After Midnight

by Richard Laymon

  After Midnight

  Richard Laymon

  LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY

  This book is dedicated to Tom Corey Friend, Photographer, Musician, Construction Guru and the Builder of Alice’s Garage & To Donna, René and Amina his special gals

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Chapter 1 It Starts

  Chapter 2 The Stranger

  Chapter 3 In The Water

  Chapter 4 The Phone Call

  Chapter 5 Exit

  Chapter 6 Discoveries

  Chapter 7 Clean Up

  Chapter 8 Tony Goes Home

  Chapter 9 The Lost Detail

  Chapter 10 The Third Key

  Chapter 11 Apartment Twelve

  Chapter 12 Tony Tales

  Chapter 13 Ringing Up The Dead Guy

  Chapter 14 Night Riders

  Chapter 15 Into The Woods

  Chapter 16 Killing Judy

  Chapter 17 Gone

  Chapter 18 Cries In The Night

  Chapter 19 The Search

  Chapter 20 Choices

  Chapter 21 A Hell Of A Gal

  Chapter 22 Here Comes Trouble

  Chapter 23 Survivor

  Chapter 24 Friendly Persuasion

  Chapter 25 On The Way Out

  Chapter 26 Home At Last

  Chapter 27 Splish-Splash

  Chapter 28 Yvonne

  Chapter 29 Murphy

  Chapter 30 Mds

  Chapter 31 The Offer

  Chapter 32 Leverage

  Chapter 33 Getting Down To Business

  Chapter 34 The Art Of Seduction

  Chapter 35 Tied

  Chapter 36 Invader

  Chapter 37 Identtty Crisis

  Chapter 38 The Slip

  Chapter 39 So Long, My Sweet

  Chapter 40 Last Tasks

  Chapter 41 Going Home

  Chapter 42 The Invitation

  Chapter 43 No Place Like Home

  Chapter 44 Adamant Elroy

  Chapter 45 Where Is Elroy?

  Chapter 46 Reunion

  Chapter 47 The Happy Hour

  Chapter 48 Body Heat

  Chapter 49 Sleeping Beauty

  Chapter 50 The Awakening

  Chapter 51 Teamwork

  Chapter 52 Head Games

  Chapter 53 The Getaway

  Chapter 54 Wires

  Chapter 55 Into The Woods

  Chapter 56 I Fall For Steve

  Chapter 57 Searching The Dark

  Chapter 58 The Audition

  Chapter 59 And The Winner Is…

  Epilogue

  Praise

  Other Books By

  Copyright

  INTRODUCTION

  Hello.

  I’m Alice.

  I’ve never written a book before, but figured I might as well start by saying who I am.

  Alice.

  That’s not my real name. I’d have to be an idiot to tell you my real name, wouldn’t I? Identify myself, then go on to write a book that tells more than anyone should ever know about my private life and adventures and passions and crimes.

  Just call me Alice.

  Sounds like “alias,” doesn’t it?

  I’m somebody, alias Alice.

  Anyway, names are the only things I’ll lie about. I’ll make up names for all my characters, because they’re real people—or were—and I don’t want any trouble. If I start giving true names, no telling where it might lead.

  Obviously, that’ll have to go for place names, too. Not just people. I don’t want to give away where stuff happened, or someone might start putting two and two-together.

  Except for the names of people and places, everything else will be completely true. I promise. I mean, why bother to write my story if I’m not going to tell the truth? What would be the point?

  For that matter, what is the point?

  Why am I sitting down to write this book?

  I’m not doing it for the money. I would do it for the money, but how can you get paid for a book without letting someone know who you really are? How do they make out the checks? I haven’t figured that out yet, but I’m working on it.

  I’m not doing it for fame, either. How can I make myself famous if nobody knows who I am?

  But I want to write it anyway.

  My story only happened about six months ago, but I already feel it starting to slip into the past. If I don’t hurry and get it down the way it was, I’m afraid I’ll lose it.

