The Midnight Tour

stopped it slightly above where the face should be, then poked at the darkness below with her forefinger. The tip of her finger didn’t touch anything, so she eased her hand downward ever so slowly.

Her fingertip met a sticky surface. She shoved gently, wondering what it was. The surface felt solid, but yielded slightly. Exploring a bit more, she discovered a small curve. Something feathery brushed against her fingertip.

Lashes?

“Uck!” Her hand leaped high.

“What?”

“I touched his eye! Jeez! His bare eye!”

Lib laughed.

“Keep yuckin’ it up, babe, ‘cause here he comes.”

Having a very clear idea about where Slater’s face should be, Sandy spread her hands and reached forward and down. She encountered damp, sticky fabric. Had to be his shirt. Patting her way to both his sides, she found his armpits. Then she grabbed hold and reared back. He scooted toward her just a little. She crawled backward and gave him another tug. He moved another inch or two.

Crawling farther, she felt the door sill beneath the toes of her shoes. On the other side of the sill, the floor went away. She kept pulling Slade until her knees felt the sill. Then she let go of him and climbed down.

“Can you give me a hand?”

“Sure.”

Side by side, Sandy and Lib reached into the trailer. Each grabbed one of Slade’s armpits. When they pulled, he slid toward them. He came along fine until he was out just more than halfway down his back.

Suddenly, his torso tipped downward and his legs flew up.

Lib gasped.

Sandy blurted, 'Look out!”

As Slade’s legs swung down, both women scurried for safety. But Lib didn’t move fast enough. Before she could get clear, Slade’s left shoe crashed against the top of her shoulder.

'Ow!” she cried out. Grabbing her shoulder, she stumbled backward.

Slade piled into the ground beside the trailer. He came to rest on his knees, rump up, face in the grass. Sandy didn’t like him in that position, so she rammed him in the hip with her foot and he toppled over sideways.

-You okay?” she asked Lib.

“Shit,” Lib said, rubbing her shoulder. “Dis ain’t my night.”

“Your shoulder isn’t broken or something, is it?”

“Naw.”

“Still works?”

“Reckon.”

“Wanta just help me drag him into the trees? Then you can go inside and take some aspirin and hit the sack, or something, if you want to.”

'Dat sounds good.” She came over and looked down at Slade.

“Which end you want?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll grab his peet.”

“His peter?” Sandy asked, sounding shocked. “Don’t do that!”

“Hardy har har.”

“Why don’t you grab his feet, instead? I’ll take his arms.”

“Kick your ass prom here to next Sunday,” Lib muttered.

Laughing softly, Sandy crouched over Slade and took hold of his wrists. Then she waited while Lib bent down and clutched his ankles. “Ready?” she asked.

“Heabe ho,” said Lib.

They both stood up straight, stretching Slade and raising him off the ground. Sandy sidestepped quickly, turning him. Then she started to trudge backward, lugging him away from the trailer. Lib followed, holding up his legs.

“Sure is a hebby son ob a bitch,” Lib muttered.

“Maybe you ladies should set him down.”

At the sound of the man’s voice, Lib made a quick squeaky noise and dropped Slade’s feet. Sandy, shocked, bent down slowly. When Slade’s head rested on the ground, she lowered his arms and folded them across his chest. Then she stood up straight.

She and Lib, standing at opposite ends of the body, turned this way and that, trying to spot the source of the voice.

The man was not to be seen.

Sandy felt as if a vicious thug were kicking her in the heart.

“He’s down,” Lib called, sounding almost breathless.

“Now,” the man said, “stick your hands up.”

“Is that you, Marshal Dillon?” Sandy asked.

“Stick ’em up!”

She and Lib raised their arms overhead.

“Okay,” the man said. “That’s good. Now step back away from the body and keep backing up till you get to the trailer.”

Moments later, they were standing side by side, their backs against the side of the trailer, their arms still high.

A few yards straight in front of them, the trunk of a tree seemed to grow wider.

Someone was gliding out from behind it.

Someone as dark as the night.

When he stood separate from the tree, he switched on a flashlight. The stark white beam slanted down at Slade. It moved slowly up and down the mutilated body.

“Who killed this man?” he asked, swinging the beam over to Sandy.

Squinting, she turned her face away from the glare.

“Not me,” she said.

The light jerked away from her, then jabbed into Lib’s eyes. “Not me,” Lib said.

“What happened to your face?” he asked her.

“I got beat up wid an ugly stick.”

“How about some straight answers, ladies.? You might think this is all funny as hell, but I don’t see the humor. You’ve got a dead man here. So what’s the story?”

“Are you a cop?” Sandy asked.

“No, but I’ve got a gun.” He turned the flashlight onto his own right hand. It was clutching a big, dark pistol. The barrel was aimed upward, not at Sandy or Lib. “You’re on my property. I want to know what you’re doing here.”

“Isn’t it pretty obvious?” Sandy asked.

“Cut out the wisecracks.”

Sandy shrugged.

“We just wanted to ditch da body,” Lib told him. “Dat’s all.”

“Suppose we just throw him back in the trailer and drive away?” Sandy suggested. “How would that be? I mean, we weren’t trying to unload him on you in particular. We don’t even know you. We just wanted to get rid of him, that’s all.”

'How’d he get killed?”

“He attacked me,” Sandy said.

“Uh-huh.”

“He was trying to rape me, all right? So I fought back. And I won. I had a knife handy, or maybe I’d be the one who ended up dead.”

He swung his light toward Lib. “How do you fit in?”