Things Beyond Midnight (5 page)

“Well, missy,” said the big, wide-chested man,“I been in this game a lotta years, and
art
is a word I kinda like to avoid. Fairies use it a lot. When a man goes after
art
up there on the screen he usually comes up with horse shit.” He grunted. “And I know a lot about horse shit.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“My Daddy had me on a bronc ’fore I could walk. Every time I fell off he just hauled me right back aboard. And I got the dents in my head to prove it.”

The houselights were dimming slowly to black.

“Picture’s beginning,” she said. “I never talk during a film.”

“Me neither,” he said. “I may fart, but I never talk.” And his laughter was a low rumble.

Laurie walked out halfway through the picture. This man disturbed her, and she just couldn’t concentrate. Also, as I have told you (and you can see for yourself by now), she was losing her mind.

So Laurie left the theater.

Back in her apartment (in Coronado), Judy was there, looking for a slipper. Alan had gone, but Judy didn’t know where; she hadn’t seen him.

“What color is it?” asked Laurie.

“Red. Bright red. With spangles.”

“Where’s the
other
one?”

“In my bedroom. I just wore one, and it slipped off.”

“What are you doing in this apartment?”

Judy stared at her. “That’s obvious. I’m looking for my slipper.”

“No, I mean—why did you come
here
to look for it? For what reason?”

“Is this U-210?”

“No, that’s one floor below.”

“Well, honey, I thought this was U-210 when I came in. Door was open—and all these roach pits look just alike.”

“I’ve never seen a roach anywhere in this complex,” said Laurie. “I’m sure you—”

“Doesn’t matter. All that matters is my slipper’s gone.”

“It can’t be
gone.
Not if you were wearing it when you arrived.”

“Then
you
find it, hotshot!” said Judy. She flopped loosely into the green reclining chair by the window. “You got a helluva view from here.”

“Yes, it’s nice. Especially at night.”

“You can see all the lights shining on the water,” said Judy. “Can’t see doodly-poop from my window. You must pay plenty for this view. How much you pay?”

“Four-forty per month, including utilities,” Laurie said.

Judy jumped to her stockinged feet. “That’s twenty
less
than I’m paying! I’m being ripped off!”

“Well, you should complain to the manager. Maybe he’ll give you a reduction.”

“Nuts,” sighed Judy. “I just want my slipper.”

Laurie found it in the kitchen under the table. Judy could not, for the life of her, figure out how it got into the kitchen.

“I didn’t even go
in
there. I hate sinks and dishes!”

“I’m glad I was able to find it for you.”

“Yeah—you’re Little Miss Findit, okay. Little Miss Hunt-and-Findit.”

“You sound resentful.”

“That’s because I hate people who go around finding things other people lose.”

“You can leave now,” Laurie said flatly. She’d had enough of Judy.

“Can you lay some reds on me?”

“I have no idea what you mean.” (And she really
didn’t!
)

“Aw, forget it. You wouldn’t know a red if one up and
bit
you. Honey, you’re something for the books!”

And Judy limped out wearing her spangled slipper.

Laurie shut the door and locked it. Then she took a shower and went to bed.

And slept until Saturday.

I know, I know... what happened to Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday,
right?
Well, it’s like that with crazy people; they sleep for days at a stretch. The brain’s all fogged. Doesn’t function. Normally, the brain is like an alarm clock—it wakes you when you sleep too long. But Laurie’s clock was haywire; all the cogs and springs were missing.

So she woke up on Saturday.

In a panic.

She knew all about Saturday’s shadow, and each Friday night, she carefully drew the drapes across the window, making sure it couldn’t get in. She never left the place, dawn to dark, on a Saturday. Ate all her meals from the fridge, watched movies on TV, and read the papers. If the phone rang, she never answered it. Not that anyone but Ernest ever called her. And he knew enough not to call her on Saturday. (Shadows can slip into a room through an open telephone line.)

But now, here it was Saturday, and the windows were wide open, with the drapes pulled back like skin on a wound with the shadow in the middle.

Of the apartment.

In the middle of
her
apartment.

Not moving. Just lying there, dark and venomous and deadly. It had entered while she slept.

Laurie stared at it in horror. Nobody had to tell her it was Saturday’s shadow; she recognized it instantly.

The catch was (Ha!) it was between her and the door. If she could reach the door before it touched her, tore at her, she could get into the hallway and stay there, huddled against the wall, until it left.

There were no windows in the hall. It couldn’t follow her there.

Problem: how to reach the door? The shadow wasn’t moving, but that didn’t mean it
couldn’t
move, fast as an owl blinks. It would cut off her retreat, and when its shark-sharp edges touched her skin she’d be slashed... and eaten alive.

Which was the really lousy part. You
knew
it was devouring you while it was doing it. Like a snake swallowing a mouse; the mouse always knows what’s happening to it.

And Laurie was a mouse. All her life, hiding in the dark, dreaming cinema dreams, she’d been a mouse.

And now she was about to be devoured.

She knew she couldn’t stay where she was—because it would come and get her if she stayed where she was. The sofa folded out to make a studio bed, and that’s where she was.

With the shadow all around her. Black and silent and terrible.

Waiting.

Very slowly... very, very slowly, she got up.

It hadn’t moved.

Not yet.

