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Authors: Richard Laymon

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After Midnight

BOOK: After Midnight
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After Midnight

Richard Laymon

LEISURE BOOKS
NEW YORK CITY

This book is dedicated to Tom Corey Friend, Photographer, Musician, Construction Guru and the Builder of Alice’s Garage & To Donna, René and Amina his special gals

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Introduction

Chapter 1 It Starts

Chapter 2 The Stranger

Chapter 3 In The Water

Chapter 4 The Phone Call

Chapter 5 Exit

Chapter 6 Discoveries

Chapter 7 Clean Up

Chapter 8 Tony Goes Home

Chapter 9 The Lost Detail

Chapter 10 The Third Key

Chapter 11 Apartment Twelve

Chapter 12 Tony Tales

Chapter 13 Ringing Up The Dead Guy

Chapter 14 Night Riders

Chapter 15 Into The Woods

Chapter 16 Killing Judy

Chapter 17 Gone

Chapter 18 Cries In The Night

Chapter 19 The Search

Chapter 20 Choices

Chapter 21 A Hell Of A Gal

Chapter 22 Here Comes Trouble

Chapter 23 Survivor

Chapter 24 Friendly Persuasion

Chapter 25 On The Way Out

Chapter 26 Home At Last

Chapter 27 Splish-Splash

Chapter 28 Yvonne

Chapter 29 Murphy

Chapter 30 Mds

Chapter 31 The Offer

Chapter 32 Leverage

Chapter 33 Getting Down To Business

Chapter 34 The Art Of Seduction

Chapter 35 Tied

Chapter 36 Invader

Chapter 37 Identtty Crisis

Chapter 38 The Slip

Chapter 39 So Long, My Sweet

Chapter 40 Last Tasks

Chapter 41 Going Home

Chapter 42 The Invitation

Chapter 43 No Place Like Home

Chapter 44 Adamant Elroy

Chapter 45 Where Is Elroy?

Chapter 46 Reunion

Chapter 47 The Happy Hour

Chapter 48 Body Heat

Chapter 49 Sleeping Beauty

Chapter 50 The Awakening

Chapter 51 Teamwork

Chapter 52 Head Games

Chapter 53 The Getaway

Chapter 54 Wires

Chapter 55 Into The Woods

Chapter 56 I Fall For Steve

Chapter 57 Searching The Dark

Chapter 58 The Audition

Chapter 59 And The Winner Is…

Epilogue

Praise

Other Books By

Copyright

INTRODUCTION

Hello.

I’m Alice.

I’ve never written a book before, but figured I might as well start by saying who I am.

Alice.

That’s not my real name. I’d have to be an idiot to tell you my real name, wouldn’t I? Identify myself, then go on to write a book that tells more than anyone should ever know about my private life and adventures and passions and crimes.

Just call me Alice.

Sounds like “alias,” doesn’t it?

I’m somebody, alias Alice.

Anyway, names are the only things I’ll lie about. I’ll make up names for
all
my characters, because they’re real people—or were—and I don’t want any trouble. If I start giving true names, no telling where it might lead.

Obviously, that’ll have to go for
place
names, too. Not just people. I don’t want to give away
where
stuff happened, or someone might start putting two and two-together.

Except for the names of people and places, everything else will be completely true. I promise. I mean, why bother to write my story if I’m not going to tell the truth? What would be the point?

For that matter, what is the point?

Why am I sitting down to write this book?

I’m not doing it for the money. I
would
do it for the money, but how can you get paid for a book without letting someone know who you really are? How do they make out the checks? I haven’t figured that out yet, but I’m working on it.

I’m not doing it for fame, either. How can I make myself famous if nobody knows who I am?

But I want to write it anyway.

My story only happened about six months ago, but I already feel it starting to slip into the past. If I don’t hurry and get it down the way it was, I’m afraid I’ll lose it.

I’ll never forget the main stuff, but little pieces are sure to fall away and others will change on me.

