Flesh (10 page)

Oh, God.

Nodding, she pulled Helen’s rain gear off the hanger. Nick held the heavy coat while she struggled into it. She put on the hat. Nick pushed open the door, and she stepped outside. The rain was still coming down hard.

Nick took hold of her hand.

They walked across the parking lot, Nick leading her around puddles.

At the passenger side of his car, he released her hand and bent over the door to unlock it.

“Nick,” she said.

“Yeah,” he called without looking back.

“I don’t think so.”

“What?” He forgot about the door. He whirled around and scowled at her. “What did you say?” he asked over the noise of the storm.

“I’m not going to your place. Not tonight. Thanks for asking, though. I’m sorry.”

“Got a car?”

“What?”

“A car. Did you drive here?”

“No.”

“Get in, then. I’ll drive you.”

“I told you—”

“I heard, I heard. To your place. You don’t want to walk in this mess.” Turning away, he bent over and unlocked the door. He opened it for her.

Alison hesitated.

“Get in or don’t. It’s up to you.”

“Okay. Well. Thanks.” She climbed in, and Nick shut the door. She took off the rain hat and opened the coat.

Now what, she wondered.

Nick slid in behind the wheel and started the car. He looked across the darkness at her. “A long time,” he said, “since anyone’s tried to ditch me.” He sounded amused, not angry.

“I’m sorry. It’s been a bad night.”

“My fault,” he said. “I picked up on your reluctance, but I persisted, anyway. I should have backed off, I realize that now.” He turned on the headlights and windshield wipers, and backed the car out of its space. “I suppose I can lay some of the blame on conditioning. So often, women play games. They make a show of pretending not to want something, while in point of fact they do want it.” He drove slowly toward the road. “Apparently, they take some sort of bizarre delight in watching men struggle to win their consent.”

“I guess that happens,” Alison said. “I suppose I’ve done it myself. It isn’t always a game, though. Sometimes, you just don’t know what you want. You could go either way.”

Nick glanced at her. “Is that how it was with you, tonight?”

“Pretty much.”

He stopped at the edge of the parking lot. “Which way?”

“Right.”

He waited for a car to pass, then swung onto the road. “Therefore, you’re suggesting that a different approach on my part might have succeeded.”

Alison smiled. “Could be.”

“I should’ve played hard to get.”

“Maybe.”

“Damn it,” he muttered. “I’m always striking out.”

Alison found herself liking him better. Without the cool posing, he seemed like a different person. “Maybe next time at bat,” she said, “you’ll do better.”

He sighed.

“A left at the next corner.”

He nodded. After making the turn, he said, “Anyway, I’m glad we met. Even if I did make a mess of things.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s me.”

“No. You’re terrific. God knows, the way I was acting
I
wouldn’t have gone off with me.”

“You can let me out here,” she said.

He swung his car to the curb, stopped it, and set the emergency brake. Leaning forward, he peered out her window. “You live in that house?”

“Upstairs. With a couple of roommates. Thanks a lot for the ride.”

“No problem. I’m glad we…had this chance to talk. God only knows why, but it makes me feel a little better about things.”

“Me, too.” Leaning toward him, Alison slipped her fingers behind his head. His face was a dim blur in the darkness, moving closer. She pressed her mouth gently to his, then eased away. “See you around,” she whispered. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“You in the student directory?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Me, too. You going to call?”

“You bet.”

Then Alison was out of the car and striding through the
rain. She knew that she had almost stayed. She was glad that she hadn’t. She felt lonely and hurt, but strong. She had lost Evan. Maybe she had made a new friend tonight, but that didn’t matter so much as knowing that she had won against herself.

Dana woke up again, cramped in the backseat of her Volkswagen. This time, her right arm had fallen asleep. Before, it had been a leg, a buttock, a foot. No matter what her position, one part or another of her body got its circulation cut off.

