The Glory Bus

by Richard Laymon

  ‘Gonna choke his ass.’

  ‘You’re at the wrong end,’ Duke pointed out.

  ‘Ha ha. Lotsa help you been.’ Boots’s body started to shudder as she strained.

  ‘You don’t wanna do that,’ Norman told her.

  She grunted.

  ‘Hey, come on.’

  The man began twitching and flopping.

  She is trying to kill him, Norman realized. He wondered if he should step in and stop things.

  Better, he thought. Can’t just stand here and watch her murder the—

  Somebody pounded on the door. Norman jumped and gasped. The heavy blows felt as if they were striking him in the chest.

  ‘Yeah?’ Duke called. His voice sounded very calm. He winked at Norman.

  ‘This is the manager.’ A man’s voice. ‘What’s going on in there?’

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ Duke told him.

  ‘Like fun. Open up the door and let me see, or I’ll have to call the police.’

  ‘No problemo,’ Duke said. ‘Hang on a second, I haven’t got nothing on.’ His jeans were a heap on the floor. He stepped over to them, crouched and picked them up.

  Boots acted as if she didn’t even care that the manager had come to the door. Her arm was still clamped around the man’s neck, shaking as she applied pressure to his throat.

  The guy no longer thrashed about. Lay still.

  Norman suddenly felt as if an icicle had been shoved into his guts.

  Dead? The guy’s dead and somebody’s at the door and she isn’t even trying to hide the body or anything and Duke’s walking toward the door just as if he actually plans to open it and he hasn’t even got his jeans on, must’ve dropped them . . .

  Backing away, Norman stumbled against the edge of the bed. The slight impact collapsed his shaky legs. He sat down hard on the mattress. Duke swung the door open wide, then held up both his empty hands and shook his head.

  ‘Sorry about the noise,’ he said.

  ‘Thought you was gonna put some clothes on.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Duke said.

  The manager looked him up and down, sneering and shaking his head. ‘The weirdos are taking over the world.’

  ‘Yep,’ Duke said.

  He had an opened pocketknife behind him, clamped tight between his buttocks.

  Must’ve got it from his jeans, Norman thought.

  ‘I never rented this room to you,’ the manager said.

  ‘My brother took care of it,’ Duke said.

  ‘Stand out of my way. I wanna see him.’ The guy looked tough. Old, but tough. Maybe sixty. Thick in the chest, thick in the neck, with a broad red face. Bushy gray eyebrows. Hair the color of steel, short and brushed up. As he entered the room, he shoved Duke aside. ‘Put some pants on.’

  Stumbling out of the way, Duke reached behind his rump just in time to catch the falling knife. The manager glanced at Norman, then noticed Boots on the floor on top of the dead man.

  ‘What kinda goddamn orgy we got goin’ on in here?’

  Guess it does count as an orgy, Norman thought.

  ‘All of you, get your clothes on and get the hell out of my motel before I call the—’

  Duke made his move.

  Look out! Norman yelled. But only in his mind. He didn’t say a word. Just watched.

  Duke stabbed the manager in the back so hard that the blow knocked him forward a couple of steps. Mouth wide open, eyes bulging, the old guy stood very stiff and reached over his shoulder. Apparently he wanted to find the knife and pull it out.

  Duke beat him to the punch.

  Pulled it out and stuck it in again. The big old guy dropped to his knees.

  He started to cry out, so Norman hurried forward and kicked him in the stomach. That quieted him. And doubled him over. Duke, knife in hand, ambled over to the door.

  He stepped outside. Looked slowly to the left and right.

  Then turned around, entered the room again, and closed the door. He flipped his knife into the air. It twirled. He caught it by the handle.

  ‘The night’s sure got off to an interesting start,’ Duke said. ‘What’s anyone fancy doing next?’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Mosby’s trailer,’ Lauren announced, then opened the door.

  It’s not locked, Pamela thought. But then, who in their right mind would drive all the way out into the desert to Pits, pop. 6, to steal a TV?

  If they even get TV broadcasts out here. There’s no TV aerials I can see. Before entering the big old aluminum trailer she glanced back. No telephone lines, come to that.

  Grimacing at the pain in her injured feet, she followed Lauren inside. The cuts and abrasions on her soles when she’d run barefoot from Rodney weren’t serious but they were sore.

