Flesh

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Dana woke up again, cramped in the backseat of her Volkswagen. This time, her right arm had fallen asleep. Before, it had been a leg, a buttock, a foot. No matter what her position, one part or another of her body got its circulation cut off.

Right now, she was lying on her side with her knees bent, using her right arm for a pillow. The arm had no feeling at all. With a struggle, she managed to sit up. She shook her arm, grimacing as the numbness became an aching tingle. The tingle was like a thousand stabbing needles. But soon it went away and her arm felt almost normal.

She reached to the floor and picked up her travel clock. Pushing a button on top, she lighted its face. The digital numbers showed 2:46 A.M.

The alarm had been set for 3:00 A.M.

She wouldn’t be needing it.

When she’d set the alarm, she hadn’t realized that she would be waking up every fifteen or twenty minutes.

She flicked a switch sideways to deactivate the alarm, then put the clock down.

The rain still pounded down making an endless rumble hitting her car.

Might as well go ahead now, Dana thought.

She began to shiver.

It’ll be fabulous, she told herself.

She didn’t want to go out in the rain. But this was too good an opportunity to miss, and she’d already gone to so much trouble. What’s a little rain?

I’ll get soaked.

But I’ll scare the hell out of Roland.

Besides, he had stuck it out this long. Left alone, he might very well make it till morning.

Dana didn’t want to lose the bet.

The money was no big deal, but the whole idea was to humiliate and destroy Roland. If he didn’t come running out of the restaurant in terror…

I’ll do it.

She struggled into her poncho, flipped up the hood to cover her head, and left the car. She shut the door quietly.

The rain pattered on the plastic sheet as she stepped to the front of her car and opened the trunk. She slipped the screwdriver and knit cap into her pockets, and clutched the five-pound sack to her belly underneath the poncho to keep it dry. Then she closed the trunk and headed for the restaurant.

If Roland is watching from a window, she thought, I’m sunk.

That wasn’t likely, though. If he was awake at this hour, he was probably hiding in a closet—and scared out of his gourd.

But not half as scared as he’ll be in a few minutes.

Dana crossed the parking lot at an angle.

She was pleased with herself. She’d made a pretty good show of being afraid of the restaurant, so Roland would never suspect a trick like this.

At the corner of the lot, she waded through some high grass to the restaurant wall. The grass was wet, soaking through her running shoes and the cuffs of her jeans.

She stayed close to the wall, heading for the back of the building, ducking under the windows.

There were no doors along this side of the restaurant. In the back, however, she found one. The upper portion had four sections of glass.

Dana crept up the wooden stairs and pressed her face to one of the panes. Dark in there. A lot darker than outside, but patches of the counters and floor were pale gray with light from the windows.

This obviously was the kitchen. This was where the killings had supposedly taken place.

She couldn’t see Roland.

The kitchen wouldn’t be at the top of his list of places to spend the night. Anywhere but the kitchen.

Dana set the sack down between her feet. She tried the knob. When it didn’t turn, she began to work her screwdriver into the crack between the door and its frame, directly across from the knob.

She widened the gap. Splinters of wood broke off. She kept digging and prying. At last, the lock tongue slipped back and she carefully opened the door.

Picking up the sack, she entered the kitchen. The sounds of the storm were muffled when she shut the door. The fresh air also went away. There was a heavy, unpleasant odor.

Motionless, she listened. Water dripping onto the floor from her poncho, nothing else. Except her heartbeat.

Roland won’t hear that.

He obviously wasn’t in the kitchen. The rain pounding on the roof provided enough steady noise to cover any sounds Dana might make.

As long as she was careful.

Very slowly, she pulled the poncho over her head. Its plastic made quiet rustling sounds. She lowered it to the floor.

Listened.

Balanced on one foot at a time, she pulled off her shoes and socks.

She realized that she was gritting her teeth and trembling.

Excitement, not fear.

Poor Roland, he’ll have a cardiac arrest.

Wouldn’t that be a pity.

