The Collection

by Bentley Little

  A-little farther on, they saw another small brown histori­cal landmark sign by the side of the road. Ed sped by, but not before Pam had made out the message. " 'Bone House One Mile,'" she read.

  "Can we stop?" Eda asked.

  "Not today," Bobette told her. "You and your sister just find something to do for a while."

  Bone House, Ed thought. It didn't take much imagination to figure out the material from which that building was

  made.

  He felt the skin prickling on the back of his neck.

  The station wagon sped down the highway through the forest. It was late afternoon, and according to his calcula­tions they would reach Singleton by five. He'd made reser­vations there at a Best Western, and check-in time was supposed to be at four, but he figured they'd hold the room for an extra hour. From Singleton, it was a five-hour drive to Yellowstone, where they'd made reservations at the Old Faithful Inn for four nights.

  He felt tired already, worn out, and he couldn't wait until they got to the motel and his head hit the mattress. He just wanted to sleep. He just wanted this day to be over. They drove into the outskirts of Singleton just before five. The town was tiny, a few homes scattered amongst the trees, an Exxon station, a Shell station, a restaurant, their hotel, a few stores. It was the sort of picturesque town they had been looking for when planning their itinerary-a post­card community.

  But there is something a little off about the buildings, Ed thought, as he pulled into the parking lot. Something is wrong. And looking up at the wall of the motel he knew ex­actly what it was.

  The buildings were made of skin and bone.

  And the bricks used here and there in construction had a peculiarly red tinge.

  He backed up immediately, swinging onto the highway.

  "What are you doing?" Bobette demanded, grabbing on to the armrest as the car swerved in reverse. "You'll get us all killed."

  "We're getting out of here."

  "But we have reservations!"

  He glanced at their daughters in the backseat. "Look at the buildings," he whispered quietly. "Look at what they're made out of."

  Bobette peered out the window then turned back to him, her face bleached white. "This can't be happening."

  A man walking down the sidewalk, wearing farmer's overalls and a plaid shirt, waved at them.

  "We're getting out of here," Ed said. "I don't care if we have to drive all night."

  Their vacation ended early. They went on to Yellowstone, but somehow the geysers and bears and natural beauty did not interest them as much as they'd thought it was going to a few days before, and they returned home after two days in­stead of four.

  They took a different route back, bypassing Singleton en­tirely.

  Usually, after a trip, it was depressing to come home. The house inevitably seemed small and confining after the great outdoors, the neighborhood dull and moribund. But this time they were glad to be back, and both the house and neighborhood seemed cheerful and welcoming. They settled in almost immediately, the temporary communal spirit which had possessed them on the trip-in the comfortable space" of the car and in the unfamiliar territories through which they'd traveled-dissipating as they reached familiar ground. They returned to their normal individualized living status: Ed and Bobette holding court in the living room and kitchen, Pam and Eda in their respective bedrooms.

  In the past, they'd talked about their vacations almost nonstop for several days after they had ended, Pam in par­ticular, trying to hold on to the feelings they'd experienced, but this time no one made any mention of the trip, and Ed was glad. He dutifully turned in both rolls of film he had taken, and when he got them back a few days later he sorted through them in the car. And there it was.

  He stared at the photo. The Chapman House lay low and dark against the background of trees, the brownish skin in the picture looking almost like wood. He could see clearly the small door and smaller window and saw in his mind's eye that tiny patch of round infant skin. He tore the photo into little pieces, dropping them out the car window onto the drugstore parking lot, before heading home.

  Neither of the girls had been acting much like themselves since they'd returned from the trip, but Eda was quieter than usual that night, as was Pam, and though Bobette tried to get them to talk during dinner, both refused to answer in any­thing except mumbled monosyllables. After eating, they f both went directly to their rooms.

  "I don't know what's going on with them," Bobette said, clearing the dishes. "I tried to talk to them today while you were gone but they ignored me, stared right past me as if I wasn't there. I thought maybe you could try to get them to talk. I mean, I know it wasn't the greatest vacation in the world. I know we ran into some strange scary stuff, but nothing actually happened. It's not the end of the world."

