But she didn’t move.
Her luck, the creep would probably hear her coming.
In her mind, she saw Roland whirl around and lay open her head with the bar.
She wouldn’t put it past him.
He’s a fucking wimp, she thought, but he’s not exactly stable.
She saw him drag her body into the restaurant.
The thoughts began to frighten her.
Roland got the door open. He lifted his sleeping bag off the porch, glanced back at Dana, then went inside. The door swung shut.
Dana shut off the headlights.
Leaning across the seat, she locked the passenger door.
She reached for the ignition key, intending to turn the engine off. But she changed her mind, shifted to reverse, and slowly backed the car away. She considered leaving. It would serve the shit right, getting stranded out here. If he realized she was gone, however, he might decide to spread out his sleeping bag on the porch. He had to spend the night inside. That was the bet. That was the punishment, the price he had to pay for being such an asshole.
And for looking at the pictures.
He has them with him.
Dana, suddenly realizing she might be dangerously close to the rear of the parking area, hit her brakes. The car jolted to a stop. She set the emergency brake and killed the engine.
When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she found that she could see the restaurant. It was about fifty years ahead of her, a low dark shape the width of the parking lot, black beneath its hooded porch.
It looked forbidding.
And Roland was inside.
Dana smiled. “You’ll have a real good time,” she muttered.
When Roland closed the restaurant door, he stood motionless and scanned the darkness. He could see nothing. He heard only his own heartbeat and quick breaths and the sounds of the rain.
There’s nothing to be afraid of, he told himself.
His body seemed to believe otherwise.
He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to drop the sleeping bag, take off his pack, and get his hands on the flashlight. But he couldn’t move.
Go ahead and do it.
He was sure it would be all right, but part of him knew with absolute certainty that something was hunched silent in the dark nearby. Aware of his presence. Waiting. If he made the slightest move, it would come for him.
The quiet whinnying of Dana’s car engine broke through his fear. He turned around and opened the restaurant’s door. The Volkswagen was backing away.
She’s leaving?
The thought alarmed him at first, then filled him with relief. If she actually drove off, he wouldn’t need to stay inside. Spend the night on the porch, maybe. Keep a lookout and make sure he was back inside when she returned.
If she returned.
And if she didn’t come back in the morning, the hike back to town was only a few miles and he’d still win the bet.
The car didn’t turn around. Near the far end of the parking lot, its red brake lights glowed briefly.
It stopped.
The engine went silent.
Roland’s hope died. Dana wasn’t leaving, after all, just putting some distance between herself and the restaurant. She must’ve been nervous about being close to it.
He watched for a while, but the car didn’t move again.
Leaving the door open for a quick escape, Roland dropped his sleeping bag to the floor. He took off his pack and removed the flashlight. With his back to the doorway, he thumbed the flashlight switch. The strong beam shot out. He whipped it from right to left. Shadows jumped and writhed, but no foul shape was lurching toward him.
Roland allowed himself to breathe. He wished his heart would slow down. It felt like a fist punching the insides of his chest.
He shut the door and sagged slightly against it. He locked his knees to keep them from folding under him. His kneecaps began to flutter with a spastic, twitching bounce, as if they wanted to jump off his legs.
Roland tried to ignore them. Aiming the flashlight ahead, he took several steps until he could see around the corner of the wall. The wall extended down the right side of the main dining room. Something just beyond the corner caught his eye. He held his breath until he identified the objects as a stepladder, a lamp, and a vacuum cleaner. On the floor near them were a toolbox, some jars and bottles and rags. He moved the beam away.
A bright disk at the far end of the room startled Roland, but it was only his own light reflecting off a window. He wasn’t alarmed when his light hit the other windows.
Except for the clutter near the one wall, the dining room was empty. He swept his beam back across it, to the wall ahead of him, and to the right. A few yards away was the corner of an L-shaped bar counter. The shelves behind it were empty. There were no stools in front of the counter. A brass foot rail ran its length.
Turning slightly, Roland played his beam over the space between the bar counter and the front wall of the restaurant. A card table stood near the wall. Bottles and a few glasses gleamed with the light. There were two folding chairs at the table.
Crouching, he shined his flashlight beneath the card table.
He stood up. Beyond the table, at the far end of the room, was an alcove. A sign above the opening read, “Rest rooms.”
Roland moved slightly forward until he could aim his light into the space behind the counter.
Returning to his backpack, he took but two of the candles he had purchased that afternoon. He went to the table, and lit them. He let the wax drip onto the table, then stood the candles upright in the tiny puddles. He stepped back. The two flames gave off an amazing amount of light, their glow illuminating most of the cocktail area.
Comforted somewhat by the light, Roland walked past the table. He noticed bat-wing doors behind the bar, probably to give the bartender access to the kitchen.
The kitchen.
Where the killings happened.
The areas above and below the doors were dark. He didn’t shine his light inside. Instead, he entered the short hallway to the rest rooms. A brass sign on the door straight ahead of him read “Ladies.” The door marked “Gentlemen” was on the right.
