Endless Night Read online

I shut the lid fast to cut off the light.

  Then I just stood there for a while, nothing to do except listen to the helicopter while my eyes got reacquainted with the dark. Finally, I could see again. There were a couple of wash basins under the windows, plus a washer and dryer in the darker area beyond the basins. I headed that way.

  Looking for a place to hide.

  Could I fit inside the clothes dryer? I’m not a big guy, so maybe.

  As a last resort, I might’ve given it a try.

  Past the dryer, at the very end of the room, a water heater was braced up in the corner. Next to it was a cabinet about five feet wide, with double doors. I tugged the doors. They each gave off a quick little chirpy noise and swung open.

  I’d been hoping for an empty space like a closet. What I found were shelves loaded with all kinds of stuff.

  What I might do was unload one of the shelves and crawl into the cabinet and shelve myself. To make a trick like that work, though, I’d have to pile stuff back up in front of me once I’d gotten inside, or else hide on a shelf above the eye level of the cops who were pretty sure to come looking.

  Might work. I stretched up to do some exploring, then stepped on the bottom shelf to give myself more height. And that’s when I discovered that the cabinet didn’t go all the way to the ceiling.

  I climbed higher.

  Hanging on with one hand, I used my other hand to explore.

  Between the top of the cabinet and the ceiling was a two-foot gap.

  Nothing was stored up there. It was empty.

  Until I crawled in. (Used the shelves like ladder rungs, and luckily they held. Maybe somebody up there does like me.)

  Once I got on the top, I curled on my side, reached down and swung the cabinet doors shut. Then I scooted myself back until the rear wall stopped me.

  I’d found my perfect hiding place.

  It was perfect in terms of hiding, not in terms of comfort. In terms of comfort, it was the shits. Remember, I was naked except for my Reeboks and my little kilt of Connie’s hide. For a place like that, I should’ve been wearing coveralls. Or maybe one of those big white suits that guys wear when they have to mess around with toxic wastes. But all I had was my bare skin and Connie’s. Webs clung to me. Spiders dropped on me out of the dark and scurried up my legs and back. They crawled on my face. They got under Connie’s skin. It was awful. Spiders give me the creeps, give me goose bumps.

  I went to work slapping and rubbing the damn things to oblivion. That was disgusting, too. You could hear them go crunch and feel them turn wet. When you went to brush a body off your skin, it rolled like a booger. Sometimes, it stuck to your finger and you had a hard time flicking it off.

  Anyway, I kept busy destroying the spider population while the search went on. Except for the sounds I made, the only other noise came from the helicopter. There were probably plenty of other noises, but nothing you could hear. The chopper’s roar would fade out, then grow and grow until it shook everything. Sometimes, I thought the damn thing was about to land on me. But then it would fade out again.

  It was circling.

  Circling and circling and circling. I couldn’t see it with my eyes, but in my head I sure could. I saw it circling and circling, the whole time shining its big white beam down at the hillside and the wilds at the bottom of the slope and the back yards and side yards of every house around.

  Looking for me, just for me.

  The noise alone was enough to drive you crazy.

  By now, everybody in the neighborhood was probably wide awake and staring out their windows. They might’ve slept through the sirens, but you can’t sleep through a cop chopper, not unless you’re drunk or deaf. Not when it stays and stays, circling and roaring like that.

  If you’re a regular person, you’re pissed because it woke you up. More than pissed, though, you’re worried. Because you know it’s up there for a reason. You know it’s hunting a bad guy.

  Which means a bad guy’s running around somewhere near your house.

  You look out your window. Just how close is that chopper? Just how close is that bad guy? You pretty much expect to spot somebody running across your yard and you just hope he doesn’t try to come in your house.

  It sure gives you the creeps.

  But hell, you oughta be the guy the chopper is looking for.

  When you’re the one it’s after, it stops being anything as normal as a police helicopter. It’s more like some kind of monster-machine, like maybe a UFO getting jockeyed around by a team of bozos from outer space that are so mean they’d make your basic Gestapo psychos look like Mary Poppins—and they know right where the fuck you’re hiding.

