Beware

by Richard Laymon

  “Not a ghost or apparition or hallucination,” Lacey said. “It’s a man. But you can look right at him and see right through him and never know he’s even there. He’s invisible.”

  “How?” Scott asked.

  “He didn’t tell me. ‘A little miracle, ’ he said.”

  “A miracle, all right.”

  “That’s what the paint is for. It’ll adhere to him, and he won’t be invisible again till he gets it off his skin.”

  “Invisible,” Scott said, shaking his head.

  “Do you believe me?”

  “Let me put it this way: we’ll proceed as if I do. Hell, if it’s true, I might get a whizz-bang story out of this. Another Amityville Horror. Who knows?”

  Back at the hotel, Scott drew a Colt.45 automatic from the shoulder holster under his sport coat.

  They searched Lacey’s suite, walking behind chairs, feeling inside closets and under the beds, stepping into the shower stall. At last, Scott sighed and sat on the couch. “If the guy’s invisible,” he said, “there’s no way we can be sure he isn’t here.”

  “He hasn’t attacked,” Lacey said.

  “Maybe he’s waiting for me to leave. So I guess I’d better stay.” He patted the couch. “This’ll do fine.”

  “You’re really going to stay?”

  “I can’t do much protecting from the end of the hall.”

  “Well, I guess it’s all right. I won’t let you sleep on the couch, though, with two beds in the other room.”

  “You sure?”

  “It’d be ridiculous.”

  Grinning, Scott drawled, “Mighty grateful, ma’am. I accept your hospitality.”

  Lacey went to bed first. Though she usually slept in the nude, to night she wore her jogging shorts and tank top in case her sheet should slip off during the night. She lay wide awake. From the other room came quiet TV voices. She listened, but couldn’t make out their words.

  Had it been a mistake, offering the other bed? It might’ve sounded like an invitation for something more. Had Scott taken it that way? God, what if he came over to her bed and climbed in?

  He would say something cute. “I’m here to guard your body at close range.”

  She rolled onto her belly, and forced her mind away from the possibility. How’ll we work it in the morning? Each drive our own cars, I suppose. Meet at my house. We’ll park in front. Go in together? Sneak in? And search the place. Spread flour around so we can see footprints? God, what a cleanup job. Would it come out of the carpet?

  The tele vision voices stopped.

  Lacey heard quiet footsteps. She expected Scott to enter the bathroom just off the hallway, but the steps kept coming. The doorknob rattled a bit. Then the door swung open.

  She pressed her face against the pillow and shut her eyes.

  Please, let him go straight to his own bed.

  I’m here to guard your body at close range.

  The footsteps stopped between the beds. She heard the squeak of springs, followed by a whispered “damn” as if he were angry about the noise. Obviously, he thought she was asleep and didn’t want to disturb her. So he had no intention of coming to her bed, after all.

  Lacey remained motionless, listening to his breathing, to the quiet sounds the bed made as he shifted to remove his shoes, to the single link of his belt buckle and the whisper of his zipper. Then the springs squawked.

  He’s standing up.

  Coming here, after all? Lacey’s heart began to thunder.

  Turning her head slightly, she opened one eye and saw him in the darkness only a yard away. He stepped out of his pants, folded them once, and placed them on the floor beside his bed. He took off his shoulder holster, then his shirt. His tanned skin looked very dark against his white briefs. Crouching, he folded his shirt and set it on top of the pants. Then he turned away to pull down the bedcovers. He climbed in without taking off his shorts.

  Lacey shut her eye. Her heart was still racing, and she realized that she’d barely been breathing since Scott entered the room.

  She was parched. She tried to work up enough saliva to moisten her mouth, but couldn’t.

  She waited.

  I’ll die if I don’t get a drink of water. Probably those margaritas.