He needed to check inside each, but the prospect of that renewed his leg tremors and set his heart sledging again. He didn’t want to open those doors, didn’t want to face whatever might be lurking within.
It’ll be worse, he told himself, if I don’t look. Then I won’t know. I might get a big surprise later on.
He took the flashlight in his left hand, wiped the sweat off his right, and gripped the knob of the ladies’ room door. The knob wouldn’t turn. He tried the other door. It, too, was locked.
For a moment, he was glad. He wouldn’t be opening them. It was a great relief.
Then he realized that the locked doors didn’t guarantee that the rest rooms were safe. Probably, the doors could still be opened from the inside.
He shined his light on the knob of the men’s room door. It had a keyhole. A few times in the past, he had gotten into toilets simply by inserting a pointed object into the lock hole and twisting. He pulled up the leather flap of his knife case.
The snap popped open.
Christ, it was loud!
Whoever’s behind the door…
Calm down.
…heard it.
There’s nobody inside the goddamn john.
Roland stared at the door.
He imagined a sudden, harsh rap on the other side.
Gooseflesh crawled up his back.
Leaving his knife in its case, he backed away.
The candlelight was comforting.
He picked up the folding chairs one at a time and carried them to the entryway beneath the rest rooms sign. Back-to-back, they made a barrier that would have to be climbed over or pushed away. He placed a cocktail glass on the seat of each, near the edge. If the chairs moved, the glasses should fall.
Pleased with his innovation, Roland returned to the card
table. He picked up one of the bottles. It was nearly full. With a candle behind it, he saw that the liquor was clear. He turned the bottle until he could read its label in the trembling light. Gilbey’s Vodka.
Great.
He twisted off the plastic cap, raised the bottle, and filled his mouth. He swallowed a little bit at a time. The vodka scorched his throat and ignited a fire in his stomach. When his mouth was empty, he took a deep breath and sighed.
If he drank enough, he could numb himself to the whole situation.
But that would make him more vulnerable.
One more swig, then he recapped the bottle.
Crouching over his pack, Roland lifted out Dana’s camera and folded it open. A flash bar was already attached to the top. He stood up and took another deep breath. It felt good inhaling, filling his lungs. They didn’t seem tight like before. In fact, he realized that he was no longer shaking. There was a slightly vague feeling inside his head. Had the vodka done this?
Back at the table, he set down the camera and took one more swallow.
Then one more.
Picking up the camera, he went to the end of the bar. He lifted the hinged panel, tipped it back so it would stay upright, and stepped through the opening. He stopped in front of the bat-wing doors. Beyond them was darkness.
The kitchen.
“Anybody…” He almost said, “here?” but that word wouldn’t come out. He wished he’d kept quiet. His fear had come back with the sound of his voice, a tight band constricting his chest.
He raised the flashlight above the doors. Its beam spilled along the kitchen floor, shaking as it moved.
He smelled the blood before he saw it. He knew the odor well, having collected some of his own in a mayonnaise jar and smeared it over his face on Halloween to gross out the guys in the dorm. His blood had smelled just this way—metallic, a little like train rails.
The flashlight beam found the blood. There was lots of it, all over the floor about halfway across the kitchen. It looked brown.
There were pale, tape outlines showing the positions of the bodies.
This is getting real, he thought.
Shit.
This is getting very real.
He’d made a big mistake. He had no business here. He was a dumb-ass kid intruding where he didn’t belong.
He lowered the flashlight. Backed away. Felt someone sneaking up on him and whirled around. Nobody there. He hurried to the other side of the bar.
I don’t need this. I don’t need to prove anything. I don’t need Dana’s money.
Near the door, he dropped to his knees and stuffed the camera into his pack.
Take pictures. Sure.
He stood, lifting the pack by one strap and hooking a finger of the same hand through the draw cord of his sleeping bag.
Shit, the candles.
The bundles swinging at his side, he rushed to the card table. As he puffed one candle out, he spotted the chairs he’d set up to block the hall to the rest rooms.
Leave them. Who cares.
He blew out the other candle. Followed the beam of his flashlight to the door. Opened the door.
The night breeze, smelling of rain, blew against his face.
He stared through the downpour at Dana’s car—a small, dark object waiting at the far edge of the lot. The plastic banner on its aerial waved in the breeze.
I’d be surprised if you last ten minutes.
The bitch, she’ll never let me live this down. She’ll tell everyone. I’ll be a joke.
Roland kicked the door shut.
“I’m staying!” he yelled. “Fuck it!”
He stepped close to the bar. He unrolled his sleeping bag, took off his cap and jacket, and sat on the soft, down-filled bag.
I should’ve done it like this in the first place.
Shouldn’t have snooped around.
Should’ve done it the way I’d planned.
Reaching deep into his pack, pushing aside the candles and camera, he touched steel.
The handcuffs rattled as he pulled them out.
He snapped one bracelet around his left wrist, the other around the brass foot rail of the bar.
