The Beast House (13 page)

“Marty!” Claire gasped.

The man had suddenly broken into a run. He raced around the corner of the fence. Claire took off, chasing him. “Marty!” she called. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer.

Gorman hurried after them both, reaching the corner with a few strides, then slogging along the rear section of fence.

What craziness is this? he wondered.

But he certainly did not want to be left behind.

As he tried to catch up, he felt a familiar but longforgotten mingling of despair and humiliation. The residue of childhood “games” in which he had too often been the victim. Hey, let’s ditch him! Let’s ditch Gory! C’mon, let’s lose him! And off his pals would go, trying their best to leave him behind, lost and alone.

Gorman knew in this case that he was not being ditched. Marty had seen something. But the awful, desperate feelings remained and tears blurred his vision as he struggled to keep up with the runners. “Wait up!” he gasped.

They didn’t wait.

But suddenly they stopped.

Gorman grabbed a bar of the fence to halt himself. Gasping, he wiped the tears from his eyes.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Marty muttered.

Claire staggered away, bent over, and started to vomit.

Marty was aiming his flashlight upward. Gorman followed its beam to the top of the fence.

Brian’s legs hung down, one on each side. He was naked. He was on his back. The body looked as if it had been slammed down hard onto the pointed uprights. Gorman’s sphincter went cold and tight as he saw where one of the spikes had penetrated. The other bars had entered in a straight line, the final one piercing the back of his skull. His left arm drooped strangely. Gorman realized it had been broken backwards at the elbow.

Marty’s light skittered down the length of the fence. Gorman followed its quick course. There was not another impaled body. The man turned toward the hillside. “Janice!” he yelled. His beam swept over the weeds and bushes, and stopped on something about thirty feet up.

A rumpled blanket. Scattered clothes.

Claire shrieked out her daughter’s name and lunged toward the slope. She scrambled up it, falling to her knees, crawling, getting her feet under her and scurrying higher. Marty raced after her.

Gorman stayed where he was. He watched them for a moment, then turned his gaze to the body. He ached as if he could feel the spikes in himself. He wanted badly to run, but the thought of fleeing, all alone in the dark, filled him with dread. He was shaking. He clutched a bar of the fence to steady himself. The cold iron was wet and sticky. He jerked his hand away and stared at it. The smears looked black in the moonlight. He raised his eyes to Brian’s body.

Suddenly, he didn’t feel so terrified.

With his clean right hand, he reached into a pocket and took out his cassette recorder. He switched it on. “I am standing, as I speak, beneath the body of Brian Blake—my friend, my associate, the man who survived the horror at Black River Falls only to meet a hideous death at the hands of the Malcasa beast. He met his fate in the dead of night, while…”

“Hardy! Goddamn you, get up here!”

He nodded, and backed away from the fence. Before starting up the slope, he slipped the recorder into his pocket without turning it off. If only he’d had the presence of mind to record everything from the moment Marty and Claire entered his room! Of course, he’d had no way of knowing at the time that the encounter would lead to such a marvellous tragedy.

Brian slaughtered by the beast. And in such a grisly fashion. It was almost too good to believe. The book would skyrocket!

Not only that, but Brian wouldn’t be around to collect his share of the proceeds.

Incredible!

Now, if only Janice’s body is up here, nicely mutilated…The parents will demand her half of the profits, but perhaps their claim wouldn’t stand up in court.

“Look at this, you bastard!” Marty snapped, shining his light on the ground. Gorman recognized Brian’s jacket and Hush Puppies. He saw garments all over the ground: a sweatshirt and brassière, cowboy boots, jeans, panties. The tangled blanket was dark with blood.

“Apparently,” Gorman said, “they must have been…”

“Shut up!”

Claire was a distance away, sobbing as she searched through bushes.

“I’m sorry,” Gorman said. “Honestly, though, I had no idea they…”

“You got her into this, goddamn you! I’ll kill you if she…”

“Perhaps she’s all right. She might have fled.”

“You’d better pray she did.” Turning away, Marty shouted up the hillside. “Janice! Jaaan—nice!”

