The Complete Beast House Chronicles

by Richard Laymon

  ‘That’s enough, Clyde,’ Lynn said. ‘Let’s not make a big deal out of this. Far as we know, nobody’s missing. The player’s gone, that’s all. People do steal the things. But we need to keep our eyes open. Maybe someone did get snatched, even though there’s no reason to think so. Another possibility is that we’ve got a hider. If it’s a hider, he might still be in the house. No telling what he might be up to, so we need to be especially careful.’

  ‘Do you suppose it’s all connected?’ Rhonda asked, frowning as if deep in thought.

  ‘What’s all connected?’ Lynn asked.

  Rhonda blushed. ‘You know. The vandalism of Ethel, the missing tape player. They both happened on the same day, didn’t they?’

  ‘The vandalism might’ve been the night before,’ Lynn said. ‘But yeah, there could be a connection. I just don’t think we know enough to draw any sort of conclusions yet.’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of conclusions,’ Sharon said, squinting through her cigarette smoke. ‘I conclude something weird’s going on. And I also conclude this might just be the start of it.’

  Clyde widened his eyes. ‘And it all began yesterday with the arrival of Dana.’

  ‘Blow it out your ass,’ Sharon told him.

  ‘Kiss my ass.’

  ‘Not with these lips.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Lynn said. ‘For one thing, we had plenty of incidents before Dana came along. For another, Clyde, try not to be such a fuckwad.’

  ‘Oooo,’ he said. ‘You’d better watch your language, little girl. I might have to get out a bar of soap.’

  Ignoring his remark, Lynn glanced at her wristwatch. ‘It’s almost time to open. Any questions about your assignments?’

  ‘I’d like to take the second floor,’ Dana said. ‘If that’s all right. Since I screwed up yesterday.’

  Sharon agreed to switch positions with her.

  Smirking at Dana, Clyde said, ‘Guess who has the first floor?’

  ‘I don’t see that as a problem,’ Dana said. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Oh, no no. I see it as an opportunity.’

  ‘Are we all set?’ Lynn asked.

  ‘Not quite,’ said Clyde. He mashed the remains of his cigarette under his shoe.

  ‘What is it now?’

  ‘You called me a fuckwad,’ he said.

  ‘Right. So?’

  ‘Did you mean it as a compliment?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Whatever you wanta think. Now let’s get this show on the road.’

  Clyde taking up the rear, they walked in a group around the side of the house. At the front, Lynn, Sharon and Rhonda cut across the lawn toward the ticket booth. Clyde stayed behind Dana. She resisted an urge to look back at him.

  ‘Do you think I’m a fuckwad?’ he asked.

  Turning her head, she said, ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  He hurried up to her. ‘Lynn can’t stand the fact that I broke up with her. She’s hated me ever since.’

  ‘No kidding?’ Dana muttered.

  ‘I’m afraid I broke her heart.’

  ‘I guess you’re a real heartbreaker.’

  ‘So, how was your date last night?’

  ‘Just fine.’

  ‘Just fine? That’s not much of a recommendation. If you’d been with me, your answer would have been “extraordinary.” Or even “magnificent.”’

  ‘I’m sure.’ She climbed the porch stairs.

  Clyde hurried ahead of her and opened the front door of Beast House.

  ‘Thanks.’ She stepped over the threshold.

  Rushing in behind her, Clyde jerked the door shut. It slammed the daylight out.

  Dana could hardly see the stairway through the murky gloom.

  ‘Sorry,’ Clyde said. ‘Do you need the light?’

  ‘This is fine.’

  ‘Could we talk for a minute?’

  ‘I need to get upstairs.’ She put a hand on the newel post and stepped onto the first stair.

  ‘Nobody’ll be in here for another five minutes, at least. So don’t run off, all right?’

  She climbed a few more stairs, anxious to get away from him.

  Wait. Why not hear what he has to say?

  Ask him a few questions.

  Dana stopped and turned around. Clyde came toward her.

  ‘Stay down there, okay? We can talk, but don’t try to come up.’