Dana unbuttoned the waistband of her jeans and lowered the zipper. Thumbs under the elastic of her panties, she drew down both garments at the same time and stepped out of them. Then she pulled her sweatshirt off.

She took a deep, shaky breath.

This’ll be quite a treat for you, Roland old pal. You wanted to look at the bod, you’ll get it. The real thing, this time, not some fucking snapshots.

Hope you enjoy it.

Squatting, Dana folded open the sack. She scooped out a handful of flour. It seemed almost iridescent. She spread the powder over her skin from shoulder to shoulder. Streams of it trickled down her breasts. Coating her left arm, she noticed that her skin was pebbled with goose bumps. She filled her other hand and covered her right arm. Then she scooped up flour in both hands and spread it over her chest and belly. Her nipples were stiff. Touching them sent warmth down her body. She rubbed flour over her thighs, hands gliding, feeling her gooseflesh through the thin layer of powder, feeling her slick wetness when she patted the flour between her legs. With her hands full again, she coated her feet and shins and knees.

Then she straightened up. Shoulder to feet, she was white except for faint areas where the flour had been rubbed thin from the way she had squatted. She dug more powder from the sack, spread it over her thighs and hips and belly, and emptied her hands by swirling the last of the flour over her breasts.

She looked down at herself again.

Some ghost.

Roland wouldn’t know whether to get a hard-on or a heart attack.

The floor around her feet was dusted white.

Dana wrung her hands, trying to get the flour off them. They remained white. She reached back and rubbed them on her buttocks. That got most of it.

Turning toward her pile of clothes, she bent from the waist to avoid smearing the powder, and pulled her knit cap from the pocket of her jeans. It was navy blue, but it looked black in the darkness. Holding the cap away from her body, she felt for the eyeholes she had cut that afternoon. When she found them, she pulled the cap over her head, drew it down to her chin, and tucked her dangling hair up the rear of it.

Dana wished she could check out the effect. Maybe tomorrow night. Do it again, only in Jason’s room. He had a full-length mirror. Maybe have him spread the flour on her. And she would do the same for him. And then they’d make it.

Only one problem. Jason might not be overjoyed that she had paraded in front of Roland bare-ass naked.

He should complain, the shit. He’s the one showed Roland the Polaroids.

Dana took a trembling breath through the wool cap.

Time to get going and give Roland the thrill of his life.

She started across the kitchen. After a few steps, one of her feet landed on something sticky, like paint that hadn’t quite dried.

Her nose wrinkled.

Hadn’t they cleaned up the mess from last night?

She sidestepped and got out of it, but her foot made a quiet snicking sound each time she lifted it off the linoleum.

With her back to the kitchen windows, she couldn’t see much.

Blindman’s buff.

Hands out, she finally touched a wall. She made her way slowly along it, and found a door. When she opened the door, a cool draft wrapped her skin. Something wasn’t right about this. Clutching the door frame, she slipped her right foot forward and felt the floor end.

Stairs?

Maybe a stairway leading down to the wine cellar, or something.

Roland might be down there.

Not a chance.

Dana shut the door and continued following the wall. Soon, she touched another door frame. Reaching past it, she felt wood. Ribbed wood. A louvered door of some kind.

Moving in front of it, she gently pushed. The hinges creaked slightly.

That’s okay. Let Roland hear it. Give him something to think about.

Holding the door open, she stepped through. Her side hit something that squeaked and wasn’t there anymore, then bumped her again from armpit to hip. Even without being able to see, she knew what must have happened; they were double swinging doors, and she’d only opened one side before trying to go through.

Roland must have heard that.

Give him a little more?

She considered moaning like an anguished spirit. But maybe spirits don’t moan. Besides, he might figure out who it was from her voice.

Dana stepped through the doors, eased them shut, and stood motionless.

It was a big room.

Roland might be here. Might be looking at her right now. Frozen with terror.

This is it.

Dana’s heart pounded furiously. Tremors of excitement shook her body. Drops of sweat slid down her sides, tickling.

Several windows along the three walls let in hazy gray light, but vast areas of the room were black.