Gorman crouched and picked up Brian’s camera. The flash attachment was in place. He peeled off the lens cap, and raised the camera to his eye. Peering through the viewfinder, he aimed at the blanket. The girl’s jeans and panties were also in frame. He snapped a shot. In the quick burst of light, he saw that the panties were pink, the blue jeans faded, the blue blanket splashed with crimson. The automatic film advance buzzed.

The Horror photos had been printed in black and white. For this book, Gorman would insist on color plates. At least a few for the hardcover edition.

He turned the camera toward Janice’s boots. They were close together, one standing at a slant, propped up by the sole of the other.

Fabulous.

She died with her boots off.

As his fingertip sought the shutter release, Marty blocked the view and drove a fist into Gorman’s belly. The blow smashed his wind out, knocked him backwards. The camera flew from his hands. His back hit the slope. He skidded downhill. His legs flipped high and he somersaulted. The earth pounded his knees, his belly. He clutched at weeds to stop his slide. Through his loud gasps for breath, he heard Claire shouting for Marty to stop.

The man came charging down.

“No!” Gorman cried.

Still in motion, Marty kicked at his head. Gorman shoved his face into the weeds. He felt the breeze of the passing shoe. Looking up, he saw that the momentum of the kick had thrown the man off balance. Marty flailed his arms and fell backwards. He landed on his rump. As he slid, the edge of a shoe scraped Gorman’s ear.

Gorman grabbed the shoe and twisted it sharply. He heard a crackly sound of tearing cartilage. Marty flinched with pain. His mouth sprang open and he let out a cry.

“Marty!” Claire yelled. She started down.

In seconds, Gorman would have her to contend with. Two against one. It’s not fair!

He tugged Marty’s foot. When the groaning man was close enough, Gorman punched him in the groin.

“Leave him alone!” Claire shouted. “Don’t touch him, you bastard!”

She was only a few yards away.

Gorman found a rock the size of a coconut, and slammed it down on Marty’s forehead. He felt the skull crush under its impact.

A whiny sound came from Claire. She was climbing the slope backwards, shaking her head from side to side with tight little jerks, her arms batting the air for balance.

Gorman got to his knees. “It’s all right,” he told her. “Don’t be frightened. We’ll get him to a doctor.”

Claire suddenly whirled around and bolted up the hillside.

Gorman went after her. “Don’t run!” he called. “We can’t help Marty if you run. Wait up!”

She kept going.

“Goddamn it, wait! I won’t hurt you!”

Her foot landed on one of Janice’s boots. She stumbled, but didn’t fall.

Gorman hurled the rock. It caught her between the shoulder blades and bounced off. She went down, sprawling flat, and scurried to get up again. Gorman pounced on her back. His weight smashed her to the ground. Clutching her hair, he tugged her head toward him and stretched his right arm out past her shoulder and brought his fist back sharply to strike her face. The position was awkward. He couldn’t get much power behind the punch. But he pounded her face again and again, very fast. She was crying and attempting to turn her face away. When she managed to grab his wrist, he yanked it free and drove his elbow down hard on her shoulder. That sent a shudder through her body, so he kept hammering down with his elbow, each blow making her cry out and squirm, until finally he somehow struck his crazy bone. His arm went tingly and numb.

Keeping his grip on her hair, he raised himself off her back. He sat on her rump. Her feeble writhing didn’t worry him. He knew he’d taken the starch out of her. But he wasn’t quite sure how to finish her off. As he shook his arm and waited for its weakness to pass, he scanned the moonlit ground. He saw no rocks close enough to reach.

She twisted under him.

“Stop it,” he snapped. He gave her hair a savage tug. “And stop that sobbing.”

In a moment, his arm felt better. He raked his fingers through the weeds alongside Claire’s body, and found a stick. It was slightly larger than a pencil, and neither end had much of a point. But perhaps it would do.

Clutching it like a knife, Gorman scooted up her back and rammed it at her neck, just below her right ear. The stick skidded down her skin, clawing a furrow. Screaming, Claire bucked and twisted in a frenzy. Gorman struck again. This time, a couple of inches broke off the stick, leaving a decent point. The third blow penetrated. Her shriek leaped to a higher pitch. She thrashed wildly as he forced the stick deeper. Then he pulled it out and stabbed again. He kept plunging the stick into her neck long after the screams stopped and she lay motionless beneath him.

