Flesh (8 page)

Roland allowed himself to breathe. He wished his heart would slow down. It felt like a fist punching the insides of his chest.

He shut the door and sagged slightly against it. He locked his knees to keep them from folding under him. His kneecaps began to flutter with a spastic, twitching bounce, as if they wanted to jump off his legs.

Roland tried to ignore them. Aiming the flashlight ahead, he took several steps until he could see around the corner of the wall. The wall extended down the right side of the main dining room. Something just beyond the corner caught his eye. He held his breath until he identified the objects as a stepladder, a lamp, and a vacuum cleaner. On the floor near them were a toolbox, some jars and bottles and rags. He moved the beam away.

A bright disk at the far end of the room startled Roland,
but it was only his own light reflecting off a window. He wasn’t alarmed when his light hit the other windows.

Except for the clutter near the one wall, the dining room was empty. He swept his beam back across it, to the wall ahead of him, and to the right. A few yards away was the corner of an L-shaped bar counter. The shelves behind it were empty. There were no stools in front of the counter. A brass foot rail ran its length.

Turning slightly, Roland played his beam over the space between the bar counter and the front wall of the restaurant. A card table stood near the wall. Bottles and a few glasses gleamed with the light. There were two folding chairs at the table.

Crouching, he shined his flashlight beneath the card table.

He stood up. Beyond the table, at the far end of the room, was an alcove. A sign above the opening read, “Rest rooms.”

Roland moved slightly forward until he could aim his light into the space behind the counter.

Returning to his backpack, he took but two of the candles he had purchased that afternoon. He went to the table, and lit them. He let the wax drip onto the table, then stood the candles upright in the tiny puddles. He stepped back. The two flames gave off an amazing amount of light, their glow illuminating most of the cocktail area.

Comforted somewhat by the light, Roland walked past the table. He noticed bat-wing doors behind the bar, probably to give the bartender access to the kitchen.

The kitchen.

Where the killings happened.

The areas above and below the doors were dark. He didn’t shine his light inside. Instead, he entered the short hallway to the rest rooms. A brass sign on the door straight ahead of him read “Ladies.” The door marked “Gentlemen” was on the right.

He needed to check inside each, but the prospect of that renewed his leg tremors and set his heart sledging again. He
didn’t want to open those doors, didn’t want to face whatever might be lurking within.

It’ll be worse, he told himself, if I don’t look. Then I won’t know. I might get a big surprise later on.

He took the flashlight in his left hand, wiped the sweat off his right, and gripped the knob of the ladies’ room door. The knob wouldn’t turn. He tried the other door. It, too, was locked.

For a moment, he was glad. He wouldn’t be opening them. It was a great relief.

Then he realized that the locked doors didn’t guarantee that the rest rooms were safe. Probably, the doors could still be opened from the inside.

He shined his light on the knob of the men’s room door. It had a keyhole. A few times in the past, he had gotten into toilets simply by inserting a pointed object into the lock hole and twisting. He pulled up the leather flap of his knife case.

The snap popped open.

Christ, it was loud!

Whoever’s behind the door…

Calm down.

…heard it.

There’s nobody inside the goddamn john.

Roland stared at the door.

He imagined a sudden, harsh rap on the other side.

Gooseflesh crawled up his back.

Leaving his knife in its case, he backed away.

The candlelight was comforting.

He picked up the folding chairs one at a time and carried them to the entryway beneath the rest rooms sign. Back-to-back, they made a barrier that would have to be climbed over or pushed away. He placed a cocktail glass on the seat of each, near the edge. If the chairs moved, the glasses should fall.

Pleased with his innovation, Roland returned to the card table. He picked up one of the bottles. It was nearly full. With a candle behind it, he saw that the liquor was clear. He turned
the bottle until he could read its label in the trembling light. Gilbey’s Vodka.

Great.

He twisted off the plastic cap, raised the bottle, and filled his mouth. He swallowed a little bit at a time. The vodka scorched his throat and ignited a fire in his stomach. When his mouth was empty, he took a deep breath and sighed.

If he drank enough, he could numb himself to the whole situation.

But that would make him more vulnerable.

One more swig, then he recapped the bottle.

Crouching over his pack, Roland lifted out Dana’s camera and folded it open. A flash bar was already attached to the top. He stood up and took another deep breath. It felt good inhaling, filling his lungs. They didn’t seem tight like before. In fact, he realized that he was no longer shaking. There was a slightly vague feeling inside his head. Had the vodka done this?

Back at the table, he set down the camera and took one more swallow.

Then one more.

Picking up the camera, he went to the end of the bar. He lifted the hinged panel, tipped it back so it would stay upright, and stepped through the opening. He stopped in front of the bat-wing doors. Beyond them was darkness.

The kitchen.