  ‘Home sweet home,’ Lauren announced, twirling, arms outstretched. ‘Stay as long as you want. You’re among friends now.’

  A tear burned in Pamela’s eye. ‘Thank you.’ She whistled. ‘Gee, this is a big, big trailer.’

  ‘A monster, isn’t it?’

  ‘A veritable behemoth.’ Pamela gave a tired smile.

  ‘You’ve got a shower. Three bedrooms. Lounge. Kitchen through there. Oh, Sharpe put some beers and cold cuts in the refrigerator.’

  ‘Sharpe’s a hero.’

  Lauren’s eyes went misty and faraway. ‘Isn’t he just?’

  ‘I don’t know how I can ever repay you.’

  ‘Don’t even think of it. Sharpe believes in helping people who are down on their luck. We all do.’ Lauren took a breath. ‘Now, the trailer’s hardly this year’s model. But it’s clean.’

  ‘And it belongs to . . .’ Pamela recalled the name. ‘Moby?’

  ‘Mosby.’

  ‘Won’t he mind?’

  ‘No . . . as a matter of fact he won’t be requiring it any more.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Now, that’s my trailer next to this one. If you need anything, just holler. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Way to go, girl. Okay, I’ll leave you to yourself.’ Lauren paused. ‘If you need some me-time, that is. Otherwise I’ll be happy to stay.’

  ‘No. I’m fine.’ Pamela appraised the comfortable furnishings. A huge puffy sofa looked as if it could swallow her whole. Maybe that’s where I’ll find Mosby. Twenty fathoms deep behind the cushions. ‘It’d be kinda nice just to lie still in the quiet.’

  ‘You’ve got it. There’s no air-con but there’s a couple of fans. Besides, when the sun’s gone down it soon gets cool in the desert.’

  Lauren made small talk for a while before she left. Pamela figured that the woman in her flowing hippie clothes had a warm hippie heart. She was concerned for Pamela.

  Didn’t want to leave her dwelling on what had happened just twenty hours ago.

  Husband murdered.

  House burned.

  Abducted by disgusting Rodney Pinkham.

  He’d threatened to abuse her in such a vile, degrading way.

  Twenty hours. Seems a lifetime ago.

  On sore feet Pamela made a tour of the trailer. It was spotlessly clean. She drank cold water from a pitcher in the refrigerator. A row of Bud bottles faced her on the top shelf, left there by her bus-driver savior. Sharpe was the kindest man she knew. No wonder Lauren wanted to marry him. Course, he was weird, though, driving round in the bus with the dummy passengers.

  But what’s best in this world? Rational and mean, or eccentric and kind?

  Give me the benevolent oddball any day.

  The lounge had the lovely soft sofa, comfortable chairs, plastic apples and bananas in a bowl; on a wall hung a framed photograph of an old man standing beside a marlin that had been strung up by its tail. The fish was as long as the man. Both seemed to be smiling. Mosby?

  Where are you now, Mosby?

  In the pit . . . in the pit!

  Pamela closed off the sinister thought. Old Mosby might simply have retired to Palm Springs. Or the Florida Keys, where even now he’s sharpen
ing a fish hook to catch his biggest marlin yet. The old man and the sea.

  Apart from the photo there was no personal stuff like clothes or photos or car keys, or letters addressed ‘Dear Mr. Mosby . . .’ This was an old trailer. Clean. Comfortable. An ideal retreat from the world for those hurt in body and spirit.

  A tap sounded on the door.

  They’ve come for you, Pamela. The pit awaits . . .

  ‘Aw, shut up,’ she told her runaway imagination. She opened the trailer door to find Nicki standing there with a basket under one arm – the kind that might contain complimentary fruit. She still wore the white pullover and red shorts, but the apron must be on the hook until the cafe opened its doors tomorrow.

  ‘I just thought I’d drop by.’

  Pamela smiled. ‘Come on in.’

  ‘Not if you’re doing anything?’

  ‘No, I figured on turning in early.’

  ‘Oh, I thought I heard voices.’

  ‘Voices.’ Pamela gave a soft laugh despite her exhaustion. ‘No. That was me.’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘Talking to myself. I guess what happened today has sent me . . . you know . . .’ She gave a shrug of her shoulder. ‘Nuts.’ For a moment she thought she’d start crying again. Fighting it back, she gave a wider smile. ‘Come right on in.’