Then he climbed off her. The sleeve of his jacket was sheathed with blood. He wiped his hand on the seat of her jeans.

Patting his pockets, he made sure he hadn’t lost his wallet or cassette recorder during the struggles.

The recorder. He took it out. Good God, it had been running throughout the killings. He would have to destroy the tape.

He would also have to get rid of his clothes. Every stitch. But that could wait.

Down the slope, he picked up Brian’s pants. The underwear fluttered out. He dug into the pocket and removed the car keys. Wandering along the hillside, he found the camera. Finally, he knelt over Marty’s body. The contract was in a pocket of the shirt. He took it out. Though he wasn’t precisely sure why, at that moment, he also took Marty’s keys.

Then he rushed down to the fence. With a final glance at Brian’s impaled body, he ran.

The air felt chilly on Tyler’s face, but the rest of her body was snug under the covers. Rolling over, she pushed her face into the soft warmth of the pillow.

The chirp and warble of birds sounded peaceful, stirred memories of distant summer mornings when she lay in bed, so comfortable she didn’t want to get up, but eager to get outside. Adventures beckoned: today the comic book stand (she’d make a fortune!), today the careers tournament with Sally and Huss and Loretta, today a picnic at the lake, today exploring.

Exploring was maybe the best—taking off, on bike or foot, to follow that road, that forest path, those train tracks, farther than she’d ever gone before.

Later came the mornings, almost painful with excitement, when she couldn’t wait to get up and take the bus to the public pool where Skip Robinson would be practicing his backstroke and this time he might notice her. Finally, he did. And he was so shy. And he always smelled like Coppertone.

Abe smells like Brut. She squirmed against the bed, remembering the feel of his body as he embraced her last night. There on the stoop like a couple of teenagers while Nora led Jack into her room. If she’d asked Abe to come in, he would be next to her now. Instead, they’d gone alone to their rooms. Tyler had regretted it even then, feeling the loss like an empty ache.

I hardly know the man, she thought.

But Dan had been in her mind. She’d come here to find Dan, and it would’ve been some kind of vague betrayal to make love with Abe.

She wished she had.

She owed nothing to Dan. They’d made their choices five years ago and even if she found him today (in Beast House?) it was probably over for good. She shouldn’t have let thoughts of Dan stop her.

More than that had stopped her. It was also wanting Abe so badly and knowing she might never see him again after today. He and Jack would head north; she and Nora would head south. And if she’d made love with Abe, the parting would be worse.

Thinking about it now, she felt the loss as if he were already gone.

We have today, she told herself.

They had agreed, last night, to meet for breakfast. And after that? The Beast House tour? Nora seemed determined to try it, and if Abe and Jack would go along…at least they’d be together that much longer.

Abe, I want you to meet my old friend, Dan Jenson. Dan, Abe Clanton.

Tyler? I can’t believe it’s really you. My God, let me look at you. You’re beautiful! Lost a few pounds have you?

Jealous sparks from Abe’s eyes as Dan sweeps her into his arms. Abe starts walking away. No, wait!

Too upset now to enjoy the luxury of the bed, Tyler got up. She parted the curtains slightly and looked outside. Her heart jumped. Seated on the stoop directly across the courtyard, elbows resting on his knees, eyes down, was Abe. The morning breeze stirred his hair. He was frowning as if deep in thought. Thinking about me? she wondered.

Sure thing. You flatter yourself.

But he might be.

God, he looks so lonely and troubled.

Astonished by her boldness, Tyler stepped away from the window. She put on a robe over her nightgown and went to the door. As she opened it, Abe looked up. His frown melted into a smile. “Morning,” Tyler called.

“Good morning.”

“Been up long?”

“Not long.”

“How about a cup of coffee?”

“How can I refuse?” He stood and brushed off the seat of his blue jeans. The jeans were old, worn pale at the knees, frayed a little at the cuffs. He wore newlooking boots. His white T-shirt hugged his torso, taking on the curves of his muscles.

Tyler was suddenly very aware that she was naked under her robe and nightgown.

That’s hardly naked, she thought.

But she could feel the cool breeze curling up her legs, sliding between them. Her nipples pushed into the slick fabric of her nightgown. She was slightly breathless as she stepped back from the doorway to let Abe enter.