  He halted. ‘Is this all right?’

  ‘Fine. What do you want, Clyde?’

  ‘I want us to be friends.’

  ‘Friends. Right.’

  Spreading his muscular arms, he said, ‘There’s still time.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Do you already have another engagement planned for tonight?’

  She realized that her heart was pounding fast.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she said. ‘As a matter of fact, I didn’t have one last night, either. I just didn’t want to go out with you.’

  ‘So you lied.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Shame on you.’

  ‘I know. I hate lies. That’s why I’m leveling with you now. You and I are co-workers. I’d like for us to be friends, but I have no intention of going out with you.’

  ‘Ah, the old “co-workers” ploy.’

  ‘It’s not a ploy.’

  ‘Sure it is. It’s just a handy excuse. Why don’t you just come right out and say that you hate me.’

  ‘I don’t hate you.’

  ‘Your dear friend Lynn has probably told you all sorts of terrible lies about me. She can’t stand that I dumped her. Oh, she was absolutely nuts about me. She couldn’t get enough of me. She was insatiable. We even did it right here inside Beast House. Countless times. In every room. Even in the attic. Even in the cellar.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘She had to have me over and over again. I drove her crazy with lust. And with jealousy. She was so jealous, so possessive. I finally couldn’t stand it any longer. The accusations. Groundless accusations. She thought I was fucking Sharon. She even accused me of seducing Rhonda. Rhonda! Can you believe it? Can you imagine, for one moment, that I would be interested in having sex with that childish, stupid pig?’

  ‘Knock it off now.’

  ‘God only knows what sort of lies Lynn’s been telling you. And you probably believe her. Hell, why wouldn’t you? She’s your best friend. In your eyes, I’m sure she can do no wrong.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

  ‘I’m not a bad person. Even she didn’t think so. She thought I was great. That’s why she hates me so much now.’

  ‘I think there’s at least one more reason she hates you.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You’re a fuckwad.’

  While standing on the stairs, Dana’s eyes had adjusted to the dim light. She was able to see Clyde’s lips tighten into a thin, angry line.

  She turned her back to him and climbed the stairs.

  ‘You’ll change your tune,’ he called.

  She didn’t answer, just kept climbing.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘You get a taste of me, you won’t be able to get enough. None of them can. You’ll be begging for more.’

  At the top of the stairs, she turned to the right and started walking down the hallway.

  ‘Don’t let the beast get you!’ Clyde yelled.

  ‘Thanks for the warning,’ Dana called. ‘Have a nice day.’

  She heard him mutter a word. It had only one syllable. Though she couldn’t quite make it out, she was fairly sure that she knew what it was.

  ‘What a charmer,’ she whispered.

  Then she smiled but couldn’t stop trembling.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Sandy’s Story – July, 1992

  ‘Looks like we’ll have the beach to ourselves,’ Sandy said, seeing no cars parked at the end of the dirt road.

  ‘I certainly hope so,’ Blaze said. ‘
I have my heart set.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

  He turned his Silverado around, then stopped it. They both climbed out and unloaded the gear.

  ‘You carry the cooler and easel, if you will. I’ll take the rest.’

  ‘Right,’ Sandy said. She always carried the cooler and easel. Blaze always carried his canvases, paint box, and a full backpack. And he always insisted that Sandy walk in front of him, even though he was the one choosing the destinations.

  ‘It allows me time,’ he had told her, ‘to reacquaint myself with your form and flow.’

  Sandy had left her own clothes back at his house, and now wore the blue silk dress that she’d found waiting for her in the guest room. Low cut in front and back, its top was held up by thin, wispy straps. The fabric of the dress, nearly weightless, felt like cool fluid against her skin.

  Though she never let Blaze know when she might be coming to his house, he was always ready with a fabulous new costume for her. And she always gladly changed into it right away, even if they would be going no farther than his upstairs studio.

  The garments never failed to be beautiful, clingy and revealing. Some were barely decent.

  Like this one.

  Not only was it semi-transparent, but its skirt was at the mercy of the wind.