Right now, she was lying on her side with her knees bent, using her right arm for a pillow. The arm had no feeling at all. With a struggle, she managed to sit up. She shook her arm, grimacing as the numbness became an aching tingle. The tingle was like a thousand stabbing needles. But soon it went away and her arm felt almost normal.

She reached to the floor and picked up her travel clock. Pushing a button on top, she lighted its face. The digital numbers showed 2:46
A.M.

The alarm had been set for 3:00
A.M.

She wouldn’t be needing it.

When she’d set the alarm, she hadn’t realized that she would be waking up every fifteen or twenty minutes.

She flicked a switch sideways to deactivate the alarm, then put the clock down.

The rain still pounded down making an endless rumble hitting her car.

Might as well go ahead now, Dana thought.

She began to shiver.

It’ll be fabulous, she told herself.

She didn’t want to go out in the rain. But this was too good an opportunity to miss, and she’d already gone to so much trouble. What’s a little rain?

I’ll get soaked.

But I’ll scare the hell out of Roland.

Besides, he had stuck it out this long. Left alone, he might very well make it till morning.

Dana didn’t want to lose the bet.

The money was no big deal, but the whole idea was to humiliate and destroy Roland. If he didn’t come running out of the restaurant in terror…

I’ll do it.

She struggled into her poncho, flipped up the hood to cover her head, and left the car. She shut the door quietly.

The rain pattered on the plastic sheet as she stepped to the front of her car and opened the trunk. She slipped the screwdriver and knit cap into her pockets, and clutched the five-pound sack to her belly underneath the poncho to keep it dry. Then she closed the trunk and headed for the restaurant.

If Roland is watching from a window, she thought, I’m sunk.

That wasn’t likely, though. If he was awake at this hour, he was probably hiding in a closet—and scared out of his gourd.

But not half as scared as he’ll be in a few minutes.

Dana crossed the parking lot at an angle.

She was pleased with herself. She’d made a pretty good show of being afraid of the restaurant, so Roland would never suspect a trick like this.

At the corner of the lot, she waded through some high grass to the restaurant wall. The grass was wet, soaking through her running shoes and the cuffs of her jeans.

She stayed close to the wall, heading for the back of the building, ducking under the windows.

There were no doors along this side of the restaurant. In
the back, however, she found one. The upper portion had four sections of glass.

Dana crept up the wooden stairs and pressed her face to one of the panes. Dark in there. A lot darker than outside, but patches of the counters and floor were pale gray with light from the windows.

This obviously was the kitchen. This was where the killings had supposedly taken place.

She couldn’t see Roland.

The kitchen wouldn’t be at the top of his list of places to spend the night. Anywhere
but
the kitchen.

Dana set the sack down between her feet. She tried the knob. When it didn’t turn, she began to work her screwdriver into the crack between the door and its frame, directly across from the knob.

She widened the gap. Splinters of wood broke off. She kept digging and prying. At last, the lock tongue slipped back and she carefully opened the door.

Picking up the sack, she entered the kitchen. The sounds of the storm were muffled when she shut the door. The fresh air also went away. There was a heavy, unpleasant odor.

Motionless, she listened. Water dripping onto the floor from her poncho, nothing else. Except her heartbeat.

Roland won’t hear that.

He obviously wasn’t in the kitchen. The rain pounding on the roof provided enough steady noise to cover any sounds Dana might make.

As long as she was careful.

Very slowly, she pulled the poncho over her head. Its plastic made quiet rustling sounds. She lowered it to the floor.

Listened.

Balanced on one foot at a time, she pulled off her shoes and socks.

She realized that she was gritting her teeth and trembling.

Excitement, not fear.

Poor Roland, he’ll have a cardiac arrest.

Wouldn’t
that
be a pity.

Dana unbuttoned the waistband of her jeans and lowered the zipper. Thumbs under the elastic of her panties, she drew down both garments at the same time and stepped out of them. Then she pulled her sweatshirt off.

She took a deep, shaky breath.