I want a record of how it
really
was. Every detail. So when I read it, later on, I’ll have a way to live it all over again.

Also, it might come in handy if they ever try to prosecute me. It’ll give the complete truth about my side of things, and might help me off the hook.

Or maybe it won’t.

I might be better off burning it.

Anyway, here we go.

1
IT STARTS

I’ve already explained, my name is Alice (but not really). I was twenty-six years old when all this took place last summer, and living in a comfortable little room over the garage of my best friend’s house.

That was Serena.

She had it all. Not only the huge old house at the edge of the woods, but a husband named Charlie and two kids—a four-year-old named Debbie who was every bit as beautiful as her mother, and a baby named Jeff.

Some people have all the luck, don’t they?

I mean Serena, not me.

What it mostly boils down to is genes. Serena was hugely, incredibly lucky in the genes department. Which is to say, she was born beautiful and smart. When you’ve got that going for you, everything else is a whizz. It was only natural for Serena to marry a handsome, wealthy fellow, move into a great house, and have a couple of terrific kids.

I didn’t make out quite so well in the genes department.

My parents were a couple of duds. Good, hard-working people, but duds. Not that I hold it against them. It wasn’t their fault; they came from duds, themselves, and couldn’t help it. Just as I can’t help who
I
am.

And I don’t resent who I am.

You can’t do anything about your genes, so you have to do the best you can with what you’ve got.

I did all right.

This isn’t meant to be an autobiography, so I won’t bore you with the details of my youth. This is supposed to be about what happened because of the stranger who showed up on that night last summer, so I’ll skip to there.

As already stated, I was living in the room over Serena’s garage. I paid a monthly rent. She had tried to talk me out of paying (she really had no use for the money, anyway), but I insisted. Even though I was between jobs, I had some savings. I was glad to part with it, so as not to be considered a freeloader.

Even if a person doesn’t look like a beauty queen, she can still keep her dignity.

Am I giving you the impression that I’m an ugly, pathetic cow?

Writing is harder than it looks, I guess. Especially if you want to tell something the way it really is and not mislead people.

The fact is, I’m not and never was ugly. My face doesn’t stop clocks. But then, it doesn’t stop traffic, either. People have said I have a “sweet” face, and I’ve been called “cute.” Not many people have ever used the term “beautiful” in connection with me. Those who did—like my parents—were either blinded by prejudice in my favor, lying outright to spare my feelings, or hoping to lay me.

George Gunderson used to call me “beautiful” and “gorgeous,” but you should’ve seen George. I was probably the only gal in the history of his life who didn’t run away screaming. Besides, he was just flattering me to get in my pants. Guys are that way, in case you never noticed.

Anyway, I’m not exactly beautiful or gorgeous. I just have an ordinary, fairly pleasant-looking face. My natural hair color is brown, but I tint it a nice, light shade of blond. My eyes are brown. So are my teeth.

Just kidding about the teeth.

Maybe I shouldn’t joke around like that. After all, this is supposed to be a serious book. People do tell me, though, that I’ve got an interesting sense of humor.

My two greatest attributes, if you listen to what other people say, are my sense of humor and my smile. They also say I’m a “nice” person, and that I’m “caring.” But what do they know?

Though I’m nothing special in the face department, I do have a damn good body on me. I’m large for a woman (five-foot ten), and used to be on the husky side. Hell, I was fat and dumpy. But my first year at college, I pulled myself together and got into shape. Ever since then, I’ve stayed fit. I look great in a swimsuit—and even better out of one.

But mostly, I keep my main assets well hidden. I don’t like for guys to see what I’ve got.

Back when I was dumpy, they never wanted to look at me or be seen with me. After I got into shape, though, I had to fight them off. Just about all of them were total jerks. They didn’t want to know me or have fun. All they cared about was the fact that I was “built.”

According to several charmers, I was “built like a brick shithouse.”

BOOK: After Midnight
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