  I’ll never forget the main stuff, but little pieces are sure to fall away and others will change on me.

  I want a record of how it really was. Every detail. So when I read it, later on, I’ll have a way to live it all over again.

  Also, it might come in handy if they ever try to prosecute me. It’ll give the complete truth about my side of things, and might help me off the hook.

  Or maybe it won’t.

  I might be better off burning it.

  Anyway, here we go.

  1

  IT STARTS

  I’ve already explained, my name is Alice (but not really). I was twenty-six years old when all this took place last summer, and living in a comfortable little room over the garage of my best friend’s house.

  That was Serena.

  She had it all. Not only the huge old house at the edge of the woods, but a husband named Charlie and two kids—a four-year-old named Debbie who was every bit as beautiful as her mother, and a baby named Jeff.

  Some people have all the luck, don’t they?

  I mean Serena, not me.

  What it mostly boils down to is genes. Serena was hugely, incredibly lucky in the genes department. Which is to say, she was born beautiful and smart. When you’ve got that going for you, everything else is a whizz. It was only natural for Serena to marry a handsome, wealthy fellow, move into a great house, and have a couple of terrific kids.

  I didn’t make out quite so well in the genes department.

  My parents were a couple of duds. Good, hard-working people, but duds. Not that I hold it against them. It wasn’t their fault; they came from duds, themselves, and couldn’t help it. Just as I can’t help who I am.

  And I don’t resent who I am.

  You can’t do anything about your genes, so you have to do the best you can with what you’ve got.

  I did all right.

  This isn’t meant to be an autobiography, so I won’t bore you with the details of my youth. This is supposed to be about what happened because of the stranger who showed up on that night last summer, so I’ll skip to there.

  As already stated, I was living in the room over Serena’s garage. I paid a monthly rent. She had tried to talk me out of paying (she really had no use for the money, anyway), but I insisted. Even though I was between jobs, I had some savings. I was glad to part with it, so as not to be considered a freeloader.

  Even if a person doesn’t look like a beauty queen, she can still keep her dignity.

  Am I giving you the impression that I’m an ugly, pathetic cow?

  Writing is harder than it looks, I guess. Especially if you want to tell something the way it really is and not mislead people.

  The fact is, I’m not and never was ugly. My face doesn’t stop clocks. But then, it doesn’t stop traffic, either. People have said I have a “sweet” face, and I’ve been called “cute.” Not many people have ever used the term “beautiful” in connection with me. Those who did—like my parents—were either blinded by prejudice in my favor, lying outright to spare my feelings, or hoping to lay me.

  George Gunderson used to call me “beautiful” and “gorgeous,” but you should’ve seen George. I was probably the only
gal in the history of his life who didn’t run away screaming. Besides, he was just flattering me to get in my pants. Guys are that way, in case you never noticed.

  Anyway, I’m not exactly beautiful or gorgeous. I just have an ordinary, fairly pleasant-looking face. My natural hair color is brown, but I tint it a nice, light shade of blond. My eyes are brown. So are my teeth.

  Just kidding about the teeth.

  Maybe I shouldn’t joke around like that. After all, this is supposed to be a serious book. People do tell me, though, that I’ve got an interesting sense of humor.

  My two greatest attributes, if you listen to what other people say, are my sense of humor and my smile. They also say I’m a “nice” person, and that I’m “caring.” But what do they know?

  Though I’m nothing special in the face department, I do have a damn good body on me. I’m large for a woman (five-foot ten), and used to be on the husky side. Hell, I was fat and dumpy. But my first year at college, I pulled myself together and got into shape. Ever since then, I’ve stayed fit. I look great in a swimsuit—and even better out of one.

  But mostly, I keep my main assets well hidden. I don’t like for guys to see what I’ve got.

  Back when I was dumpy, they never wanted to look at me or be seen with me. After I got into shape, though, I had to fight them off. Just about all of them were total jerks. They didn’t want to know me or have fun. All they cared about was the fact that I was “built.”

