Forty-two

When Lane woke up, her bedroom was full of sunlight. For just a moment she felt good. Then the memories of last night with Kramer crashed down on her. Sickened with shame and terror, she threw her covers aside, sat up and hugged her belly. She couldn’t think straight. Her mind was a torrent of horrible images that kept her heart racing, her skin burning, her stomach knotted.

She fought the images. Like trying to shove dozens of writhing snakes down inside a box. Their heads kept popping up, striking at her, sinking in their fangs. But at last she got them all shoved down and slammed the lid. Though they were out of sight, she still thought she could hear them hissing and thumping around, eager to escape and hurt her.

She sat on the bed gasping, sweat trickling down her face, nightshirt clinging to her skin.

I’ll kill the bastard, she thought.

Oh, sure I will.

What am I going to do?

Last night hadn’t been enough for him. He’d made that very clear. And if Lane gave him any trouble about it, he’d get her with the razor. Her parents, too. He would kill them all.

The same way he killed Jessica and her family.

My God, she thought. Where’d that idea come from? Kramer certainly hadn’t told her any such thing.

But he’d killed them. Lane was suddenly sure of it. Jessica’d been in his sixth-period class. He must’ve been getting it off with her until she gave him trouble. He was the one who beat her up, who broke her arm. Not Benson, after all. Kramer had taught her a lesson about cooperating, but that wasn’t enough. Maybe she wouldn’t have any more to do with him. Maybe he was afraid she might talk. So he crept into her house last week and slaughtered the whole family and set the place on fire.

He’ll do the same to us.

Dad gave her a sheepish smile when she entered the living room. He was in his easy chair, a paperback in his hands, a mug of coffee on the lamp table beside him. “Good afternoon,” he said.

She kissed him on the cheek. It was scratchy with whiskers. “Where’s Mom?”

“She went to the twelve o’clock mass.”

“Glad she didn’t wake me up for it.”

“Figured you needed your sleep. How’s it going?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Hope you didn’t have any vampire nightmares.”

“I don’t think so,” Lane said. If I had nightmares, she thought, they wouldn’t have been about vampires. “How about you?”

“Your mother and I were up till after sunrise.”

Lane managed to smile. “Having a little discussion?”

“It turned out okay. Better than I deserved, I guess. When you see her, just don’t bring up the subject of our guest in the garage.”

“I wonder how Pete fared.”

“We didn’t hear any gunshots.”

“That’s a good sign.”

“I don’t think your mother would’ve been quite so forgiving if she’dbeen the one who wet her pants.”

“Daaaad.”

He chuckled softly and shook his head. “Anyway, there’re some sweet rolls in the kitchen.”

“Yuck. Maybe I’ll eat something while I’m out. I’ve got to pick up a few things at the drugstore. And maybe I’ll drop by the mall. Need anything?”

“I’m getting a little low on pipe cleaners.”

“Okay.” She headed for the front door. “See you later.”

“Have fun,” he said.

Outside, she took the keys from her denim shoulder bag. She locked the front door and hurried to the Mustang. She slid in behind the steering wheel and swung her heavy bag onto the passenger seat.

As she drove away from the house her stomach began to flutter. The car was hot inside, but she kept the windows up and didn’t turn on the air conditioner. Though the heat didn’t stop her from shivering, she found it comforting.

A block from home she stopped the car. She reached into a pocket of her blouse. She took out a folded sheet of paper and opened it. While she studied the first of the two addresses she’d copied from the telephone book, she eased her hand between the buttons of her blouse and gently rubbed her left breast. Both her breasts were sore, but the left hurt more than the right. It had been purple with bruises when she looked at herself before dressing.

She finished memorizing the address, took her hand out of her blouse, folded the paper again and tucked it gently into her pocket.

She drove to the address.

She parked at the curb and stared out the passenger window at the mobile home. It was on a foundation some distance back from the road, a battered pickup truck near one end, a motorcycle in front of the pickup. There was no driveway, no lawn. Just the home and the vehicles sitting on a patch of desert.

It looked like the kind of place where you’d expect to find throwbacks.

It looked exactly like the kind of place where Lane expected to find Riley Benson.

I must be out of my mind.

She grabbed the strap of her bag and dragged it behind her as she climbed from the car. She lifted the strap onto her shoulder. On wobbly legs she made her way around the front of the car, stepped onto the curb, crunched over gravel, and climbed a few stairs to the front door.

She thumbed the door-bell button, but no sound came from inside. So she knocked.

“Yeah?” A woman’s voice. “Who is it?”

“A friend of Riley’s she called.

The door opened. The woman standing on the threshold looked too young to be Riley’s mother. Maybe in her late twenties. Her blue eyes seemed too pale for the deep tan of her face. Her blond hair, neatly brushed, hung to her shoulders and draped her brow. Her tank top, tie-dyed pink, was cut off to leave her midriff bare. Lane could see her nipples through the fabric. She wore cutoff blue jeans low on her hips. Her feet were bare.

She doesn’t look like anybody’smother, Lane thought. Maybe Riley’s sister. Or maybe he’d already found himself a replacement for Jessica.

“Don’t just stand there gawking,” she said. “Come on in.”

“Is Riley home?” Lane asked, climbing the steps.

“You say you’re a friend of his? You sure don’t look it.”

“Well, I knew Jessica.”

“That poor thing.”

Inside, the mobile home smelled good — a coffee aroma blended in with hints of perfume and maybe floor wax.

“Have a seat, darling. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

Lane sat at a table in the kitchen area and watched the woman stride down a harrow passageway. The jeans were frayed where the legs had been cut off, and strands of ragged denim dangled against the backs of her thighs. Her right thigh was smudged with a nasty bruise that reminded Lane of those she’d seen on herself today.

Near the far end of the corridor she rapped gently on a door. Then she rolled it open and stepped out of sight.

“You’ve got a visitor, honey.” Though she spoke in a hushed voice, Lane easily heard her.

“Huh?”

“Well, take the blessed headphones off.”

“What?”

“You’ve got a visitor.”

“The cops?”

“No, it’s not the cops. It’s a nice young gal who says she’s a friend of Jessica’s.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“You watch your tongue.”

“I don’t wanta see nobody, Mom.”

She washis mother?

“Put on your shirt and go on out and talk with her. And try to keep a civil tongue in your head.”

As Riley’s mother came out of the room, Lane turned her eyes away. The salt shaker on the table was a little plastic dog, the pepper shaker a red fireplug.

“He’ll be right along,” she said. “I ought to warn you, though, he’s been in a mighty foul mood lately. First it was Jessica’s murder, then the police bothering him, and then he got into trouble with some gal at school and got himself expelled. This has been a mighty bad week for him, the poor kid.”

“I’m really sorry,” Lane said. “Some of it’s my fault, I guess. I’m the one who got him kicked out of school.”