteen or fifteen. She held an open paperback on the counter shelf.
Gorman, who had celebrated his fifty-sixth birthday by hurling an empty bottle of Chivas Regal into his mirror to destroy the fat, gray-haired man looking back at him, still had eyes sharp enough to spot his own book covers at a hundred paces. The book in the girl’s hands was
Several cars were parked along the walkway fronting the grounds. Brian eased into a space between a Datsun and a grimy station wagon with a tail end like a family album of stickers. Glancing over the array of red hearts, Gorman gathered that the clan had loved Hearst Castle, the Sequoia National Park, Muir Woods and the Winchester Mystery House. It had left its heart in San Francisco, and it wanted the world to know that one nuclear bomb could ruin the entire day. That one, he thought, should sport a bleeding heart. A Beast House bumper sticker, if such were available, might very well add a dripping valentine to the collection.
“You getting out?” Brian asked.
“I’ll wait here. Try to keep a low profile.”
“Just a tourist with a Nikon,” he said, and climbed out.
As the door thumped shut, Gorman opened the glove compartment. He took out his Panasonic microcassette recorder. Holding it near his lap, out of sight in case someone might be watching, he said, “Preliminary observations on Beast House, August 1979.” He turned and stared out the open car window as he spoke.
“The house, set back about fifty yards from the main street of Malcasa Point, is surrounded by a seven-foot fence of wrought-iron bars, each bar tipped with a lethal point to keep intruders out, or perhaps to keep the beast inside.” He smiled. “Good one. Use that.” In ominous tones, he repeated, “Perhaps to keep the beast inside.
“The only access appears to be through an opening behind the ticket booth, where a lithe teenaged girl is engaged, even now, in reading my previous book,
“In contrast to the lush green of the wooded hills that rise up beyond the fence, the grounds of Beast House appear singularly flat and dreary. No trees or flowers bloom inside the fence, and even the grass is mottled with brown patches as if the earth itself has been poisoned by the evil contagion of the house.”
Now we’re cooking, he thought. Lay it on, lay it on!
“Though the day is cloudless and bright, a sense of insufferable gloom chills my heart as I gaze at the bleak building.” He nodded. Not bad. Rather Poe-ish. The Victorian structure seems a monument to things long dead. Its windows, like malevolent eyes, leer out at the quiet afternoon as if seeking a victim.” Nonsense, of course. The windows were simply windows. From the rather rundown appearance of the house, Gorman was surprised that none was broken. The owners, obviously, were taking some care of the place. The lawn could use more water, and the weathered wooden siding could use a good coat of paint. Such improvements, however, would take away from the aura of deterioration they probably wished to cultivate.
“Especially unnerving,” he continued, “are the small, attic windows that look out from three gables along the steeply slanting roof, draped in shadow from eaves like brooding eyelids. Peering up at them, wondering what might lurk inside, I feel a chill creep up my spine. If I don’t look away soon, I know that a dim, ghastly face will appear at one of the windows.” Such eloquence, he thought—such nonsense. But he suddenly found himself staring at the farthest attic window. A chill had indeed crept up his spine. The skin at the back of his neck felt tight and tingly.
He lowered his eyes to the gray metal recorder. He listened to its quiet, reassuring hum for a few moments, then looked again toward the house, taking care to avoid the high window.
“At the far end of the roof,” he said, “is a tower. It has a cone-shaped top. A widow’s peak…no, a witch’s cap, that’s what it’s called. There are windows under…” He switched off the recorder.
Twisting around, he eased his head out the car window and looked back. Brian wasn’t in sight. He pulled in