  Even tucked away in my snug little nook on top of the cabinet where the spotlight had no chance at all of finding me, the chopper made me want to shrivel up and disappear every time it came close.

  You won’t get away from me! You can’t get away from me!

  Man!

  Anyway, it was kind of freaking me out up there. So sue me. I’d had a hard night.

  When all of a sudden a light beam flicked across the ceiling, I thought for a second that the chopper’d found me.

  I thought, How’d it get in here?

  I almost screamed.

  Then someone said, “Think he’s in the freezer?”

  “Would you hide in a freezer?” the other guy asked.

  “Yeah. A night this hot? You bet.”

  One of them opened the freezer. I heard it.

  The guy who’d said, “You bet,” said, “Hey, look. They’ve got Dove Bars.”

  “No kidding.” This one sounded like he didn’t give a hot hoot for Dove Bars.

  The chopper was off at a far end of its circle, so I could hear the noises that cops make when they walk. Jostling, squeaking, rattling noises. Their gunbelts are just loaded with every kind of shit imaginable. A walking cop sounds more like a saddle horse than a person.

  “Do you want one?” asks the Dove Bar guy.

  “No. And neither do you.”

  “I want one. They’re a lot better than Eskimo ... Nobody’s gonna hide in a washing machine, Pat.”

  “No?” I heard a lid squeak open.

  “See? Told you.”

  “The way that freezer’s lighting you up, you’d better hope this lizard doesn’t try to cap you.”

  “He’s not armed. He woulda used it on the kids.”

  “You never know. Just shut it, okay?”

  “You sure you don’t want a Dove Bar?”

  I heard a quiet grunt. “Not in the dryer.”

  “I could’ve told you that.”

  “Oh, you could tell me a lot of things, Hank, but more than a few of them might be wrong. Matter of fact, my second collar was a weenie-wagger I found inside a clothes dryer.”

  “He fit?”

  “Sure. He was a little fella. In every way.” The cop walked closer to me. He sounded like he was almost right underneath me when he stopped. Then the cupboard doors gave their chirping sounds as they came unclamped. “He’d been entertaining all the gals at the laundromat.” The doors bumped back shut. I heard Pat walking away. “I just so happened to have a quarter.”

  The other cop, Hank, laughed.

  “Seemed like a great idea, give him a little spin. But then about two minutes after I dragged him out, he blew his supper all over my back seat.”

  “Aw, shit!” Hank went.

  “Not shit, puke.”

  These guys were a barrel of laughs.

  Then they were gone.

  I stayed put. Eventually, the helicopter went away. The silence was great. I couldn’t feel anything crawling on me. I relaxed and fell asleep.

  And slept until Hillary Weston showed up in the morning to do her wash.

  Chapter Eleven

  When I woke up, a woman was humming in the room down below me. I couldn’t see her, though. The edge of the cupboard top was in the way. All I could see was the ceiling. It was sunlit and painted yellow.

&n
bsp; I wanted to know what she looked like.

  From the sound of her humming, she seemed to be near the washing machine or dryer. If she was facing either of those machines, she wouldn’t have a view of the cabinet.

  So I scooted forward and looked past its edge.

  She stood in front of the washer, at an angle that showed me her side and her back. Unless she had tremendous peripheral vision, I was out of sight.

  By the time I saw her, she’d already finished throwing in her laundry. She was busy sprinkling detergent powder into the hole at the top of the machine.

  She looked good. Slim and not too old. You can’t always tell with women, but I’d say she was under thirty by at least a couple of years. She had thick brown hair. Her face had points and corners—cheekbones that stuck out too much, too sharply. A nose and jaw like that, too. Not exactly pretty, but unusual and what you might call “striking.”

  In fact, her whole body was like that.