  Nicki slipped in through the doorway. Her slim body must be the envy of every woman for miles. And the source of hot thoughts for every man. The blonde hair turned her head into a golden glow in the electric light. A Nordic goddess. Complete with a ponytail. She could braid that into a long Rapunzel-like plait.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about your feet,’ Nicki said.

  ‘Me too. Every time I stand on them. Ouch.’ She grimaced. ‘I guess fear and all that shit made for a natural anesthetic. Now that I’m safe my feet are reminding me what they’ve been through, too.’

  ‘Hurts bad?’

  ‘It’s starting to kick in.’

  ‘Go through into the lounge and lie on the sofa.’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘Please. Let me do this for you, Pamela. I’ve brought things to make you feel good.’ Nicki moved the basket from under her arm.

  Instead of fruit it contained jars of silvery powder and bottles of amber oil.

  ‘I don’t have any money. I’m sorry that—’

  ‘No. I don’t want you to pay.’ A pink color flamed under Nicki’s tanned skin. ‘Please, never mention money again. We’re like sisters. We help each other.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m so tired. I’m not thinking properly.’

  ‘Of course you’re not. You went through hell today. Here, lie down. Let me take care of you. I’ll just slip this towel under your feet. There. Good girl. First, I’ll apply an embrocating oil with healing properties.’

  Nicki smoothed out the fluffy white towel under Pamela’s throbbing feet. Pamela relaxed back onto the sofa with a sigh, lying flat out.

  Uh. This sofa’s as soft as it looks.

  ‘You just relax,’ Nicki told Pamela. ‘Close your eyes while I work some of this in for you. It’ll feel good. It contains a natural antiseptic, too.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.’

  ‘Thank you. I don’t know how I’ll—’

  ‘Ah, ah.’ Nicki held up her finger. ‘Lie back, close your eyes. Nicki’s taking care of business now.’

  Pamela smiled, then eased her head back onto the cushion. Lying on her back on the sofa she looked up at the trailer ceiling that had been covered with a paper that bore a wood pattern in imitation pine. Very 1970s; it reminded her of her grandmother’s house. There was something reassuring about the old-fashioned feel. It took her back to her childhood. Nicki knelt on the floor at the other end of the sofa so that she could work on Pamela’s feet.

  Pamela heard a bottle being unstoppered.

  Then felt the flow of liquid along the top of her feet.

  Cold.

  ‘I keep it in the refrigerator,’ Nicki said. ‘Not too cold, is it?’

  ‘No . . . wonderful.’ Drowsy now, Pamela still gazed at the ceiling. ‘It’s putting the fires out.’

  ‘Good. You just wait till I’ve done. You’ll feel as if you’re walking on air.’

  ‘Ohhh.’

  ‘Feel good?’

  ‘Outta this world.’

  And it did. Using gentle circular strokes Nicki massaged the cold oil into the top of Pamela’s foot, then worked the embrocating fluid round the injured soles.

  ‘Hmm,’ Pamela whispered. ‘Peppermint. I can smell peppermint.’

  ‘Oil of peppermint’s good for skin as well as for the digestion. There . . . let me know if it stings.’

  ‘No . . . perfect . . .’

  This is heaven, Pamela thought. After the hell of last night I’m in heaven today. This foot massage is truly out of this world. The oil cooled her burning feet. The sting left the grazes. That feeling of well-being spread through her body, releasing tension in the muscles in her back and face. She felt as if she’d been like a rubber band twisted so tightly that it had bunched into hard knots. Now she was unwinding, her muscles softening.

  And all the time Nicki’s gentle fingers flowed from Pamela’s Achilles tendon along her heel to the arch of her sole, to the ball of her foot then smoothed away the hurt in her toes.

  Pamela’s eyes closed. A sliding motion moved through her that told her she was falling asleep. Her arms twitched a couple of times but Nicki breathed gentle reassurances that she was safe, that she was going to be okay. And all the time that cool slippery caress of fingers against her feet. Peppermint scented the air. A tingling freshness that flowed through her nostrils into her bloodstream.