This’ll be quite a treat for you, Roland old pal. You wanted to look at the bod, you’ll get it. The real thing, this time, not some fucking snapshots.

Hope you enjoy it.

Squatting, Dana folded open the sack. She scooped out a handful of flour. It seemed almost iridescent. She spread the powder over her skin from shoulder to shoulder. Streams of it trickled down her breasts. Coating her left arm, she noticed that her skin was pebbled with goose bumps. She filled her other hand and covered her right arm. Then she scooped up flour in both hands and spread it over her chest and belly. Her nipples were stiff. Touching them sent warmth down her body. She rubbed flour over her thighs, hands gliding, feeling her gooseflesh through the thin layer of powder, feeling her slick wetness when she patted the flour between her legs. With her hands full again, she coated her feet and shins and knees.

Then she straightened up. Shoulder to feet, she was white except for faint areas where the flour had been rubbed thin from the way she had squatted. She dug more powder from the sack, spread it over her thighs and hips and belly, and emptied her hands by swirling the last of the flour over her breasts.

She looked down at herself again.

Some ghost.

Roland wouldn’t know whether to get a hard-on or a heart attack.

The floor around her feet was dusted white.

Dana wrung her hands, trying to get the flour off them.
They remained white. She reached back and rubbed them on her buttocks. That got most of it.

Turning toward her pile of clothes, she bent from the waist to avoid smearing the powder, and pulled her knit cap from the pocket of her jeans. It was navy blue, but it looked black in the darkness. Holding the cap away from her body, she felt for the eyeholes she had cut that afternoon. When she found them, she pulled the cap over her head, drew it down to her chin, and tucked her dangling hair up the rear of it.

Dana wished she could check out the effect. Maybe tomorrow night. Do it again, only in Jason’s room. He had a full-length mirror. Maybe have
him
spread the flour on her. And she would do the same for him. And then they’d make it.

Only one problem. Jason might not be overjoyed that she had paraded in front of Roland bare-ass naked.

He should complain, the shit. He’s the one showed Roland the Polaroids.

Dana took a trembling breath through the wool cap.

Time to get going and give Roland the thrill of his life.

She started across the kitchen. After a few steps, one of her feet landed on something sticky, like paint that hadn’t quite dried.

Her nose wrinkled.

Hadn’t they cleaned up the mess from last night?

She sidestepped and got out of it, but her foot made a quiet snicking sound each time she lifted it off the linoleum.

With her back to the kitchen windows, she couldn’t see much.

Blindman’s buff.

Hands out, she finally touched a wall. She made her way slowly along it, and found a door. When she opened the door, a cool draft wrapped her skin. Something wasn’t right about this. Clutching the door frame, she slipped her right foot forward and felt the floor end.

Stairs?

Maybe a stairway leading down to the wine cellar, or something.

Roland might be down there.

Not a chance.

Dana shut the door and continued following the wall. Soon, she touched another door frame. Reaching past it, she felt wood. Ribbed wood. A louvered door of some kind.

Moving in front of it, she gently pushed. The hinges creaked slightly.

That’s okay. Let Roland hear it. Give him something to think about.

Holding the door open, she stepped through. Her side hit something that squeaked and wasn’t there anymore, then bumped her again from armpit to hip. Even without being able to see, she knew what must have happened; they were double swinging doors, and she’d only opened one side before trying to go through.

Roland
must
have heard that.

Give him a little more?

She considered moaning like an anguished spirit. But maybe spirits don’t moan. Besides, he might figure out who it was from her voice.

Dana stepped through the doors, eased them shut, and stood motionless.

It was a big room.

Roland might be here. Might be looking at her right now. Frozen with terror.

This is it.

Dana’s heart pounded furiously. Tremors of excitement shook her body. Drops of sweat slid down her sides, tickling.

Several windows along the three walls let in hazy gray light, but vast areas of the room were black.

