The Midnight Tour

found his way out from under the curtain and flung it down.

He seemed to be bleeding all over. Pieces of glass jutted out of, his skin.

Spreading his arms, he roared at Terry.

And charged him.

“No!” Sandy shouted. “Don’t!”

Terry hurled himself at Eric.

“No!” Sandy shouted. “Stop it!” She lunged toward them, hoping to throw herself between them.

But it was happening so fast.

Everything was so fast except Sandy.

She felt as if she were running underwater or through a nightmare where she was only allowed to move in slow motion as she raced the distance of no more than six feet toward the gap between the man she loved and the son she loved. She reached out with both arms. She cried “No!” as she raced, but could hardly hear it through Eric’s roar of fury.

An image flashed through her mind of three kids racing toward each other hoping to catch the same high-hit baseball, all of them yelling, “It’s mine! It’s mine!”

Terry glanced at her and yelled, “Get back!” His arm darted out to hold her off.

Eric took a swipe, ripping off half his face.

Screaming, Sandy launched herself at Eric.

He clubbed her aside with a forearm. She staggered backward, flapping her arms.

Still on her feet, she saw Terry trying to run away.

Going to get his gun?

Eric bounded after him.

Then the front of the coffee table knocked Sandy’s feet out from under her. She flew backward. Her rump smacked the top of the table. Teetering, she slid on what felt like magazines. Then she tumbled off the other side and dropped into the gap between the table and couch, her head shoving at the couch, her legs kicking toward the ceiling, the edge of the table scraping a hot path down her back.

She stopped when the floor caught her behind the shoulders. Her head was jammed forward, her back curled, her rump off the floor, the side of the table propping up her legs, her feet in the air.

As she wheezed for breath, she heard Eric snarling and grunting.

“Eric!” she yelled. “Leave him alone.!”

She bucked and thrashed. The coffee table scooted. The couch scooted. In a frenzy, she twisted and kicked and squirmed, turning herself until at last she fell lengthwise into the gap, landing on her side with a floor-level view under the table to the middle of the room where Eric was hunkered down, his bloody snout buried in Terry’s groin.

A roar seemed to fill Sandy’s head.

She didn’t know where it came from, but obviously not from Eric: his mouth was full.

The roar went on as she stumbled to her feet and rushed out from behind the table and ran at him.

Sandy knew what she was doing.

But it seemed very much like someone else running toward the beast and the dead man.

Can’t be me. This can’t be happening.

Someone else throwing herself onto Eric, wrestling him away from Terry’s carcass.

Someone else under him, pinned to the floor, staring up at his bloody snout and fierce blue eyes.

Then someone else getting squeezed and sucked and gnawed on.

Then someone else sprawled under his powerful body, whimpering and trying to fight him off, her skin being cut by the glass shards embedded in his flesh as he squirmed and gunted and plunged.

Not me.

This can’t be happening.

Please.

Chapter Thirty-seven

SECRETS

Laughter exploded out of Dana when Warren said to plant the lipstick with her lips. But her laughing stopped as he came up close to her and put his arms around her and kissed her on the mouth.

He kissed her as if he’d been wanting to do it for a long time.

But he didn’t explore her with his hands, didn’t squeeze her tightly against his body. Dana leaned forward until her breasts touched his chest.

Then Warren stopped kissing her. He stared into her eyes.

She watched the way his eyes flicked back and forth.

“Where were we?” he whispered.

“Kissing.”

A smile spread over his face. “Yeah,” he said.

“You wanted to try on my lipstick.”

“I don’t think you’re wearing any.”

“I’m not.”

“I just wanted to kiss you.”

“That’s nice,” Dana said.

“It was nice.”

So let’s do it again, she thought.

Let’s not push him.

“It was very nice,” she said.

“We’ll have to try it again sometime.”

No time like the present.

“Anyway,” he said, “your secret is now safe with me.”

“What secret?”

“That you blurted out ‘Tuck.’”

“Oh. That’s right.”

“Never happened.”

“And if it happens again,” she said, “we’ll know how to handle it.”

“That’s right.”

“Tuck,” she said.

Warren put his arms around Dana and kissed her again. This time, his hands moved gently up and down her back. She could feel his body against her.

When the kiss ended, she whispered “Tuck” against his lips.

He kissed her harder, deeper. He pressed himself against her. His hands rubbed up and down her back.

But they wouldn’t come around to her front. They wouldn’t stray lower than the waist of her shorts. They wouldn’t slip under the back of her T-shirt.

So Dana put her hands under the hanging tail of Warren’s shirt and lightly caressed his buttocks and eased her hands higher until they found the smooth, bare skin of his back.

His mouth broke away from her.

“Tuck,” she whispered.

He stared into her eyes. His mouth was wet and shiny around the lips.

“Tuck,” Dana said again.

His head shook.

“Tuck?” she asked.

“Uhh...Maybe we oughta slow down.”