Endless Night Part 51

"So where the f.u.c.k is she? You don't know, do you? You're giving us some sort of f.u.c.kin' run-around here."

"See the house with the pickup in front?"

It was about a hundred yards ahead and off to the right. It had a rusty mailbox at the edge of the road. The pickup looked brand new-forty years ago. All its gla.s.s was smashed out and it didn't have any wheels. The house didn't look much better than the pickup truck, but at least its windows weren't broken.

"You tellin' me she's in there?" Dusty asked. He didn't sound at all inclined to believe it.

"I'm not telling you s.h.i.+t," I said. "You'll see for yourself." I said to Ranch, "Stop by the mailbox."

He gave me a funny look, like I'd lost my mind. "You sure about this?"

"Sure as I can be. I got the address from an old friend. An old friend who just happens to be the LAPD lieutenant in charge of witness protection."

Ranch looked surprised, maybe even impressed.

Dusty said, "Gimme a break. A lieutenant with the ... ?"

"This is one of their safe houses. Wait here. I'll go in first. They've been told to expect a woman from Child Welfare Services, and I'm it."

With that, I jumped out of the car and went for the house. Sweat just popped out of me. It wasn't only because of the heat, either. I could feel Ranch and Dusty watching me. My ticker was pounding like a hammer.

I didn't know who was gonna be in the house.

Knew who wouldn't be, though. Jody.

The place looked like it might be vacant. No vehicle except for the useless old pickup. No signs at all that anyone was occupying the property-or taking care of it. The yard was nothing but dust and cracked earth and rocks and a few scrubby bushes. The outside walls were cracked, and big patches of paint had peeled off. The windows were so dirty that I couldn't see through them.

I stopped at the front door. It was shut and no sounds came from inside.

I knocked a couple of times, then stepped back and took a look around.

To the right, pretty far away, was an old mobile home up on blocks. It looked lived in, but there wasn't any car so I figured its people had driven off somewhere. This being Sunday morning, maybe they'd gone to church.

To the left was desert.

The houses across the road looked almost as run down as this one.

No matter where I looked, I couldn't see anyone watching me. That's if you don't count Ranch and Dusty in the car.

This was as good a place as any.

So I faced the door again, but just when I was about to knock some more, it swung open.

Which I wasn't expecting at all.

My stomach did a flip-flop.

I was in luck, though. The door'd been opened by a guy, and I knew how fine I looked.

Better still, he was a teenager.

Fifteen or sixteen, a little goofy looking with his flat-top haircut and the way his upper teeth stuck out. He wore a faded pair of blue jeans, and no s.h.i.+rt. He had a good tan, but he was husky and looked soft.

He sure wasn't what I'd expected to find in a place like this.

I'd expected it to be empty. Barring that, the likely inhabitant would've been a withered old hag or a filthy bearded hermit in bib overalls.

This kid was a pretty pleasant surprise.

And no doubt about it, I was a great surprise for him.

He stared out at me and blinked.

I said, "Good morning. I'm Simone."

"Hi."

"I'm afraid my friends and I have gotten ourselves lost."

"Yuh?" He leaned sideways and gazed past me.

"My husband and brother-in-law," I told him. "Men can be such dopes."

He laughed once. It was more like a snort.

"Can you tell me how we might get back to the interstate?"

He squinted into s.p.a.ce. "Where?"

"The big inter ... never mind. Maybe if I could have a word with your mother or father?"

"Ma's off at work. Ya know the Safeway market ... ?"

"Is your father home?"

"Naw, he's dead."

"I'm sorry."

"Aw, he was a s.h.i.+t. Just ask anyone."

I smiled. "Would it be all right if I come in for just a moment and use your bathroom!"

He blushed and his mouth dropped open.

"It's awfully embarra.s.sing to ask, but this is a real emergency. We've been lost for a long time, and those two just got out a while ago and peed on some cactus. You fellas are so lucky that way."

I gave his crotch a good, long look.

