The Midnight Tour

turned on its light.

“You cart go ahead and use this. I’ll get cleaned up in the kitchen.”

She draped one of the red blouses on a hook just inside the doorway for Lib, then stepped out into the hall.

“Be done in a jip,” Lib said. She raised the bottle toward Sandy. “How ‘bout a sip?”

“No thanks.”

“Last call.”

“You go ahead and finish it.”

“Know what you are? A princess, dat’s what. A real puckin’ princess.”

Sandy laughed and shook her head. “‘That’s me,” she said, then stepped away from the bathroom door. As she headed for her kitchen area, the shower started to run.

She tossed the other Blazing Babes blouse onto the kitchen counter, stepped to the sink and turned on the hot water. She took a clean dishwashing cloth out of the drawer.

Without a mirror, she couldn’t see how her face looked.

She assumed it must be a mess, though. Because, looking down, she could see her shoulders and arms and breasts and belly: they were filthy and scratched and even smeared with blood, here and there. Her shorts were dirty in front. Her legs had taken the same kind of punishment as her torso.

I probably need a shower worse than Lib does.

“What she needs,” Sandy whispered, “is a puckin’ dentist.”

Laughing softly, she soaked her cloth with hot water. Then she bent over the sink and started to wash her face.

She supposed she ought to use soap.

Soap seemed like too much bother.

This’ll be fine.

The hot, sodden rag felt very good on her face. Water spilled down her neck and chest. She leaned against the edge of the sink, hoping to keep her shorts from getting wet. But when she started mopping her breasts, so much water sluiced down her belly that she knew it was hopeless. She tried to stop some of it with the rag. Too much got by, so she tucked the rag under her chin, took a step backward and reached for her belt, figuring to get out of the shorts before they became completely drenched.

Should’ve taken them off in the first...

Someone screamed.

Sandy’s heart slammed. Her hands jumped away from her belt.

She whirled around and ran for the bathroom, the dish cloth sliding down from under her chin, clinging to her chest, falling down between her breasts.

She shoved a hand into the right front pocket of her shorts.

She pulled out the small revolver from Slade’s glove compartment.

And wondered if it was loaded.

Sure it is. Has to be.

And it had to be Lib screaming. Who else could it be?

But why? .

Slade on the move, not really dead?

Nobody in the hallway.

Through the roaring in her own head, Sandy realized that the scream had stopped.

She lurched to a halt at the bathroom’s open door.

The wet cloth unpeeled itself from her belly, tumbled, brushed her left thigh and fell to the floor.

The shower curtain was shut. She couldn’t see through it. So she raced across the floor and threw it wide open.

Lib was standing in the shower stall, feet wide apart, knees bent, clutching Eric with both hands as if she’d braced herself and caught him in mid-leap.

She was breathing hard.

Water still sprayed from the shower nozzle.

Lib’s naked body was smudged with bruises. Bruises the size of a fist. The size of an open hand. The size of a knee. Others the size of a bite, a pinch. Brown ones, purple ones, green ones, yellow ones.

She’d been beaten up plenty, over a long period of time.

Tonight must’ve been once too often.

Eyes fixed on Eric, she didn’t look at Sandy.

After a while, she drew Eric in against her chest. As she cradled him, her eyes met Sandy’s. “What is he?” she asked, her voice soft.

“My kld.”

“Yer pet?”

“My baby. I’m his mother.”

“No poolin’?”

“No fooling.”

“Well, I’ll be.” Shaking her head, Lib gently stroked Eric’s back. “Sorry. I screamed like dat. Da little shit scampered in, ya know, and scared da hell outa me.”

Nodding, Sandy lowered the revolver. “Don’t call him a little shit,” she said.

“What’s his name?”

“Eric.”

“Hiya, Eric. I’m Lib. Dat’s short for Libby.” To Sandy, she said, “Can he talk?”

“No.”

“He’s sure an ugly little pucker. What’d his dad look like?”

The same as him. And he isn’t ugly.”

“Cute-ugly.”

“That’s better.”

“Is he human?”

“Sort of.”

“Looks like he’s part sometin’ else. Like a bald monkey, or da creature prum da Black Lagoon or sometin’. But cute. Cute as a button.” To Eric, she said in baby talk, “Yes, you are.”

Then she kissed his forehead.

“You can’t tell anyone about him,” Sandy said. “He’s my secret. And now he’s your secret. He’s the last of his kind—at least I think . he is—rand they’ll kill him if they ever find him.”

“Who? Who’d wanta kill him?”

“Damn near everyone. To them, he’s a monster. A beast.”

Lib’s eyes widened. “Is he one ob dem Beast House beasts?”

“His father was.”

“Holy smokin’ Jesus. Ya tellin’ me dey’re real? I always piggered dey was made up. Like Martians, ya know? Or werewoops or sometin’.”

“They’re real. You’re holding one.”

Shaking her head slowly, Lib eased Eric away and lifted him in front of her face. “Look at ya,” she said to him in a gentle, lilting voice. “Just look at ya. Wowy, wowy. I sure wish I’d known yer old man.”

“Do you promise not to tell on us?” Sandy asked.

“Sure. Cross my heart an’ hope to die.”

“If you tell, you will die. I’ll see to it.”

“We’ll be a pamily, da tree ob us.”

Pocketing the revolver, Sandy stepped over to the shower stall. She reached out for Eric. Lib passed the child gently into her hands. “See ya later, baby,” she said.

Sandy saw tears in the woman’s eyes.

“Are you all right?”