Flashlight clamped under his left arm, he aimed it at the card table and gave the handcuff key a toss. It clinked against one of the bottles and dropped onto the table.
Out of reach.
We’ll see who chickens out, he thought.
We’ll see who lasts the night.
CHAPTER TEN
It was almost quitting time, and the rain outside Gabby’s showed no sign of letting up. Alison backed away from the window. She was glad that she’d borrowed Helen’s rain gear; she would have gotten drenched if she’d worn her windbreaker to work.
Not if Evan picks me up, she thought.
Fat chance.
Who knows, maybe he’ll surprise you. After all, he showed up last night when you didn’t think he would.
Alison went to a table that had just been vacated. She dropped the tip into her apron pocket and began to clear off the dirty plates and glasses.
If Evan cares at all about me, she thought, he’ll pick me up. He knows it’s pouring outside and I’ll have to walk home unless he gives me a ride. Coming to my rescue about now would go a long way toward getting back on my good side. He has to know that.
After wiping off the tabletop, she lifted the heavy tray and carried it into the kitchen.
Maybe he’ll show up, she told herself. And if he does, maybe he’ll be in for a surprise.
Before leaving the house that afternoon, Alison had tucked her toothbrush and her new nightie into the bottom of her flight bag. Then she had taken them out. She would have no use for them even if Evan should make an appearance. After all, she hadn’t changed her mind about sleeping with him. It was silly to prepare yourself for something that just wouldn’t happen.
But she thought about last Friday night. He had come into Gabby’s after the movie let out at the Imperial, sipped a beer while he waited for her to finish the shift, and they had walked back to his apartment. She hadn’t expected to spend the night. It was so wonderful, though, that she couldn’t force herself to leave and they had made love almost till dawn. That had been her first whole night with him.
If they could have another night like that…
We won’t, she told herself. Too much has changed.
But she’d gone ahead and put her toothbrush and nightie back into the bag. You never know. Maybe, somehow, everything would suddenly be right again.
She wanted it all to be right.
As she unloaded the dirty dishes in the kitchen of Gabby’s, she imagined Evan coming for her. “I just couldn’t stay away from you any longer,” he would say. “I tried to stay away and punish you, but I couldn’t. I’ve given it a lot of thought, Alison. Sure, I’d like to make love with you. I’d like nothing more, because it makes us part of each other, as if, for a little while, we’re one person. But I can live without that if I have to. The main thing, really, is just to be with you. I would be happy just looking into your eyes, just hearing your laughter, just holding your hand.”
And maybe she would go back to his apartment, after all. While he waited on the sofa, she’d close the door to his bedroom and slip into the negligee…
“Al!”
Startled, she turned around. Gabby, standing at the grill, was looking over his shoulder at her. “Go on and get out of here. Have a good weekend.”
“Thanks,” she said. “You, too.”
At the rear of the kitchen, she scooped her tips out of the apron and into her bag. She struggled into Helen’s heavy raincoat, put on the strange hat, and lifted the bag. “See you Monday,” she called, and pushed her way through the swinging door.
The table that she had just cleared was no longer deserted.
Evan sat there.
His arm was around Tracy Morgan.
More-Organ Morgan, Mouth-Organ Morgan, also known as Tugboat Tracy for reasons that had always been
unclear to Alison.
Alison felt herself shrivel inside.
Evan, as if sensing her presence, looked around at her. His glasses were spotted with rain. One side of his mouth twitched upward.
Alison rushed for the door, shouldered it open, and lurched into the pounding rain.
She looked sideways.
Behind the lighted window, Evan watched her and calmly stroked Tracy’s long, auburn hair.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Roland had purchased the handcuffs that afternoon at Spartan Sporting Goods for $24.50.
He had wanted to buy the cuffs when he’d first seen them a few weeks ago. Staring through the display case at the shiny bracelets, he’d been excited by thoughts of what he might do with them. Not that he would ever do such things. Still, just owning them would be nice, the same way it was nice to own a few knives even if you didn’t actually plan to run around carving up women with them. He’d bought the Buck knife that day. It wasn’t embarrassing, buying the knife, because people bought knives for camping, fishing, hunting. But if you’re not a cop, why do you need handcuffs? What would the salesperson think? It would be like buying a pack of condoms.
Roland had never bought condoms, even though he wanted them. And he hadn’t bought the handcuffs, either.
Until today.
When Dana challenged him to spend the night in the restaurant, he immediately remembered the cuffs and he knew how to win the bet. The cuffs would guarantee it. His courage, or lack of it, would be irrelevant once he had anchored himself to something in the restaurant. No matter what, he would win the bet.
With a hundred dollars and his reputation riding on the bet, he had returned to the store. He could feel himself blushing as he peered through the counter glass.
“Can I help you with something?” asked the clerk.
Roland kept his eyes down. “I’d like to see the handcuffs.”
“Black or nickle finish?”
“Nickle.”
Crouching, the man slid open the back of the counter and reached inside. He was heavyset, his brown hair long around the sides of his head as if to make up for what was lacking on top. He put the cuffs on the counter.
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