  The wind flipped it up as she bent over to lift the cooler.

  ‘Oh, lovely,’ Blaze commented.

  ‘Dirty old man,’ she said.

  ‘Old? Bite your tongue!’

  She stood up straight, the easel resting on her right shoulder. The cooler, down by her side, pulled at her left arm. She supposed it contained the usual picnic lunch of cheese, Italian salami, crackers, grapes, and two bottles of Champagne.

  Grinning over her shoulder, she said, ‘How old are you now, Blaze?’

  ‘Twenty-nine.’

  ‘Wow. That’s truly amazing. You don’t look a day over fifty.’

  He arched an eyebrow. ‘Fifty-eight, if you must know.’

  ‘No kidding? You do look great.’

  ‘Oh, I know, I know.’ Grinning, he stroked the wavy silver hair above his right ear. ‘I’ve been a raving beauty all my life and it’s too late to quit now. Ha!’

  ‘Ready to go?’ Sandy asked.

  ‘Lead on, MacQuiff.’

  She frowned back at him. ‘None of that, buster.’

  He tilted his head sideways and gave her a look like a scolded, repentant kid. ‘Forgive me, my dear.’

  ‘Just try to restrain yourself,’ she said, and started off.

  A path led away from the road’s end, curving along the side of a low, grassy hill before descending to the shore. It reminded Sandy of the way down to the beach at Malcasa Point.

  How often had she taken the path down to that beach?

  Dozens of times, at least. Maybe more than a hundred.

  She found herself remembering the first time. With her mom and Jud and Larry.

  Don’t, she told herself.

  She remembered riding Larry’s back – playing ‘horsey’ as he twirled on the sand, squealing.

  Poor old Larry.

  Stop it! Don’t think about any of that!

  Blaze reminded her of Larry.

  Good. Think about Blaze. Excellent idea.

  Striding down the sandy path, she cast her memory back toward the time she’d met him. A long time ago. Twelve years.

  I was hardly more than a kid . . .

  The morning after the killings, Sandy had removed Eric from his cradle and gone exploring. About a hundred yards farther up the dirt road, they’d found Harry Matthews’ log cabin. A large, blue pickup truck was parked beside it.

  Leaving Eric on the ground for a few minutes, Sandy had crept around the outside of the cabin, pistol in hand.

  Nobody seemed to be there.

  She entered the front door and looked around.

  Harry had apparently been living alone.

  So she stepped outside and scooped up Eric and whispered, ‘Looks like we’ve found us a home, honey.’ She carried him in.

  And there they stayed.

  Right at the start, Sandy made up a story in case anyone should come along. She would claim that she was Harry’s niece visiting him from Santa Monica. (She had lived in Santa Monica until she was twelve, so that’d be a good place to claim as her home.) If the story didn’t work and real trouble started, or if somehow Eric got seen, she would simply kill the trouble-maker.

  She never went anywhere without Harry’s pistol in her pocket.

  Day after day, however, nobody showed up.

  They had no problems at all. The cabin and the surrounding woods seemed like a perfect hideaway, a sanctuary for herself and Eric.

  He could grow up here . . .

  But Sandy knew a problem was on its way.

  As of the day they’d arrived, there had been only enough food in the cupboards, pantry and refrigerator to last for about two weeks.

  Gradually, the supplies dwindled.

  Dread stirred in her belly. Soon, she would need to leave the safety of the woods and venture into town for supplies.

  On the bright side, she had some cash.

  She’d been able to gather nearly four hundred dollars from her own purse, Lib’s purse, and the wallets of Harry and Slade. She’d also found several credit cards and Harry’s check book. The check book showed a balance of nearly nine thousand dollars.

  The credit cards would do her no good at all.

  The checks, on the other hand . . . She could use them to pay any bills that might come in the mail. Things like property tax, the electric bill (how nice that the cabin was wired for power!) or whatever else might turn up. Easy enough to forge Harry’s signature. But she didn’t see any safe way to use the checks for extra cash.