  According to several charmers, I was “built like a brick shithouse.”

  I don’t even know what a brick shithouse looks like.

  What the hell is a brick shithouse? Why would anyone want to compare me to one? It’s not only crass, but it doesn’t even make sense.

  When you come right down to it, most guys stink. By the time I was twenty-six and living above Serena’s garage, I’d pretty much given up on them.

  But then came the night the stranger showed up.

  It was a hot night in July. Serena and Charlie were off on a vacation with the kids, and wouldn’t be coming back for a week. In the meantime, I had the entire house to myself. They always encouraged me to stay in the real house whenever they went away. They said it made the house look “lived in,” so it wouldn’t be a target for burglars. Maybe they believed what they were saying. Personally, though, I think they were just being nice to me. They figured I would much rather spend the week in their house than in my room above the garage.

  They were partly right. They had a wonderful kitchen, a master bathroom with a sunken tub that was absolutely heavenly, and a den with a thirty-five-inch television. Whenever I had the run of the house, I prepared great meals for myself, lounged in the bathtub, and spent hours watching the big-screen TV.

  In the master bedroom was a king-sized bed about three times the size of my bed in the garage. The walls and closet doors on both sides of it were lined with mirrors, and another huge mirror was fixed to the ceiling directly above the mattress. Serena told me they were Charlie’s idea. They probably were. Serena must’ve like them, too, though. The mirrors wouldn’t have gone up if she hadn’t approved. She and Charlie were both a couple of gorgeous specimens, so it’s hardly any wonder that they liked to watch each other—and themselves.

  The first time I ever stayed overnight in the house, I tried out their bed. I looked pretty good in the mirrors, myself, but I also looked very alone sprawled out in the center of that enormous mattress. And then I got to thinking about Serena and Charlie, and how this was their bed. Time after time, they’d probably made love right in the very place where I was lying. Right on the very sheet. But now it was me on the sheet, not Serena, not Charlie. To make a long story short, my imagination ran wild and nothing could stop it. Even after I finally fell asleep, my mind wouldn’t settle down. All night long, I thrashed about and sweated, plagued by feverish dreams—or hallucinations—so vivid they seemed real.

  When I woke up the next morning, I was so worn out and ashamed of myself that I vowed never to spend another night in Serena and Charlie’s bed. From then on, I always returned to the garage for bedtime.

  It suited me.

  As much as I liked their kitchen and bathroom and television, I often got the willies at night. The place was too big—more rooms than you could use, a hallway that ran from one end of the house to the other, windows all over the place and too many doors. You always had to worry that someone might be peering at you through a window—or already inside, hiding and ready to jump you.

  Not at all like my small, cozy place above the garage.

  My place was about twenty-five feet square, a single room with a kitchenette and “half a bath”—meaning I had a fully equipped bathroom, minus a tub. From the middle of the room, with the bathroom door open, I could see every door and window. I could also hear the slightest sound.

  After entering my quarters, I never failed to look around to make sure nobody had crept in during my absence. And I listened. An intruder might hide motionless and holding his breath, but I figured I would be able to hear his heartbeat.

  I always felt very safe, back in my own room.

  But getting to it could be hard on the nerves.

  On that hot July night when the stranger came, I’d stayed in the house until after midnight. Normally, I would’ve left earlier. But this was the first day of Serena and Charlie’s vacation, and I hadn’t had the house to myself since their spring trip to San Francisco. As a result, I’d forgotten the wisdom of early departures. So I stayed too long in their house that night.

  Overdid it.

  Serena and Charlie have a lovely swimming pool in the back yard. With no other houses nearby and a wild forest behind their property, the pool is like a private, woodland pond.

  A pond that I avoided like a swamp.

  Except when I was house-sitting, nobody around to look at me or interfere.

