The Midnight Tour

One of them, he figured, almost bad to be the truth. And no matter which it might be, he couldn’t see any benefit to calling out for John.

I can’t Just stand here all night!

What’ll I do?

He knew one thing he could not do: ascend the hillside.

But what if John crashed into a tree and he’s out cold up there?

I would’ve heard it happen, he told himself. The guy was right on my tail.

And I didn’t hear anything.

How could that be? he wondered.

Wondering about it gave him goosebumps.

The bastard probably just stopped on his own, turned around and sneaked away.

He’s probably waiting for me down at the car.

Goosebumps still prickling his skin, Owen pushed himself away from the tree, turned around and started rushing downhill through the darkness.

He ran with his hands out in front of him in case of a collision.

As he ran, he thought he heard someone huffing behind him.

But he looked back and nobody was there.

He thought he heard other quick, pounding feet.

Looking back, he saw no one.

Nobody’s after me!

But he looked back again.

And again.

He heard himself make whimpery noises as he panted for breath.

And thought he heard someone else whimpering in the night behind him.

Cut it out! Nobody’s after me!

I’m gonna get down to the road and find John’s lousy heap of a car and he’ll be waiting in it, laughing at me.

At last, Owen found a road

And finally, he found John’s car.

Wheezing, whimpering, hardly able to stay on his feet, he staggered down the narrow road toward the rear of the old Ford Granada. He stumbled to the passenger door. Crouching, he looked through the open window.

Where the hell ARE you?

He opened the door. The overhead bulb cast a dim, yellowish light through the car’s interior.

No John in the front seat.

No John in the back seat.

No key in the ignition.

Where is be? What’ll I do?

Feeling confused, worn out and helpless, Owen climbed into the car. He sat down on the crunched copy of Fangoria and pulled his door shut.

The overhead light went out.

He waited in darkness for John’s return.

Chapter Forty-four

SANDY’S STORY—June, 1997

She drove down Front Street, looking for the blue Ford Granada. There were only a couple of cars parked on the street near Beast House, and neither fit Dana’s description.

So maybe its owner hadn’t vanished, after all.

But a lot of funny stuff had gone on recently inside Beast House.

Worth checking out, Sandy thought.

She turned her Range Rover around and drove back into town.

A block past Beast House, she made a right turn and headed up a sidestreet. She parked at the curb. On both sides of the street, all the places of business were closed for the night.

This time, she didn’t leave her flashlight behind.

Though she carried it, she didn’t turn it on.

Staying a block east of Front Street, she made her way back toward Beast House.

She was shivering, but doubted that it had much to do with the chilly breeze or her damp hair or the fact that she’d just spent more than an hour in the steaming hot water of a spa. The shivers, she was sure, had mostly to do with Eric.

What if he’s in there?

Ever since the day he ran off, five years ago, she’d looked forward with terrible hope and dread to the time when they might meet again.

If he hadn’t fled, she would have shot him. She was pretty sure of that.

But now?

I’ll still shoot him, she told herself. For what he did to Terry. For what he did to me. To stop him from hurting anyone else.

I’ll kill him, all right.

If I find him.

At the rear of the Beast House grounds, Sandy came to the old iron fence with the spikes along the top. A lot had been changed over the years, but this section of fence remained the same.

Standing close to the bars, she scanned the area ahead.

She remembered a time when there’d been no paved patio area behind the house. No snack stand. No tables and chairs. No gift shop. No restrooms. None of this. Just the old gazebo—now on display in Janice Crogan’s museum—and a big, grassy lawn that Wick used to mow once a week. She remembered times when she would sit in the gazebo in the evenings, all alone. And times when she made love on the dewy grass late at night. With Seth. With Jason.

Eric might very well have been conceived on such a night, his father gleaming white as snow in the moonlight.

Sandy liked to think that Seth was Eric’s father. Seth was such a sweetheart. And gentle. Not like Jason. Seth probably was the father, but she couldn’t be sure.

Doesn’t matter, she told herself, suddenly feeling a pain of loss. They’re both dead, anyway. And Eric’ll be dead, too, if I find him.

Crouching, she slipped the flashlight between the iron bars of the fence. She set it on the grass, then climbed the iron bars. At the top, she imagined falling onto the spikes, feeling one or two of them drive up through her jeans and into...

Stop it!

She leaped, dropped to the grass, and rolled. Then she retrieved her flashlight. Its ribbed casing was wet with dew.

She wiped it with the tail of her outer shirt, then ran across the moonlit grass. She entered the paved patio through a gap between the gift shop and snack stand.

Warren’s snack stand,

If it was really teenagers that jumped him, she thought, why the big secret?

Because it wasn’t teenagers. It was a beast. It was Eric. And Warren was afraid somebody might find out Eric did more than just beat him up-so he concocted a lie.

That explains a lot, Sandy thought.

Explains why Warren quit being a Beast House guide and how he suddenly became the owner of the snack stand.