  She wore a bright yellow tank top and red shorts. Her shoulders were bare except for the straps. They had a deep golden tan but looked rather bony. Her butt made me think of the word, “pouting.” Maybe because it stuck out like the lower lip of a bratty kid. It was small but prominent, and looked solid. Her legs looked hard and glossy as if they’d been carved out of wood.

  You don’t get a body like that without working for it.

  Which meant she was tough-minded, determined, proud.

  Just my type.

  But it also meant she’d be fast and strong.

  Taking her would be a risky job, but I knew she’d be worth it.

  When she was done with the detergent, she set the box out of the way and shut the top of the washing machine. She turned toward me just a little bit as she reached her right arm across the machine and turned the dial. Her left breast pushed at her tank top. It was like the rest of her—small, compact and pointed.

  All of a sudden, I was thinking about the girl from the house. You know, the one that got away.

  She was built a little like this one.

  She was younger, of course. And much softer, and miles prettier. But the size was about the same.

  And I thought how badly I wanted her. I remembered the look and feel of her. And how much trouble she’d caused. And I wondered how to find her.

  I was still thinking about those things when water started gushing into the machine and Hillary turned away and walked to the door.

  After she was gone, I climbed down off the top of the cabinet. I hung by my fingers, then dropped. Then I hurried and crouched at the end of the freezer.

  And waited. You wouldn’t believe how hot it was in that place. Sweat dribbled all over me. It tickled. I felt like my whole body’d been oiled, then rolled in a pile of dust and webs and bugs. There were dead spiders smeared all over my chest and arms and legs. Some old blood from the folks last night, too. Plus, I was dotted with lots of red bumps. I itched like crazy.

  I could smell my sweat, too. My sweat, and the stale blood.

  Usually, I do like the others and lather up. I didn’t do it last night, though. A good thing, too. For one, the cops—Hank and Pat—would’ve caught a whiff of me the second they came through the door.

  Maybe I’d better explain. Lathering up is one of the things we do before we start on a foray. It’s like actors putting on their makeup before the curtain opens on a play. We do it in Tom’s van. That’s where we change into our skins, where we arm ourselves, and where we lather up.

  We don’t lather up with soap. We scoop the stuff out of a big jar and smear ourselves with it. Tom labeled the jar, LUCKY STIFF STUFF. It’s just his sense of humor. Inside the jar, what we’ve got is a portion of someone we’ve killed.

  Killed a while ago.

  The stuff is slimy and ripe.

  Some of us dab it on like after-shave. Some like to really pile it on. It’s pretty disgusting what some of them do with the stuff.

  I use it sparingly, myself. A touch here, a spot there.

  We do it for good luck. And because the death stench instills fear in the hearts of our enemies. And we also do it just because it’s so fucking weird we get a kick out of it.

  Anyway, I didn’t lather up last night because the trots hit me. Tom’s got a toilet in the van. That’s where I sat while the others were doing their bit with the jar. By the time I got finished and came out, they’d already left.

  Hey, what do you know? I never thought of this till just now—the jerks had gone on ahead to the house to start without me, and then later they drove off without me and left me in this fix. So this was like a preview of coming betrayals.

  Anyway, all I wanted to do was catch up. I didn’t want to miss out on any of the fun. So I didn’t bother gooping myself.

  Maybe that saved me.

  In fact, I’m sure it did. Those cops that came looking for me in the utility room would’ve smelled me. I’d be dead right now if I’d used the Lucky Stiff Stuff. Dead and soon to become my own brand, my own flavor of the week. Simon Scent.

  Great. I’m starting to get morbid.

  Probably the beer.

  Anyway, the thing is, I didn’t use the stuff, so I didn’t stink, so the cops didn’t nail me. So there I was hunkered down in the utility room this morning, waiting for Hillary Weston, sweaty and itchy—but stinking of nothing much worse than my own BO.

  I sure wished she would hurry back.

  After a while, I started thinking about what I’d like to do to her. That got me pretty excited, so basically I forgot about how hot and itchy and miserable I was.

  Finally, she came back.