“Anybody…” He almost said, “here?” but that word wouldn’t come out. He wished he’d kept quiet. His fear had come back with the sound of his voice, a tight band constricting his chest.

He raised the flashlight above the doors. Its beam spilled along the kitchen floor, shaking as it moved.

He smelled the blood before he saw it. He knew the odor well, having collected some of his own in a mayonnaise jar and smeared it over his face on Halloween to gross out the guys in the dorm. His blood had smelled just this way—metallic, a little like train rails.

The flashlight beam found the blood. There was lots of it, all over the floor about halfway across the kitchen. It looked brown.

There were pale, tape outlines showing the positions of the bodies.

This is getting real, he thought.

Shit.

This is getting very real.

He’d made a big mistake. He had no business here. He was a dumb-ass kid intruding where he didn’t belong.

He lowered the flashlight. Backed away. Felt someone sneaking up on him and whirled around. Nobody there. He hurried to the other side of the bar.

I don’t need this. I don’t need to prove anything. I don’t need Dana’s money.

Near the door, he dropped to his knees and stuffed the camera into his pack.

Take pictures. Sure.

He stood, lifting the pack by one strap and hooking a finger of the same hand through the draw cord of his sleeping bag.

Shit, the candles.

The bundles swinging at his side, he rushed to the card table. As he puffed one candle out, he spotted the chairs he’d set up to block the hall to the rest rooms.

Leave them. Who cares.

He blew out the other candle. Followed the beam of his flashlight to the door. Opened the door.

The night breeze, smelling of rain, blew against his face.

He stared through the downpour at Dana’s car—a small, dark object waiting at the far edge of the lot. The plastic banner on its aerial waved in the breeze.

I’d be surprised if you last ten minutes.

The bitch, she’ll never let me live this down. She’ll tell everyone. I’ll be a joke.

Roland kicked the door shut.

“I’m staying!”
he yelled.
“Fuck it!”

He stepped close to the bar. He unrolled his sleeping bag, took off his cap and jacket, and sat on the soft, down-filled bag.

I should’ve done it like this in the first place.

Shouldn’t have snooped around.

Should’ve done it the way I’d planned.

Reaching deep into his pack, pushing aside the candles and camera, he touched steel.

The handcuffs rattled as he pulled them out.

He snapped one bracelet around his left wrist, the other around the brass foot rail of the bar.

Flashlight clamped under his left arm, he aimed it at the card table and gave the handcuff key a toss. It clinked against one of the bottles and dropped onto the table.

Out of reach.

We’ll see who chickens out, he thought.

We’ll see who lasts the night.

It was almost quitting time, and the rain outside Gabby’s showed no sign of letting up. Alison backed away from the window. She was glad that she’d borrowed Helen’s rain gear; she would have gotten drenched if she’d worn her windbreaker to work.

Not if Evan picks me up, she thought.

Fat chance.

Who knows, maybe he’ll surprise you. After all, he showed up last night when you didn’t think he would.

Alison went to a table that had just been vacated. She
dropped the tip into her apron pocket and began to clear off the dirty plates and glasses.

If Evan cares at all about me, she thought, he’ll pick me up. He knows it’s pouring outside and I’ll have to walk home unless he gives me a ride. Coming to my rescue about now would go a long way toward getting back on my good side. He has to know that.

After wiping off the tabletop, she lifted the heavy tray and carried it into the kitchen.

Maybe he’ll show up, she told herself. And if he does, maybe he’ll be in for a surprise.

Before leaving the house that afternoon, Alison had tucked her toothbrush and her new nightie into the bottom of her flight bag. Then she had taken them out. She would have no use for them even if Evan should make an appearance. After all, she hadn’t changed her mind about sleeping with him. It was silly to prepare yourself for something that just wouldn’t happen.

But she thought about last Friday night. He had come into Gabby’s after the movie let out at the Imperial, sipped a beer while he waited for her to finish the shift, and they had walked back to his apartment. She hadn’t expected to spend the night. It was so wonderful, though, that she couldn’t force herself to leave and they had made love almost till dawn. That had been her first whole night with him.

If they could have another night like that…

We won’t, she told herself. Too much has changed.

But she’d gone ahead and put her toothbrush and nightie back into the bag. You never know. Maybe, somehow, everything would suddenly be right again.

She wanted it all to be right.

As she unloaded the dirty dishes in the kitchen of Gabby’s, she imagined Evan coming for her. “I just couldn’t stay away from you any longer,” he would say. “I tried to stay away and punish you, but I couldn’t. I’ve given it a lot of
thought, Alison. Sure, I’d like to make love with you. I’d like nothing more, because it makes us part of each other, as if, for a little while, we’re one person. But I can live without that if I have to. The main thing, really, is just to
be
with you. I would be happy just looking into your eyes, just hearing your laughter, just holding your hand.”