He cleared his throat. He rubbed his lips with the back of his hand. "I reckon it's okay if ya wanta use the ..." He shrugged, then stepped backward. "C'mon in."

I did.

In the immortal words of Bette Davis, What a dump!

Not only that, but it was hotter than blazes and it stank.

I shut the door. That took care of most of the light. Only a dim yellow glow came in through the filthy windows and curtains.

I set my purse on the floor and said, "Did your mother leave you all alone?"

"Yuh."

"Sure is hot in here," I said.

"Yuh."

Then I peeled off my T-s.h.i.+rt so I was standing there in my bra and skirt. With the light so lousy, I figured he wouldn't be able to tell that I was a fake.

"That's a lot better," I said.

He said, "Uhhh."

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Henry," he said.

Same as that f.u.c.king dog.

He just stood there when I walked up to him. He was a couple of inches taller than me. I put my hands on his chest and rubbed him. He was slippery. And he was starting to breathe really hard. I wonder why.

He gasped out, "Didn't ya . . . wanta use ... ?"

"You're so handsome, Henry."

I ran my hands up and down him. I even gave him a squeeze through the front of his jeans. He had a huge b.o.n.e.r. Almost funny. I make a h.e.l.l of a woman.

I pressed myself against him and hoped he couldn't tell there was only paper in my bra.

He seemed just as thrilled as ever.

More so, in fact.

He put his arms around me. He was huffing and rubbing himself against me.

I kissed the side of his neck, then said, "I knew a dog named Henry."

He didn't say anything, but sort of raked up the back of my skirt and pushed his hands under the seat of my panties.

"You don't bite, do you Henry?"

He went, "Uhhh, naw."

"I do," I said.

I did.

Chomp, right in the neck.

The moment I got my mouthful, I twisted him sideways as fast as I could to turn the gusher away from me. I also shoved him. He stumbled and crashed against a wall and sank to his knees, grunting and whining.

I chewed while I watched him.

Maybe he should've been an art critic-he had excellent taste.

I didn't wait for him to die, but went off to find the kitchen.

Big nasty butcher knives look great when psychos go after people with them in the movies, and I'll admit that they do have their uses. I've had some fun with them, myself. But I wanted a nice, small knife that would be easy to conceal.

I found a very sharp paring knife.

The kitchen was at the back of the house. Its windows didn't have curtains, so there was some decent light. My chest and bra were splashed with blood, but there were only a few tiny spots on my white skirt.

I washed my hands. The sink was piled with filthy dishes.

Henry and his mother were apparently enormous slobs.

When my hands were clean, I took off my skirt. I draped it over the back of a kitchen chair. Some newspapers were piled on the table. I grabbed a page, tore it, and folded a small piece into a sheath for the paring knife. Hurrying out of the kitchen, I slipped the blade into the paper s.h.i.+eld and pushed it up under the cross-strap at the back of my bra.

In the front room, Henry was still slumped against the wall. I helped myself to his blood-he had no more use for it, but I did. I spread some on my chest and belly and legs, though I tried not to overdo it on my bra and panties. I intended to keep on wearing them, so the less they got b.l.o.o.d.y, the better.

After finis.h.i.+ng with the blood, I pulled off his belt.

Henry'd been using the sofa for a bed. It had a bedroom pillow at one end. I shook the case empty.

With the belt and pillow case, I went to the front door.

Talk about nervous. I felt like c.r.a.pping.

But I was excited, too.

I put the pillow case over my head, then looped the belt around my neck and pulled it tight enough to cinch in the bottom of the case. I let the end of the belt hang down my back.

I wasn't Simone anymore.

Now, I was Jody Fargo stripped down to her undies, b.l.o.o.d.y, captured alive by Simon, a pillow case covering her head so she can't see where she's going, a belt around her neck so she can't run away-but she is running away, or trying to.

I opened the door. Sunlight lit up the inside of the pillow case. I sort of half-lurched, half-stumbled out through the doorway, flailing with my arms, then flung myself backward into the house again as if I'd been yanked by Simon at the other end of the belt.