  Slipping her sheet aside, she swung her legs off the bed and stood up. She rushed through the darkness to the bathroom, and turned on a light. Squinting against its glare, she ran cold water. She filled a glass and drank. In the mirror, she saw hair clinging to her sweaty forehead. She shook her head at the image. She drank another glassful of cold water, then turned off the faucet and used the toilet. The flush sounded very loud. If Scott heard it…No, he’s all right. He’ll stay in bed. If he’d wanted to try anything to night, he would’ve done it by now.

  She flicked off the light and opened the door.

  Scott clutched her shoulders. He was wearing only his briefs. In his right hand, upraised to his shoulder, he held the pistol. It smelled oily and metallic.

  “What…?”

  “Shhhh. We’ve got company.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Standing close to Scott in the dark hallway, Lacey heard the quiet rap of knuckles on wood. “Where’s it coming from?” she asked.

  “Our door.”

  “You sure?”

  Scott nodded.

  “My God.”

  “Come on.” Holding her by the elbow, Scott led her into the main room. They stood motionless. After a moment of silence, the knocking resumed. “I’ll watch from the closet,” Scott whispered. “You get the door.”

  “What if it’s him?”

  “Then we’re in luck.”

  As Scott hurried to the coat closet, Lacey turned on a lamp. “Right there,” she called. She scanned the room, and found her handbag on the coffee table. Rushing to it, she took out the can of spray paint and the knife. She pulled off the leather sheath, and slid the knife under the waistband at the back of her shorts. The blade was cool and flat against her rump. She felt the scrape of its edges as she walked to the door.

  She peered through the peephole. Though the man in the bright hallway looked shrunken and distorted as if viewed in a distant fun house mirror, Lacey recognized his lanky build, his haggard face and short, curly hair.

  “Carl?”

  She flicked off the guard chain, and pulled the door open. Carl gazed at her with grim, red-rimmed eyes. “Hi, Lace.”

  “Carl, what’s going on? What’re you doing here?”

  “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

  “No. Come on in.”

  Lacey stepped aside to let him enter. Then she shut and chained the door. She turned to him. “Did something happen? What’s wrong?”

  “Our man paid a visit to the Trib. He…he killed Alfred.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “I came back from lunch, and…Alfred was on the floor.” Reaching into a pocket of his baggy slacks, Carl pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “The police have the original. It was pinned to him, to his belly…with my letter opener.” He handed the paper to Lacey.

  She set the spray can on the coffee table, and unfolded the paper, and stared. The photocopy was stained as if it had been used to mop up a spill of black ink. But the typing was legible. She read it in silence. “Can’t get rid of me that easy. Better come home, bitch, or your editor’s next.” With a trembling hand, she gave the note back to Carl.

  “I thought I’d call you, but…Hell, I remembered what you said about him being invisible. Still not sure I can believe that, but I figured I’d better be careful. If he is like you say, he might’ve been right behind me, watching me dial. If he got the hotel’s number…Well, I figured I’d drive on out to be on the safe side.”

  “He could’ve been in your car!” Lacey blurted, suddenly alarmed.

  “No. I checked it over.”

  “Your trunk?”

  “Checked that, too.”

  “Maybe he followed you.”

  “I don’t think so. W
asn’t much traffic. The only car behind me much had a couple in it—a man driving, a woman passenger.” He made a grim smile. “Neither one was invisible. So I think we’re okay on that score.”

  “You saw the man’s face?” Lacey asked.

  “Not up close, but he had one. It’s all right, Lace. Now stop worrying. I wasn’t followed.”

  “He could’ve put something on. A mask, makeup…”

  Carl shook his head. “We’ve gotta figure out what to do about this guy. Seems Tome, we’re both in the same boat, now. I don’t think I want to hang around Oasis and just wait for him to slit my gullet. I figure, if we stick together on this…”

  “What about the woman passenger?” Lacey asked.

  “Huh?”

  “In the car that followed you.”

  “It wasn’t following me. It was just behind me.”

  “All the way?”

  “I don’t know.” He sounded annoyed. “I didn’t keep track. It was just some clown and his wife.”

  “How do you know it was his wife?”

  “Cause,” Carl said, smiling slightly, “she was asleep the whole way.”