  Ed nodded slowly, sitting up. "I'll talk to them."

  She looked up, dishes in hand. "Thanks, I-"

  But he was already out of the room and moving down the hall.

  Ed stood outside Eda's closed door, listening, but heard no music, no TV, no talking, no sounds whatsoever. He shuf­fled across the hall to Pam's door and listened again. He heard whispering from inside the room.

  Whispering and a strange whisklike sound.

  He pushed open the door.

  The girls were both on Pam's bed, holding steak knives they had obviously taken from the kitchen. The classified ad section of the newspaper had been spread over the bed be­tween them, and on top of the newspaper was a partially gut­ted cat. He stared silently. Large portions of the animal's black-and-white fur had been scraped off, leaving the skin whitish pink. He recognized the cat as Mrs. Miller's pet Jake.

  The two girls looked at him, caught, cat blood all over their hands.

  He was going to scream at them, to beat them, to tell them that tomorrow the whole damn family was going to see a psychiatrist, but his voice, when it came out, was calm and even. "What are you girls doing?" "Making a dollhouse," Eda said. He nodded. "Clean up before you go to bed." He closed the door behind him, heard them lock it, then went out to the kitchen to tell Bobette nothing was wrong.

  Two days later, he caught Pam in the garage with the Jancek's dog. This animal was bigger, and she was having trouble with the knife. Next to her, on the floor, was the doll-house. She and Eda had taken apart their old dollhouse and had stretched over the plastic frame the still-wet skin of Mrs. Miller's cat.

  "How's it going?" he asked.

  She looked up, startled. Something like horror or disgust passed over her face for a second, then was gone. She re­turned to her work. "We're learning," she said. "Where's Eda?"

  Pam giggled. "Getting more building materials. She's kind of slow, though." "You girls be careful." "We will, Dad," she said.

  Ed left the garage, closing the door. Something was wrong. He could feel it, but he couldn't put a finger on it. He could sense that something was not right, that he was be­having oddly, not the way he used to behave, not the way he was supposed to behave, but he did not know what was making him feel like this.

  He went into the house, where Bobette was in the living room, pedaling her exercise bicycle while watching Oprah. There was something so ordinary, so wonderfully pretrip about the scene that he just stood there for a moment watch­ing her. The sight triggered something within him, and for a split second he almost remembered what had eluded him in the garage. It perched on the tip of his brain, unable to be ar­ticulated by his conscious mind, then retreated once again into the shadows, and he was left only with a strange sad­ness as he watched his wife exercise.

  She glanced in his direction, frowned. "Something wrong?"

  He was filled with sudden anger, anger that she could go on with her normal life after the trip as if nothing had hap­pened. Was she so damned stupid and air-headed that she'd forgotten everything already? Of course something was wrong.

  He just didn't know what it was.

  "I'm going to the store," he said.

  "O
kay." She continued pedaling. "Pick up some milk while you're there."

  He nodded absently, then stepped out the door, pulling his keys from his pocket.

  He returned several hours later. It was dark and well past dinnertime. He had walked through stores, through shop­ping centers, knowing he wanted to buy something but not knowing what it was. Then he had seen what he was look­ing for and everything suddenly clicked into place.

  Now he walked across the driveway holding the sack. Pam and Eda came out of the shadows to meet him, and though he had not been expecting them, he was not sur­prised. He took out the boxes and handed one to each child. "These are for you," he said.

  He took out one for himself, dropping the sack on the ground.

  They unwrapped the boxes.

  Bobette was washing dishes when they came through the door. There was an angry expression on her face and a plate of cold food untouched on the table. She looked up, glaring, as she heard the noise behind her, but the lecture that had been on her lips died when she saw the carving knives in their hands. She looked from Ed to Pam to Eda. "What are you doing?" she asked. Her voice was suddenly shaky, scared.