  The cash wouldn’t last forever.

  Once it was gone . . .

  Too soon, the time came to go into town for supplies.

  Sandy didn’t want to leave Eric alone, but what choice did she have? She couldn’t take him with her; he’d be seen for sure. So after letting him suckle her that morning until he fell asleep, she carried him gently to his crib and put him down. Then she hurried out to Harry’s pickup truck.

  Lib’s car and the trailer blocked the way out, but she managed to drive around them.

  Fort Platt turned out to be a lot farther away than she’d thought.

  It had taken her nearly an hour to get there.

  The first thing she ran into, just on the other side of the bridge leading into town, was a place called the Sea Breeze Café. Though she felt an urgent need to buy supplies and rush back home to Eric, she craved a big, restaurant breakfast. Eggs over easy, bacon, hash browns, toast and coffee.

  So she parked in its gravel lot, strolled in and . . .

  No, she thought. That wasn’t when I met Blaze. I didn’t meet him until my next trip into town. That first time, I wanted to stop at the Sea Breeze, but didn’t. I drove straight to the grocery store, bought two hundred dollars worth of food and stuff, and drove straight home.

  And panicked.

  Couldn’t find Eric.

  But then he turned up crawling around under the bed, happy as a clam.

  It was two weeks later when . . .

  That’s the time I stopped for breakfast.

  She’d hardly been able to enjoy it, though. For one thing, she felt guilty about spending the time away from Eric. For another, though the meal and tip would only cost about six dollars, it was money that would be gone forever.

  I’ve gotta figure out a way to make money, she thought.

  But how?

  I can’t go by my real name, don’t have any fake i.d. or phoney Social Security number. Even if I had the right papers, I sure as hell couldn’t get a job in town. Not unless it was just for a few hours one day a week or something. Wouldn’t dare leave Eric alone any more than that.

  I’m screwed, she thought.

  There’s a thought.

  Mak
e guys pay big bucks . . .

  Yuck. No way.

  There’s gotta be something else I can do.

  What am I good at? she wondered. I’m a hell of a Beast House tour guide. But that won’t do me much good here and I can’t exactly go back.

  Besides, no matter what I can do, nobody’ll hire me for any sort of legit job without an i.d. and a Social Security number.

  Maybe there’s something I can freelance at. Something I can do part time.

  Clean houses? Do yard work? Wash cars?

  Beg on street corners?

  Done with breakfast, depressed, Sandy parted with her money and went outside. She crossed the road and walked on the beach.

  I’d better get to the store, she told herself.

  Later. Just a little later.

  She always felt better about life when she walked on the beach. Something about the fresh breeze, the sunlight, the steady roaring wash of the surf, the feel of the sand under her feet. They gave her a feeling of freedom, of wonderful possibilities.

  She took off her shoes and socks, the better to feel the sand.

  I’ll think of something, she told herself as she strolled along.

  This was obviously Fort Platt’s main public beach. Though it wasn’t exactly crowded, several people were sunbathing, stretched out on towels, napping or listening to radios or reading paperback books. Some kids played in the water. A gal was running with her Golden Retriever through the wet sand near the water’s edge. A couple of young guys were tossing a Frisbee back and forth. Off in the distance, an artist was busy at a canvas. His subject appeared to be a tawny young man standing beside a surfboard.

  That’s it, Sandy thought. I’ll be an artist.

  A stick-up artist – the Jesse James of the Fort Platt beach.

  She smirked at the notion.

  But then she remembered Harry’s pistol in her purse.

  She could rob someone.

  No way. I’d rather be a whore than a thief.

  From another part of her mind, a voice chided, What’s a little armed robbery? You’re too good to be a thief? You murdered three people, remember? Four if you count slitting the throat of Lib’s husband.

  He shouldn’t count, she told herself. He was probably dead already.

  Anyway, she thought, I’m not going to rob anyone. I won’t stoop to that. And even if I wanted to stoop that low, it’d be too damn stupid and dangerous. A stunt like that could get me thrown in jail. Then what would happen to Eric?