She wished, desperately, that ole Humph was here. Or Gary. Or Alan. Or Clark. Or Clint. Or even Big John. They could deal with shadows because they were shadow people. They moved in shadowy power across the screen.
They
could deal with Saturday’s shadow. It couldn’t hurt
them
... kill
them
... eat
them
alive...

I’ll jump across, she (probably) told herself. It doesn’t extend more than four feet in front of me—so I should be able to stand on the bed and
leap
over it, then be out the door before it can—Oh, God! It’s
moving!
Widening. Coming toward the bed... flowing out to cover the gap between the rug and the door.

Look how
swiftly
it moves! Sliding... oiling across the rug... rippling like the skin of some dark sea-thing...

Laurie stood up, ready to jump.

There was only a thin strip of unshadowed wood left to land on near the door. If she missed it the shadow-teeth would sink deep into her flesh and she’d—

“Don’t!” Ernest said from the doorway. He had his .38 Police Special in his right hand. “You’ll never make it,” he told Laurie.

“My God, Ernest—what are you doing with the gun?” Note of genuine hysteria in her voice. Understandable.

“I can save you,” Ernest told her. “Only
I
can save you.”

And I shot her. Full load.

The bullets banged and slapped her back against the wall, the way Alan’s bullets had slapped Palance back into those wooden barrels at the saloon.

I was fast. Fast with a gun.

Laurie flopped down, gouting red from many places. But it didn’t hurt. No pain for my sis. I’d seen to that. I’d saved her.

I left her there, angled against the wall (in blood), one arm bent under her, staring at me with round glassy dead eyes, the strap of her nightgown all slipped down, revealing the lovely creamed upper slope of her breasts.

Had
she
seen that in the cab near the grocer’s, or had I seen that?

Was it Ernest who’d talked to Gary outside the U.S. Grant?

It’s very difficult to keep it all cool and precise and logical. Which is vital. Because if everything isn’t cool and precise and logical, nothing makes any sense. Not me. Not Laurie. Not Ernest. No part. Any sense.

Not even Saturday’s shadow.

Now... let’s see. Let’s see now.
I’m
not Laurie. Not anymore. Can’t be. She’s all dead. I guess I was always Ernest—but police work can eat at you like a shadow (Ha!) and people yell at you, and suddenly you want to fire your .38 Police Special at something. You
need
to do this. It’s very vital and important to discharge your weapon.

And you can’t kill Saturday’s shadow. Any fool knows that.

So you kill your sister instead.

To save her.

But now, right now, I’m not Ernest anymore either. I’m just
me.
Whoever or whatever’s left inside after Laurie and Mama and Ernest have gone. That’s who I am: what’s left.

The residual me.

Oh, there’s one final thing I should tell you.

Where I am now (Secret!) it can’t ever reach me.

All the doors are locked.

And the windows are closed. With drawn curtains.

To keep it out.

You see, I took her away from it.

It really wanted her.

(Ha! Fooled it!)

It hates me. It really
hates
me.

But it can’t do anything.

To get even.

For taking away Laurie.

   Not if I just

         stay

                     and stay and stay

              here

I’m

                        safe

where

              it can’t

ever

find

me (Mama)

me (Laurie)

me (Ernest)

me!

00:02
THE POOL

As they turned from Sunset Boulevard and drove past the high iron gates, swan-white and edged in ornamented gold, Lizbeth muttered under her breath.

“What’s the matter with you?” Jaimie asked. “You just said ‘crap,’ didn’t you?”

“Yes, I said it.”

“Why?”

She turned toward him in the MG’s narrow bucket seat, frowning. “I said it because I’m angry. When I’m angry, I say crap.”

“Which is my cue to ask why you’re angry.”

“I don’t like jokes when it comes to something this important.”

“So who’s joking?”

“You are, by driving us here. You
said
we were going to look at our new house.”

“We are. We’re on the way.”

“This is
Bel Air
, Jaimie!”

“Sure. Says so, right on the gate.”

“Obviously, the house isn’t in Bel Air.”

“Why obviously?”

“Because you made just $20,000 last year on commercials, and you haven’t done a new one in three months. Part-time actors who earn $20,000 a year don’t buy houses in Bel Air.”

“Who says I bought it?”

She stared at him. “You told me you
owned
it, that it was yours!”

He grinned. “It is, sweetcake. All mine.”

“I hate being called ‘sweetcake.’ It’s a sexist term.”

“Bull! It’s a term of endearment.”

“You’ve changed the subject.”

“No,
you
did,” he said, wheeling the small sports roadster smoothly over the looping stretch of black asphalt.

Lizbeth gestured toward the mansions flowing past along the narrow, climbing road, castles in sugar-cake pinks and milk-chocolate browns and pastel blues. “So we’re going to live in one of these?” Her voice was edged in sarcasm.

Jaimie nodded, smiling at her. “Just wait. You’ll see!”

Under a cut-velvet driving cap, his tight-curled blond hair framed a deeply tanned, sensual actor’s face. Looking at him, at that open, flashing smile, Lizbeth told herself once again that it was all too good to be true. Here she was, an ordinary small-town girl from Illinois, in her first year of theater arts at UCLA, about to hook up with a handsome young television actor who looked like Robert Red ford and who now wanted her to live with him in Bel Air!

Lizbeth had been in California for just over a month, had known Jaimie for only half that time, and was already into a major relationship. It was dreamlike. Everything had happened so fast: meeting Jaimie at the disco, his divorce coming through, getting to know his two kids, falling in love after just three dates.