  “Asleep?”

  “Sure. Slumped over, her head against the side window…Oh, for Christsake, Lace, don’t turn paranoid on me. Don’t start telling me she was dead, and the driver was your invisible man decked out in a Stetson and mask.”

  “You think that’s not possible?”

  “I think you’re jumping to some mighty big conclusions.”

  “He figured you would know where to get in touch with me. Killing Alfred, leaving the note, he did it so you’d lead him here. For God-sake, he’s probably…”

  “Now don’t get all worked up. Calm down. There’s nothing to…”

  Lacey jerked stiff as her knife turned, the blade slicing a white-hot line up her buttock. She clutched the wound and spun around. The suspended knife slashed through the air, barely missing her face, and jerked toward Carl.

  “Scott!”

  The closet door burst open. Scott crouched, pistol forward, but his face was twisted with confusion. “W here?”

  Even as Lacey pointed, the blade punched into Carl’s throat. Blood shot out. It spurted a few inches, then splattered as if hitting a sheet of glass. It sprayed and sheathed the surface—the face and shoulders and chest of a sixfoot man.

  Scott gazed, his mouth agape.

  “Shoot him!”

  The figure, vague as a patch of floating red cellophane, raised Carl off his feet and flung him at Scott. Scott leapt sideways. The body hit the closet door, crashed it shut, and thudded to the floor. The knife, Lacey saw, was still embedded in Carl’s throat.

  Scott aimed at the film of blood rushing toward him. “Stop!”

  Lacey braced herself for the roar of gunfire. It didn’t come.

  A yard in front of Scott, the figure halted.

  “Fuckin’ blood,” muttered a scratchy voice.

  The layer of red shifted as if a child were finger-painting on his face.

  “Hands on your head,” Scott ordered.

  The top of the head wasn’t there, but Lacey saw two hand-shaped images of blood suspended above the concave face—a face like the back of a translucent red Halloween mask.

  Lacey grabbed her can of silver paint from the coffee table and tugged off its plastic top. Tossing the cap aside, she shook the can. It rattled as if a marble were trapped inside. She stepped close to the dripping, red veil in front of Scott’s automatic.

  “Don’t do it,” the man muttered.

  As her forefinger lowered to the plastic nozzle, the red membrane shifted like a flag struck by wind. Something struck Lacey’s hand. The can tumbled away. Then a tightness clenched her wrist and swung her toward Scott. He jumped out of the way, rushed in front of her, and dived. He landed flat on the floor, his hands grabbing only air.

  The door flew open, ripping the guard chain from its mounting, and slammed shut.

  Scott pushed himself to his knees. His eyes met Lacey’s. He shook his head.

  Lacey stepped over to Carl’s body. She knelt down beside him. Blood no longer pumped from his torn throat. She covered her face with both hands, and started to cry.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Lacey lay facedown on the living room floor, her shorts around her knees, Scott patting her cut buttock with a cool, damp washcloth. “Not much bleeding,” he said. “You don’t have bandages or anything, do you?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Have any sanitary napkins?”

  She felt heat flood her face, and wondered if the blush extended to her rump. “Not with me.”

  “Well, it’s not much more than a scratch, but…”

  “Oh, I think there is a pad in the medicine cabinet. The hotel variety. Right behind some kind of shower cap and shoeshine rag.”

  “Advantages of a first-rate hotel,” Scott said, and left her. He returned, seconds later, tearing open the white wrapper. He knelt down, and pressed the soft pad against her wound. “The tape’s on the wrong side,” he muttered.

  “Supposed to be. My underwear’ll hold it in place.”

  “Oh.” He went for her pan ties, and hurried back.

  “Thanks,” Lacey said. “I can take care of the rest.”

  While she pulled on her pan ties and shorts, Scott went into the hallway. He came back with a blanket.

  He used it to cover the body of Carl Williams. Dots of blood darkened the fuzzy pink blanket, bloomed, and grew together. Lacey turned away.

