The Midnight Tour

They sounded like footsteps.

He felt his scrotum shrivel.

Maybe it’s John, he told himself.

Staring into the trees beside the road, he saw nothing except motionless shadows and bits of moonlight.

The noises stopped.

He opened his mouth, but couldn’t force himself to call out.

If it’s John, why doesn’t be come out? Why’s he doing this to me?

What if it ISN’T john?

Owen glanced at his wristwatch.

11:43

“Well,” he muttered. “Guess it’s about time to get going.”

He jumped down from the hood and walked slowly away from the front of John’s car.

Slowly for a few strides, then faster.

Then faster.

The moment he rounded the curve in the road, he broke into a run. Shoes smacking the pavement, arms pumping, he sprinted for all his worth. He ran on and on.

At last, worn out, he slowed to a walk. Aching, panting, drenched in sweat, he turned around.

Nobody was chasing him.

Got away just in the nick of time.

With frequent glances over his shoulder, Owen walked the rest of the way back to the Welcome Inn.

Nobody gave chase.

No cars passed him, not even while he walked along Front Street.

He saw nobody at all.

When he finally spotted the neon “No Vacancy” sign of the Welcome Inn, he felt saved.

I’m all right now.

Though the courtyard was crowded with parked cars, nobody was roaming about. The room windows were dark. He heard no voices, no laughter.

Am I the only one up at this hour?

Trying to be quiet, he let himself into his room. It felt hot and stuffy. He turned on a light and looked around. There were John’s broken glasses on top of the nightstand. And there was the telephone directory where he’d found Lynn’s address.

No John.

What did you think, he’d beat you back? He’s still up there, having the time of his life.

Or else dead.

He’ll be back, Owen told himself. Any minute now, he’ll come pounding on the door, wanting in. And then he’ll brag about all the great stuff I missed.

In the bathroom, Owen shut and locked the door. Then he took off his clothes. They were filthy and sodden with sweat. He piled them in a corner of the floor, bent over the tub and turned the water on. It thundered out of the spigot.

He hoped the noise of the plumbing wouldn’t disturb anyone.

But he had to take a shower.

He made it quick.

As he stood beneath the hot spray, he thought he heard voices, people knocking on the door of his room, even the ringing of his telephone.

But nobody was there when he got out.

The red light on the phone wasn’t blinking, so nobody had called and left a message.

He stepped back into the bathroom, but left the door wide open while he dried himself, brushed his teeth, then urinated and flushed the toilet.

Done in the bathroom, he searched his suitcase and pulled out his pajamas. They were pale white and neatly folded. He hadn’t worn them at all since leaving Los Angeles, but tonight he might need to haul himself out of bed to let John in. So he put them on.

I guess I’ll have to let him in, Owen thought.

Then he gave the bed a quick inspection. Satisfied that there was nothing disturbing between its sheets, he turned off the light and climbed in.

It felt great.

He sighed with pleasure, shut his eyes, and fell asleep.

And lurched awake in the dark room, sweaty and gasping, his heart slamming with fright.

He sat up and turned on the nightstand lamp. He checked his wristwatch.

3:20

He looked at the other bed.

Where the bell is he!

Owen switched the lamp off. He flopped back down on the bed and shoved aside the blanket. Even the sheet seemed too hot, so he flipped it away. He shut his eyes and tried to sleep.

His mind was a turmoil, swirling with a seemingly endless string of feverish scenerios about John, about Dana and Lynn and the beautiful but dangerous stranger, about whoever or whatever had been lurking nearby in the bushes, even about Monica. Some of the images terrified him. Others wracked him with guilt. One moved him with hopes of love. A few made him grow hard with lust. He writhed on the bed, his damp pajamas twisted around his body. He lost track of when he was awake, when asleep. The scenerios wouldn’t stop. They seemed too vivid to be dreams.

More like hallucinations.

Every so often, cars drove up. There were knocks on the door and he climbed out of bed, thinking John had finally returned. The first time, John stood there headless. Another time, he seemed all right but out of breath and frantic. “Let me in! Let me in! It’s after me!”

“What’s after you?”

“The great white ape! Let me in!”

Still another time, Owen had opened the door and found John naked and torn and bloody all over, his stiff severed penis protruding from his mouth like a cigar.

“Need a light?” Owen asked.

In answer, John jerked him mouth open wide and the penis fell out and he screamed like a terrified lunatic.

Longest damn night of my life, Owen thought as he stared out the window at the sunny courtyard.

John’s car wasn’t there.

I wonder if I should call the police.

And tell them what? he asked himself. That we were up in the hills last night spying on some naked gals in a jacuzzi and John disappeared?

Real cute.

Besides, who’s to say he isn’t perfectly all right? He might’ve even ended up in the sack with one of those gals.

Fat chance.

The hell with him anyway. He’s a jerk.

Owen turned away from the window.

Might as well get dressed and..

I’d better take another shower first, he thought. He certainly needed one. And maybe a long, hot shower would loosen up his tense muscles, help him to calm down.

Inside the bathroom, he shut and locked the door and peeled off his damp pajamas.