Dana looked at herself through the fuzzy holes of her cap. The flour gave her skin a dull gray hue, not the glow she had wanted. But good enough. Maybe better, in fact. Bright enough to let her be seen, but only dimly.

What you can’t quite see—that’s what is really scary.

So how does a ghost walk? she wondered. They probably don’t. In movies, they generally swoop through the air. But zombies kind of stagger around with their arms out.

Dana lifted her arms as if reaching for her next victim and took long, stiff-legged strides toward the center of the room.

Shit, this isn’t a zombie walk, it’s Frankenstein.

Frankenstein’s the scientist, stupid, not the monster.

Yes, Roland.

She stopped strutting and changed her gait to a slow lurching stagger.

Perfect.

So where the fuck are you, Roland? If you’re too scared to scream, let’s at least have a few gasps or whimpers.

Are you crouched in a corner, wetting your pants?

Dana slowly turned around, searching for his huddled shape in the gray near the windows, trying to find him in the black areas.

He isn’t here, she decided. Even if I can’t see him, he for sure would’ve seen me by now. He would’ve done something—yelled or maybe run for it.

Dana turned toward the front of the restaurant, lowered her arms for a moment to smear the sweat rolling down her sides, then raised her arms again and shuffled forward.

Over to the left, the room branched out. Dana saw a vague shape that might be a bar.

He’s probably hiding behind it.

She took a few steps in that direction and a rush of excitement stopped her.

Roland’s sleeping bag.

Mummy bag.

One dark, puffy end of it was barely visible in the gloom from a front window.

I can’t see him, but he can see me. If he’s looking this way. If he’s awake.

For a few seconds, Dana couldn’t force herself to move.
She stood there, shaking and breathless, feeling as if her legs might give out.

This’ll be good, she thought. This’ll get him. The shit-head’ll wish he’d never been born.

Go for it, she told herself.

She lurched toward the sleeping bag. Her legs felt like warm liquid, but they held her up. She let out a low moan.

That’ll get his attention.

When she stopped moaning, she heard him.

He was taking quick, short breaths.

Awake, all right.

She stood over him, no more than a yard away, peering down but still unable to see anything in the darkness. No, maybe that was a face—that oval blur. If so, Roland was sitting up.

Bending at the waist, she reached toward him.

A shriek blasted her ears.

Every muscle in Dana’s body seemed to jerk, snapping her upright, hurling her backward. She waved her arms, trying to stay up, then fell. The floor pounded her rump.

A light beam stung her eyes.

She shielded her eyes with a hand. “Take it out of my face.” The beam lowered. She pulled off the cap. The light was on her chest, moving from one breast to the other. It dropped, streaking down her belly and shining between her legs. She threw her knees together, blocking it. The light returned to her breasts. She covered them with one arm and used the other arm to brace herself up. Her chest heaved as she struggled to catch her breath.

“So,” she gasped, “did I scare you, or what?”

In answer, the light tipped downward. Roland was sitting on top of his mummy bag, his legs stretched out. The lap of his faded blue jeans was stained dark.

Dana grinned. “You wet your pants.”

“I wanta go,” Roland said in a shaky voice.

“Hell, you already
went.”

“You won, okay? You won. Let me loose.” He turned his light toward a nearby card table with bottles on top. “The key’s up there.”

“Key?”

The beam moved again, this time to his left hand. It was cuffed to a metal rail near the bottom of the bar.

“Holy shit,” Dana muttered.

“My insurance. That’s how I knew I’d win.”

“You
cuffed
yourself?”

“Get the key, okay?”

So that was why Roland had insisted that she come in at dawn to get him—so she could unlock the handcuffs.

“Where are the Polaroids?” she asked.

“In my pack.”

“Give me the flashlight.”

Roland didn’t argue. He lowered it to the floor and pushed. It skidded toward her feet. Dana sat up, stretched forward, and grabbed it.

Getting to her knees, she shined the beam on Roland. His gaunt face, dead pale, looked even more cadaverous than usual. Squinting, he turned away from the glare.