  She got to her feet. Wandering to a far corner of the room, she picked up the can of spray paint. She sat gently on the couch, clutching the can with both hands.

  Scott sat beside her. “I screwed up,” he said. “I’m sorry. I thought everything was okay until you yelled. Then I couldn’t find a target.” Shaking his head, he sighed. “Christ, what a screwup. I’m sorry about your friend. If I’d just been…”

  “Don’t blame yourself. Nobody could’ve stopped it, at that point.”

  “Charlie Dane could’ve,” he mumbled.

  “Charlie would’ve shot the bastard when he had the chance,” Lacey said.

  “Yeah.”

  “The bastard’s out there, now. He’s had time to get the blood off.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you shoot him?”

  For a long time, Scott stared at the coffee table.

  “Scott?”

  “I thought we had him. I figured we’d tie him up. I’ve got a cassette recorder in my room. I thought…well, I’d get his story. You know, before calling in the cops. Interview him, find out how he got that way, what he’s been doing, if there are others like him.”

  “Others?”

  “If one man can be made invisible, why not more? Christ, can you imagine an army of them? Think what they could do. They could turn the world upside down.”

  “I suppose so,” Lacey said. “But there’s only one here, and he’s probably figuring a way, right now, to get at us. You aren’t going to have much luck writing a book about him if we’re both killed, so next time…My God!” Jumping to her feet, she rushed to the desk and grabbed a straightbacked chair.

  “What?”

  She ran to the door with it, tipped it backward and braced it under the knob. “Maybe that…” she muttered. She turned to Scott. “A passkey. He could get one so easily.”

  Scott sighed. “Damn, I should’ve thought of that. Afraid I’m not helping much.” He looked at her with despair. “Sorry. I’m really not good enough for this kind of thing. Living it isn’t quite the same as writing it.” He propped his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his face.

  Lacey went to him. Crouching, she placed a hand on his back. “Hey, it’s all right. Don’t feel bad. If you hadn’t been here, he would’ve had me.”

  Scott raised his head and looked at her. “Thanks.”

  “It’s the truth. You saved my life.”

  He smiled slightly. “You’re right.”

>   “Of course I am.”

  “But I’m right, too,” he said. His face changed, turning hard and determined. “This is out of my league. I’m not going to let my inexperience jeopardize you any longer.” He touched her cheek, stood up, and walked toward the desk.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Calling in reinforcements,” he said, and picked up the telephone. He set his automatic on the desk, then dialed with quick, sure strokes of his forefinger. Eleven numbers.

  Long distance?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The bedside telephone woke Dukane, and he saw a naked woman bending over him in the darkness. Her head jerked toward the phone. In the moments between the clamors of the first and second rings, Dukane realized that the woman—a stranger before he brought her home tonight—had been interrupted in the process of tying his left wrist to the headboard.

  He yanked both arms. The headboard shook and a cord bit into his right wrist, but his left pulled free.

  The woman grabbed it, tried to force it down.

  “Thanks,” Dukane said, “but I’m not into bondage.”

  He twisted his arm out of her grip. As the woman reached for it again, he clutched her neck and thrust her forward, ramming her head against the oak of his headboard. She slumped. He shoved her off the bed, rolled to his right, and picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Dukane? It’s Scott. I’m in deep trouble, pal.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “There’s a killer after me. An invisible killer.”

  “Invisible?”

  “I know it sounds ridiculous, but believe me, it’s true. He just murdered a guy here in the room.”

  “Okay. Where are you?”

  “The Desert Wind hotel in Tucson. Room three sixtytwo.”

  “Where’s this killer?”

  “Probably right outside the door.”

  “Okay. Hang tough, kid, I’m on my way. It’ll take me about four hours, though. Maybe less, but don’t count on it.”

  “Hurry.”

  “Right.” Dukane hung up. He slid open a drawer of the nightstand, took out a switchblade knife, and severed the cord binding his right hand to the headboard. Then he turned on a light. He climbed across the bed and knelt over the unconscious woman.