And maybe she would go back to his apartment, after all. While he waited on the sofa, she’d close the door to his bedroom and slip into the negligee…

“Al!”

Startled, she turned around. Gabby, standing at the grill, was looking over his shoulder at her. “Go on and get out of here. Have a good weekend.”

“Thanks,” she said. “You, too.”

At the rear of the kitchen, she scooped her tips out of the apron and into her bag. She struggled into Helen’s heavy raincoat, put on the strange hat, and lifted the bag. “See you Monday,” she called, and pushed her way through the swinging door.

The table that she had just cleared was no longer deserted.

Evan sat there.

His arm was around Tracy Morgan.

More-Organ Morgan, Mouth-Organ Morgan, also known as Tugboat Tracy for reasons that had always been unclear to Alison.

Alison felt herself shrivel inside.

Evan, as if sensing her presence, looked around at her. His glasses were spotted with rain. One side of his mouth twitched upward.

Alison rushed for the door, shouldered it open, and lurched into the pounding rain.

She looked sideways.

Behind the lighted window, Evan watched her and calmly stroked Tracy’s long, auburn hair.

Roland had purchased the handcuffs that afternoon at Spartan Sporting Goods for $24.50.

He had wanted to buy the cuffs when he’d first seen them a few weeks ago. Staring through the display case at the shiny bracelets, he’d been excited by thoughts of what he might do with them. Not that he would ever do such things. Still, just owning them would be nice, the same way it was nice to own a few knives even if you didn’t actually plan to run around carving up women with them. He’d bought the Buck knife that day. It wasn’t embarrassing, buying the knife, because people bought knives for camping, fishing, hunting. But if you’re not a cop, why do you need handcuffs? What would the salesperson think? It would be like buying a pack of condoms.

Roland had never bought condoms, even though he wanted them. And he hadn’t bought the handcuffs, either.

Until today.

When Dana challenged him to spend the night in the restaurant, he immediately remembered the cuffs and he knew how to win the bet. The cuffs would guarantee it. His courage, or lack of it, would be irrelevant once he had anchored himself to something in the restaurant. No matter what, he would win the bet.

With a hundred dollars and his reputation riding on the bet, he had returned to the store. He could feel himself blushing as he peered through the counter glass.

“Can I help you with something?” asked the clerk.

Roland kept his eyes down. “I’d like to see the handcuffs.”

“Black or nickle finish?”

“Nickle.”

Crouching, the man slid open the back of the counter and reached inside. He was heavyset, his brown hair long around the sides of his head as if to make up for what was lacking on top. He put the cuffs on the counter.

Roland picked them up. They felt heavy.

“Grade A tempered steel. The links’ll withstand a direct pull of twelve hundred pounds.”

Nodding, Roland tugged the bracelets. The connecting chain snapped taut. “Fine,” he said. “How much are they?”

“Twenty-four fifty. Interested in a case?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Anything else? We’ve got a sale on the Navy MK.3 Combat knife, regularly forty-nine ninety-five. A real beaut of a knife. Like to see one?”

Roland shook his head. “No, this’ll do it.”

“Cash or charge?”

That was all there was to it. No embarrassing questions, no snide remarks. Relieved, Roland left the store with his purchase.

And spotted Celia. Now, there was a gal he wouldn’t mind trying the handcuffs on. That other gal, too—the one in the jumpsuit. Looking at that one, he could see himself cuffing her hands behind her back and pulling down that zipper all the way past her waist.

Oh, yes. Either one of those gals. Cuff them, and they’d be at his mercy.

But he hadn’t bought the cuffs for that. He would never have the guts, anyway.

I’m not crazy, he had told himself.

He’d bought the handcuffs only because of the bet. With them, nothing could prevent him from winning, as long as the restaurant had a secure fixture to which he could fasten one bracelet. It was bound to.

A door handle. A pipe. Something.

A brilliant idea.

Sitting in the darkness cuffed to the bar rail, however, Roland wasn’t quite so sure the idea was brilliant. What if something happened and he
had
to get out?

Like a fire, for instance.

Good thing he had blown out the candles.

The place isn’t going to burn down, he told himself. Don’t worry about it.

He couldn’t help worrying about it.

Suppose Dana started the place on fire to drive him out so he’d lose the bet? No. She’s not that crazy. A little crazy. That time at the movies when he reached across to get the popcorn from Jason and accidentally brushed her breast with his arm, she’d dumped her drink on his lap. Once when they went to the drive-in, she made him get in the trunk of Jason’s car so he could sneak in without paying, then she had talked Jason into leaving him there for almost an hour.

She really hates my guts, Roland thought. But she won’t burn the place down. That was too crazy even for Dana.

Probably.