  The day everything started, Serena and Charlie didn’t get away until early afternoon. In the driveway, I gave everyone goodbye kisses, wished them a great time, then waved as Charlie backed his car toward the road.

  As soon as they were out of sight, I celebrated my new freedom by running up to my room, throwing off my clothes and jumping into my new, two-piece swimsuit. I’d already packed a small bag with things I might need during the day. I grabbed it and hurried down to their house.

  First, I made myself a Bloody Mary. Then I went out to the pool.

  Slick with oil and gleaming with sunlight, I spent all afternoon relaxing on the lounger, drinking this and that drink, reading a paperback mystery, daydreaming and napping. Now and then, when I grew terribly hot and drippy, I went into the water for a chilly, refreshing swim.

  It was a luscious afternoon.

  I drank too much and slept too much and got too much sun and loved it.

  Later, I barbecued a steak on the outdoor grill. I ate it by the pool. After supper, I figured I’d had enough outdoor living for one day, and moved inside. I took a long, hot shower, soaping myself all over to get the oil off. When I rinsed, my skin gleamed. It had a warm coppery glow from the sun.

  My tan was great, but it made me look a little silly in the bedroom mirrors. That’s because of the places where I wasn’t tanned. I looked as if I were wearing a swimsuit made from the skin of someone else, a stranger who’d never been out in the sunlight.

  I used some of Serena’s skin lotion to keep myself nice and moist. Then I slipped into Charlie’s blue silk robe, went into the den, and watched television. I just loved their big-screen TV. It made everything look huge.

  Their house was too far out of town for cable, so they had a satellite dish. The little TV in my own room was hooked up to the same system, so I knew how to work it.

  You could get a zillion shows.

  I found a movie that started at eight. While I was watching it, night came so I had to get off the couch and shut the den curtains. I don’t like curtains being open at night. Somebody might be out in the dark, looking in. You can’t see him,
but he can see you. It really gives me the creeps.

  That particular night, I felt more edgy than usual. It was probably a case of first-night jitters. Or else a premonition.

  I turned on a couple of lamps to make the den bright.

  I’d planned to take a long bath by candlelight after the movie. When the time came, though, I changed my mind. I much preferred to stay in the bright den with the television on, its volume good and loud. I’d lost every desire to go wandering through the dark house or to sit all alone in the hot water, surrounded by silence and flickering candle flames and shadows.

  With the change of plans, I wanted popcorn—at least until I thought about the long journey to the kitchen. There were windows all along the way—enormous windows and sliding glass doors and walls of glass—every one of them facing the pool area, the back lawn and the woods. If only I’d remembered to shut those curtains before dark!

  With the curtains wide open, it would almost be the same as if the house didn’t have any rear wall, at all.

  I had walked that particular gauntlet before.

  That’s true. I’d often walked it at night when the curtains were wide open and I was all alone in the house. Sometimes, I hadn’t even gotten a case of the jitters. Usually, though, I found myself hurrying along, goosebumps from head to toe, afraid to even glance toward the windows, absolutely certain that someone horrible must be gazing in at me.

  Tonight, I was already feeling too damn jumpy.

  The popcorn wasn’t worth a trip that might scare me half out of my wits, so I went ahead and watched the next movie without any.

  It ended a little after midnight.

  Which was late. Normally, eleven o’clock would’ve been about the right time for letting myself out of the house and hurrying to my room above the garage.

  As late as it already was, I didn’t feel the least bit sleepy. Maybe because I’d taken all those naps beside the pool.

  So why not stay and watch one more movie?

  Why not? Because if I watched another, I would have to make my trip to the garage at 1:30 or 2:00.

  Way too late.

  My swimsuit was still in the master bathroom. I decided to leave it there. Since I had nothing else to put on, I stayed in Charlie’s robe. I liked wearing it, anyway. It was very lightweight, and felt slippery and cool against my skin. Also, it made me feel funny, sometimes, knowing it was his. Funny in a good, familiar sort of way.