The Midnight Tour

Revolver heavy in her right hand, she swung open the driver’s door and jumped to the ground.

Do it fast while he’s still under the blanket, she told herself. Before he knows what’s happening.

Before he looks at me.

If he looks at me, I won’t be able...

She sidestepped, keeping her back to the pickup truck.

Then she thumbed back the hammer and whirled around, raising the weapon, taking quick aim over the side panel and down at the beach blanket.

It was rumpled and bloody.

It no longer covered Eric.

He was gone.

Chapter Thirty-nine

FLYING FISTS

“A fabulous dinner,” John said. “I thank you from the bottom of my stomach.”

“You’re welcome,” Owen muttered. He added a twenty percent tip to the credit card slip, wrote down the total, and signed his name.

“Ready to go?”

“I believe so.”

They scooted over the soft leather cushions of the booth and made their way through the dimly lit restaurant. Along the way, they were thanked by their waitress and by the host. Owen returned a “You’re welcome” that was far more enthusiastic than the one he had bestowed on John Cromwell.

Outside, the sunlight looked dusty and golden. The shadows of the trees were long.

They walked through the parking lot toward their room.

“Okay,” Owen said. “You got your dinner at the Carriage House. Now what’s your big plan for a night I’ll supposedly remember the rest of my life?”

“How would you like to pay a little visit to your honey?”

“Dana?”

“Who else? I know where she lives.”

“Sure you do.”

“Oh, I do.”

Owen took out his room key and unlocked the door. As he stepped inside, he turned his eyes to the telephone.

No blinking red light.

No messages.

He was disappointed, but not surprised. He and John hadn’t left the room until 6:30. Dana almost certainly would’ve called by then if she’d had any intention of seeing him tonight.

Her “date” was obviously with someone else.

Assuming she had a date at all.

John might’ve made up the whole business.

Dropping onto the end of his bed, Owen asked, “Even if you do know where she lives, she’s out with some guy tonight. Remember?”

“Dates don’t last forever,” John leaned backward, his rump sinking into the front edge of the dresser in front of Owen. He folded his arms. He raised his eyebrows. “When she gets back, my boy, we can be waiting for her.”

“Oh, that sounds like a really fine idea. Then what, we jump her?”

“Wanta?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

John chuckled. “How would you like to fuck her?”

“Shut up.”

“Just pulling your chain.”

“Well, stop it.”

“Wouldn’t you like to see her, though?”

“Not with you around.”

“I have to be around. I know where she lives. And I’m the guy with the good camera. How would you like some more photos of her?”

Owen stared at him.

“You were drooling all over those pictures of her and Lynn.”

“Was not.”

“Were, too. And you think she looks hot in those, just imagine how she must look when she goes on a date. Bet she doesn’t wear that uniform. She probably puts on a nice dress, you know? Maybe a low-cut little number that shows off her cleavage. Know what I mean? Maybe a nice, tiny little skirt that’s hardly big enough to hide her snatch.”

“You’re a pig.”

“You love it.”

“I do not.”

“Bet you’ve got a big ol’ stiffy right now just from thinking about her.”

“Do not.”

“Prove it. Let’s see?”

“Go to hell.”

“Stand up, man.”

“If I do stand up,” Owen said, “I’m gonna punch your face in for you.”

“Oooo, I’m trembling.”

Owen got to his feet.

John pointed at the front of his trousers. “See? What’d I tell you?”

“What’d I tell you?” Owen asked, and slammed him in the side of the face. John made a quick, hurt sound. The blow knocked his head sideways. Spit flew out of his mouth. The glasses leaped off his face, clattered against the wall and fell to the dresser top.

Uncrossing his arms, he put up one hand to fend off Owen.

With his other hand, he tried to push himself off the dresser.

Owen planted a punch deep in his big, soft belly.

John squealed. He started to fold over, but Owen blocked his way, shoved him up, pounded him in the chest and stomach with a left and a right and a left. Each time he was hit, he made a quick whimper.

Owen backed off.

John slumped forward and fell to the floor. Wheezing and sobbing, he pushed himself up. He hobbled to the queen-sized bed and eased himself down on it. Kneeling, he pulled the pillow out from under the bedspread. Then he flopped on his belly and buried his face in the pillow.

“I warned you,” Owen said. He felt sick.

John just kept crying.

“You shouldn’t have said that stuff.”

Voice muffled by the pillow, John said, “You...didn’t have to...hurt me.”

Owen had never done anything like that before...not pounded someone.

He’d thought it would feel great to punch the crap out of a fat, obnoxious slob like John.

Maybe if the guy had fought back.

This is how you must feel if you stomp on a parakeet, he thought. Or kick a cat across a room.

He had a tightness inside his throat and chest. A heaviness inside his stomach. He felt as if he might throw up or begin to cry.

“Are you okay?” he asked. His voice sounded high-pitched.