  A flurry of dream images drifted through Pamela’s mind. Home. Jim sitting on the porch swing. Rodney tumbling into the pit. Sharpe driving the bus. The dummies sitting in their seats. The old-timer, Hank. Walking into the cafe. This time Pamela looked more closely at the diners in their booths. They were all shop mannequins. Even so, their plastic heads turned on stiff necks to stare at her. She looked at where Nicki and Lauren stood. They’d turned into mannequins, too. The Lauren effigy wore her hippie dress, while the Nicki figure wore the white pullover and red shorts. In the dream Sharpe loomed over her. She saw herself reflected in his sunglasses.

  ‘They all came as regular people. But they all turned plastic, too.’ He grinned. ‘Same’s happening to you. How’s those stiff little feet of yours?’

  Pamela looked down and saw that her feet had turned into the creamy plastic of a mannequin with fused toes.

  Her eyes snapped open. The trailer was in near-darkness. Peppermint scented the air. Her feet were still being massaged, only . . .

  Only differently now. Raising her head a little, Pamela looked down the length of her body. Nicki still knelt by the sofa. She’d removed her sweater. Holding Pamela’s feet by the ankles she was rubbing her big soft breasts against the soles of the other girl’s feet. The nipples felt like fingertips.

  Nicki had freed her hair. It tumbled loose in blonde waves down her naked back. Her face was raised to the ceiling, eyes closed. She moaned with pleasure.

  I must be dreaming this, Pamela told herself. Nicki couldn’t be rubbing her bare breasts against my feet. It doesn’t make sense. I am dreaming. Have to be.

  She forced herself to close her eyes while repeating to herself, It’s a dream. I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming . . .

  Chapter Seventeen

  Norman drove. He didn’t know where he drove . . . Shoot! Where the FUCK he drove.

  Only needed to drive. Gotta drive. Gotta get away.

  ‘Norman?’

  ‘Shaddup!’

  ‘Hey,’ Duke sounded hurt. ‘I only wanted—’

  ‘Shaddup!’

  ‘Normy, Normy,’ Boots cooed. ‘Gotta put your lights on, Normy. It’s too dark to drive like this.’

  Lights! Yeah, lights are good but—

  But all of a sudden Norman was shouting. ‘What did you have to ki
ll those two guys for? Jesus H. Christ! Boots, you just – just strangled a guy.’

  ‘Yeah, strangled him bare-assed,’ Duke chuckled. ‘Spose there are worse ways to depart the world.’

  ‘And you, Duke!’

  ‘Normy, slow down. Pleezy-weezy.’

  Not gonna slow down. Never gonna slow down. But what the fuck am I doing with these two murderers in the car? Should have left them at the motel to meet and greet the cops. Not driving with the gruesome twosome that are going to end up broiling on Old Sparky.

  Aw, shit.

  Get them outta the car, Norman. Get ’em out!

  ‘Now that’s hardly fair, Norman.’ Duke unwrapped a stick of gum. ‘Sure, Boots strangled the pervert. Sure, I stabbed the old guy. But you, Norman, old buddy, you kicked him in the nut nest.’

  ‘Nut nest? Nut nest!’

  ‘Switch on your lights.’ Boots sat in the back, rubbing Norman’s shoulder as he drove.

  Norman didn’t see dark roads at midnight, he only saw the world streaked with bright red blood. ‘Nut nest! I didn’t kick him in the balls. I kicked him in the . . . ugh.’

  Oh no.

  Did kick him.

  But that’s not murder.

  ‘Sure you kicked him.’ Duke sounded calm. ‘But you were helping your buddies. Here, let me get those lights for you. Don’t want to run into a tree, do we now?’

  Boots cooed. ‘Where you taking us, Norman?’

  To the cops! Those were the words he wanted to yell. But he’d have to be canny. Find a police precinct. Make some excuse. Dash inside. Tell the first cop he saw, ‘Hey, I’ve got two murderers in my car.’ That’d make sense, wouldn’t it? Get rid of these two bozos. Hey, he might even get a citation for heroism. He could see the headlines in his hometown newspaper now.

  First, find the precinct.

  ‘Drive nice and legal,’ Duke told him. ‘If you don’t ease offa that gas you’re gonna draw attention to ourselves.’

  Boots rubbed Norman’s shoulder. ‘Don’t wanna get stopped by the cops, do we, Normy?’

  Wanna bet?

  Won’t be me getting all gelled up for Old Sparky. Won’t be me biting my tongue in two when they unleash fifty thousand volts through my bod.