What she might do is leave.

No, she wants the Polaroids. She’ll come in for them.

That doesn’t mean she’ll give me the key.

When she finds me cuffed here, she might just take the photos and go. Or worse.

Roland’s mouth went dry. A cold hand seemed to clutch his stomach.

I’ll be at her mercy.

Oh, shit what’ll she do to me?

It wasn’t a question of
whether
Dana would do something to him—it was a question of
what.

You’ve got all night to wonder about that one.

Why didn’t I think of that before I cuffed myself to this fucking rail?

He jerked his left hand. The steel clattered and the edges of the cuff dug painfully into his wrist.

A twelve-hundred-pound pull. That’s what the salesman said it would take to break the links.

Roland felt along the floor at his side. He touched the flashlight, picked it up, and shined it at the card table. The bottles glinted in its beam. The key was up there, out of sight.

The table was eight or ten feet to his left.

With his cuffed left hand, he slid the bracelet along the rail. It made an awful, metallic scraping sound that sent a shiver through him. But it did move. Sliding it, he would be able to move sideways until he was close to the table. Then maybe he could hook a foot around one of the table legs and drag the thing over to him—and get the key.

Worth a try, he thought.

What about the bet?

No problem.

Roland grinned.

Just let me get the handcuff key, I’ll stay. A cinch.

A cinch because he realized that the restaurant no longer frightened him much. What really frightened him was knowing that Dana, at dawn, would come in and find him handcuffed.

I’ll get that damned key, he told himself.

He squirmed sideways off his sleeping bag, his back rubbing the smooth wood of the bar counter, his left hand scooting the cuff along the brass rail with that awful grating noise. A noise that made his teeth ache. A noise that tormented him like the scrape of fingernails down a blackboard.

He stopped to rest.

The silence was soothing.

Just a little more distance to go, and…

Roland heard a sound.

It was a soft thump, such as a rope might make dropping from a height onto the hardwood floor.

It came from…where?

Off to the right.

Roland’s flashlight was aimed in the general direction of the table. The bright center of the beam shook.

He listened. He heard his heartbeat and the rain and nothing more.

What could
make
a sound like that?

A snake? A snake flopping off the bar?

His skin suddenly crawled with goose bumps.

How could a snake get in here?

Hell, the place had been deserted for years. Maybe it fucking
lives
here.

Or Dana snuck it in. She might do that. Pick one up at a pet shop.

The bitch.

Dana bought a snake to scare him out, and Roland bought cuffs to keep himself in.

If she bought the thing, it’s harmless. They don’t sell poisonous snakes. Do they?

Roland needed to see it—to see what it was, and
where.

Maybe the light’ll drive it off, he thought.

He swung the beam sideways, planning to check the floor to the right. It passed in front of him and had already moved on before he quite realized that he’d seen something between his feet. The beam jumped back to it.

Roland lurched. The back of his head thumped the bar. Urine sprayed his thigh, filled his jeans as he jerked his hands back.

The thing was fast. It squirmed like a sidewinder going for his right foot.

But it wasn’t a sidewinder.

It wasn’t a snake.

Roland lifted his right foot off the floor, away from its head, and shot his left at it. His heel caught the thing and sent it skidding and flipping away. It came straight back at him.

It had slimy yellow flesh webbed with red and blue veins. Its eyes had the dull gray look of phlegm. Its head—or
mouth—made wet sucking noises as it flattened then spread open.

Roland raised both legs as high as he could. He was still urinating, the stream hitting the inside of his jeans and splashing back, showering his genitals and running down his buttocks. He kicked down hard with his right heel, but missed the thing and flung his leg high again.

It didn’t try to leap for his upraised foot. Instead, it darted forward and hit the back of his leg just to the right of his groin.

Roland’s throat constricted, ready to emit a cry of agony and horror.

But he felt no pain.

Only a hot, tingling pressure that sent a delicious shiver through his body.

He grabbed the thing, but didn’t try to tug it off. Instead, he held it gently. It felt warm and powerful. Soon it was gone, leaving a hole the size of a quarter in the leg of his jeans.

And in his leg.

The wound didn’t bother Roland.

He opened his waist button, lowered his zipper, and curled onto his left side. He slid his hand inside the seat of his jeans. He wore no underpants. The denim was sodden against the back of his hand, and the skin of his rump was wet.

The creature moved inside him, just beneath his flesh. With a hand pressed to the mound it made, he could feel it sliding along. His skin sank into place again after it had passed. He felt it turn toward his spine. Bending his arm behind him as much as possible, he caressed it through his skin until it was too high up to reach.

He put his hand to the back of his neck in time to feel the skin rise beneath his palm. Moments later, the thing stopped moving.

A sudden jolt hit Roland—pleasure so fierce it made him squirm and moan for release.