  "The house needs redecorating," he told her.

  Bobette tried to back up but there was no place to go. She was flat against the sink: She was too stunned to scream as the three of them moved forward.

  Ed smiled. "We're going to wallpaper the living room."

  His knife went in first. Pam's and Eda's followed.

  The Man in the Passenger Seat

  I was working at a job I hated, and I stopped off one morning on the way to work to get some money from my bank's ATM. I got the money, walked back to my car, and discovered that I'd forgotten to lock the doors. There was a homeless man lurking on the pe­riphery of the parking lot, and I found myself won­dering what I would have done if the man had opened the passenger door, sat down, and buckled himself in. How would I get him out of the car? And what if he kidnapped me, made me drive him somewhere?

  It would be all right, I thought, as long as he didn't injure or kill me.

  At least I'd get out of work for the day.

  Brian was already late for work, but he knew that if he didn't deposit his paycheck this morning he'd be overdrawn. His credit rating was already hovering just above the lip of the toilet, and he couldn't afford another bounced check.

  With only a quick glance at the clock on the dashboard, he pulled into the First Interstate parking lot. He grabbed a pen, a deposit slip, and his paycheck from the seat next to him and sprinted across the asphalt to the bank's instant teller machine. Behind him he heard the sound of a car door slamming, and he glanced back at his Blazer as he pulled out his ATM card.

  Someone was sitting in the passenger seat of his car.

  His heart lurched in his chest. For a split second he con­sidered going through with the deposit transaction and then going back to his car to deal with the intruder-Kendricks was going to be climbing all over his ass for being late as it was-but he realized instantly that whoever had climbed | into his vehicle might be attempting to steal it, and he pock­eted his card and hurried back to the Blazer.

  Why the hell hadn't he locked the car?

  He pulled open the driver's door. Across from him, in the passenger seat, hands folded in his lap, was a monstrously overweight man wearing stained polyester pants and a small woman's blouse. Long black hair cascaded about the man's shoulders in greasy tangles. The car was filled with a foul, sickeningly stale smell.

  Brian looked at the man. "This is my car," he said, forc­ing a toughness he did not feel.

  "Eat my dick with brussels sprouts." The man grinned, revealing rotted, stumpy teeth.

  A cold wave washed over Brian. This was not real. This was not happening. This was something from a dream or a bad movie. He stared at the man, not sure of what to say or how to respond. He noticed that the time on the dashboard clock was five after eight. He was already late, and he was getting later by the second.

  "Get out of my car now!" Brian ordered. "Get out or I'll call the police!"

  "Get in," the man said. "And drive."

  He should run, Brian knew. He should take off and get the hell out of there, let the man steal his car, let the police and the insurance company handle it. There was nothing in the Blazer worth his life.

  But the man might have a gun, might shoot him in the back as he tried to escape.

  He got in the car.

  The stench inside was almost overpowering. The man smelled of bad breath and broccoli, old dirt and dried sweat. Brian looked him over carefully as he slid into the seat. There was no sign of a weapon at all.

  "Drive," the man said.

  Brian nodded. Hell yes, he'd drive. He'd drive straight to the goddamn police station and let the cops nail this crazy bastard's ass.

  He pulled onto Euclid and started to switch over to the left lane, but the man said, "Turn right."

  He was not sure whether he should obey the request or not. The police station was only three blocks away, and there was still no indication that the man was carrying any sort of weapon-but there was something in the strange man's voice, a hint of danger, an aura of command, that made him afraid to disobey.

  He turned right onto Jefferson.

  "The freeway," the man said.

  Brian felt his heart shift into overdrive, the pumping in his chest cavity accelerate. It was too late now, he realized. He'd made a huge mistake. He should have run when he had the chance. He should have sped to the police station when he had the chance. He should have ...

  He pulled onto the freeway.