  When she walked past me, I stabbed the top of her foot. She wasn’t wearing shoes or socks or anything, so my knife went right into her bare skin. She sucked in a big, surprised breath and tried to jump back. Her foot actually jerked up off the floor. It didn’t get away, though. All it did was slide a few inches up my knife blade.

  Then it was me who jerked her foot up. I pulled out the knife while my other hand clutched her ankle and yanked her leg forward and shoved it really high.

  She was letting out a squeal until her back slammed the floor. Which knocked her wind out. After that, all she could do was wheeze.

  I landed on top of her, sat on her chest, grabbed a handful of hair to keep her head pinned down and pushed my blade against her throat. Hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to cut her.

  Next, I asked who was in the house.

  She shook her head. She tried to talk, but only choked out some noises. Her chest was pumping fast. It felt good, going up and down under me that way. And I liked how I could feel her shaking.

  After a while, she whimpered, “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” I told her. “You’ll be okay if you do everything I say.”

  She nodded hard. She was crying, of course, which didn’t improve her looks. I didn’t much mind the tears or her red eyes, but the snot sliding out of her nose was pretty gross.

  “For starters,” I said, “who else is in the house?”

  She waited too long before answering. Also, during the wait, a change came into her eyes as if a good idea had struck her. “My husband,” she said. “He’s ... he’s home sick from work. He’s right inside. He’ll be coming out here in a minute. He’s a policeman.”

  “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” I said.

  Then I took my knife away from her throat and jammed it crosswise between her teeth and slashed down, opening both her cheeks with one quick swipe.

  She grabbed her face and didn’t even seem to care I was stripping off her clothes. She had an all-over tan. Personally, I like finding fresh, white places on a gal. The white shows modesty, a sense of privacy. When I see it, I know I’m being treated to secrets.

  There’s something hard about an all-over tan. On Hillary Weston, it seemed appropriate.

  I would’ve preferred some pure, white places, but I did enjoy the polished, glossy look of her tan. And the way she squirme
d on the floor. And how her tits jiggled. They were small, with brown nipples that reminded me of the suction cups that came on toy arrows when I was a kid.

  I used to pluck them off, and whittle points on the arrows with my knife.

  I shot a cat named Mickey in the eye with an arrow like that.

  You could lick the suction cups and make them stick to your forehead. These looked like they’d been licked and stuck on to the front of Hillary’s tits. Neither of them had a socket for the arrow shaft, though; these came to a blunt point instead.

  Her skin was hot and smooth and slippery.

  She flinched and writhed each time I hurt her.

  When she started to scream, I stuffed her panties into her mouth.

  It’d take me an hour, maybe, to tell everything I did to her. I know I’d get a kick out of talking about it. Talking about these things is almost as good as living through them again. But a lot needs to be told about other stuff.

  I’ll cut to what I found most interesting.

  Normally, I’m completely focused on the person I’m with. I’m into the moment, you know? I’m not daydreaming. While I did Hillary, though, I made believe she was the girl.

  You know, the girl. The one who got away.

  Hillary vanished. The girl was under me, and I loved every minute of it, every inch of her.

  Afterward, I perched on top of the freezer and ate a Dove Bar. Then I put Hillary in the freezer.

  As much as I hated to expend the effort, I mopped the mess off the floor. Then I left the utility room. The room had been horribly hot and stuffy. Outside, the summer breeze felt cool and soft and wonderful.

  The back yard was fenced in, completely enclosed and private. Hillary’s tan should’ve been a clue to that. Too bad I hadn’t made the connection earlier. I could’ve dragged her out into the fresh air before indulging.

  Oh, well. No great loss.

  It would’ve been much nicer, is all.

  While I headed for the back door of the house, I made myself a mental note to do the girl outside. If at all possible.

  Even if it required some extra efforts.

  The perfect surroundings for the perfect treat.

  I entered the house. It was as chilly as a refrigerator. I shivered and got goose bumps. But I took comfort from the knowledge that Hillary in the freezer had it worse than me.