  Several times over the past two years, on the way to work, he had dreamed of doing this, had fantasized about hanging a left onto the freeway instead of continuing straight toward the office, about heading down the highway and just driving, continuing on to Arizona, New Mexico, states beyond. But he had never in his wildest imaginings thought that he would actually be doing so while being kid­napped, hijacked, at the behest of an obviously deranged man.

  Still, even now, even under these conditions, he could not help feeling a small instinctive lift as the car sped down the on-ramp and merged with the swiftly flowing traffic. It was not freedom he felt-how could it be under the circum­stances?-but more the guilty pleasure of a truant boy hear­ing the schoolbell ring. He had wanted to skip work and shirk his responsibilities so many times, and now he was fi­nally doing it. He looked over at the man in the passenger seat.

  The man smiled, twirling a lock of hair between his fin­gers. "One, two, eat my poo. Three, four, eat some more."

  Brian gripped the steering wheel, stared straight ahead, and drove.

  There was no traffic, or very little. They traveled east, in the opposite direction of most of the commuters, and the city gradually faded into suburbs, the suburbs into open land. After an hour or so, Brian grew brave enough to talk, and several times he made an effort to communicate with the man and ask where they were going, why this was happen­ing, but the man either did not answer or answered in gib­berish, obscene non sequiturs.

  Another hour passed.

  And another.

  They were traveling through high desert now, flatland with scrub brush, and Brian looked at the clock on the dash­board. Ordinarily, he would be taking his break at this time, meeting Joe and David for coffee in the break room. He thought of them now. Neither, he knew, would really miss him. They would file into the break room as they always did, get their coffee from the machine, sit down at the same table at which they always sat, and when they saw that he wasn't there, they'd shrug and begin their usual conversation.

  Now that he thought about it, no one at the company would miss him. Not really. They'd be temporarily inconve­nienced by his absence, would curse him for not being there to perform his regular duties, but they would not miss him.

  They would not care enough to call and see if he was all right.

  That's what really worried him. The fact that no one would even
know he'd been abducted. Someone from per­sonnel might call his apartment-the machinery of bureaucracy would be automatically set in motion and a perfunctory effort would be made to determine why he was not at work-but there would be no reason to assume that anything bad had happened to him. No one would suspect foul play. And he was not close enough to any of his coworkers that one of them would make a legitimate effort to find out what had happened to him. He would just disappear and be forgotten. He glanced over at the man in the passenger seat. The man grinned, grabbed his crotch. "Here's your lunch. I call it Ralph."

  Shapes sprang up from the desert. Signs. And beyond the signs, buildings. A billboard advertised "McDonald's, two miles ahead, State Street exit." Another, with the name of a hotel on it, showed a picture of a well-endowed woman in a bikini lounging by a pool.

  A green sign announced that they were entering Hayes, population 15,000, elevation 3,000.

  Brian looked over at his passenger. A growling whirr spiraled upward from the depths of the man's stomach, and he pointed toward the tall, familiar sign of a fast food restaurant just off the highway. "Eat," he said.

  Brian pulled off the highway and drove into the narrow parking lot of the hamburger stand. He started to park in one of the marked spaces, but the man shook his head violently, and Brian pulled up to the microphoned menu in the drive-thru. "What are we getting?" he asked.

  The man did not answer.

  A voice of scratchy static sounded from the speaker. "May I take your order?"

  Brian cleared his throat. "A double cheeseburger, large fries, an apple turnover, and an extra-large Coke."

  He looked over at the man in the passenger seat, quizzi­cally, but the man said nothing.

  "That'll be four-fifteen at the window."

  Brian pulled forward, stopping when his window was even with that of the restaurant's.

  "Four-" the teenage clerk started to say.

  "Gonads!" the man yelled. "Gonads large and small!" He reached over Brian and grabbed the sack of food from the shelf. Before the clerk could respond, the man had dropped to the floor and pushed down the gas pedal with his free hand. The car lurched forward, Brian trying desperately to steer as they sped out of the parking lot and into the street.