Dana looked at herself through the fuzzy holes of her cap. The flour gave her skin a dull gray hue, not the glow she had wanted. But good enough. Maybe better, in fact. Bright enough to let her be seen, but only dimly.

What you can’t quite see—that’s what is really scary.

So how does a ghost walk? she wondered. They probably don’t. In movies, they generally swoop through the air. But zombies kind of stagger around with their arms out.

Dana lifted her arms as if reaching for her next victim and took long, stiff-legged strides toward the center of the room.

Shit, this isn’t a zombie walk, it’s Frankenstein.

Frankenstein’s the scientist, stupid, not the monster.

Yes, Roland.

She stopped strutting and changed her gait to a slow lurching stagger.

Perfect.

So where the fuck are you, Roland? If you’re too scared to scream, let’s at least have a few gasps or whimpers.

Are you crouched in a corner, wetting your pants?

Dana slowly turned around, searching for his huddled shape in the gray near the windows, trying to find him in the black areas.

He isn’t here, she decided. Even if I can’t see him, he for sure would’ve seen me by now. He would’ve done something—yelled or maybe run for it.

Dana turned toward the front of the restaurant, lowered her arms for a moment to smear the sweat rolling down her sides, then raised her arms again and shuffled forward.

Over to the left, the room branched out. Dana saw a vague shape that might be a bar.

He’s probably hiding behind it.

She took a few steps in that direction and a rush of excitement stopped her.

Roland’s sleeping bag.

Mummy bag.

One dark, puffy end of it was barely visible in the gloom from a front window.

I can’t see him, but he can see me. If he’s looking this way. If he’s awake.

For a few seconds, Dana couldn’t force herself to move. She stood there, shaking and breathless, feeling as if her legs might give out.

This’ll be good, she thought. This’ll get him. The shit-head’ll wish he’d never been born.

Go for it, she told herself.

She lurched toward the sleeping bag. Her legs felt like warm liquid, but they held her up. She let out a low moan.

That’ll get his attention.

When she stopped moaning, she heard him.

He was taking quick, short breaths.

Awake, all right.

She stood over him, no more than a yard away, peering down but still unable to see anything in the darkness. No, maybe that was a face—that oval blur. If so, Roland was sitting up.

Bending at the waist, she reached toward him.

A shriek blasted her ears.

Every muscle in Dana’s body seemed to jerk, snapping her upright, hurling her backward. She waved her arms, trying to stay up, then fell. The floor pounded her rump.

A light beam stung her eyes.

She shielded her eyes with a hand. “Take it out of my face.” The beam lowered. She pulled off the cap. The light was on her chest, moving from one breast to the other. It dropped, streaking down her belly and shining between her legs. She threw her knees together, blocking it. The light returned to her breasts. She covered them with one arm and used the other arm to brace herself up. Her chest heaved as she struggled to catch her breath.

“So,” she gasped, “did I scare you, or what?”

In answer, the light tipped downward. Roland was sitting on top of his mummy bag, his legs stretched out. The lap of his faded blue jeans was stained dark.

Dana grinned. “You wet your pants.”

“I wanta go,” Roland said in a shaky voice.

“Hell, you already went.”

“You won, okay? You won. Let me loose.” He turned his light toward a nearby card table with bottles on top. “The key’s up there.”

“Key?”

The beam moved again, this time to his left hand. It was cuffed to a metal rail near the bottom of the bar.

“Holy shit,” Dana muttered.

“My insurance. That’s how I knew I’d win.”

“You cuffed yourself?”

“Get the key, okay?”

So that was why Roland had insisted that she come in at dawn to get him—so she could unlock the handcuffs.

“Where are the Polaroids?” she asked.

“In my pack.”

“Give me the flashlight.”

Roland didn’t argue. He lowered it to the floor and pushed. It skidded toward her feet. Dana sat up, stretched forward, and grabbed it.

Getting to her knees, she shined the beam on Roland. His gaunt face, dead pale, looked even more cadaverous than usual. Squinting, he turned away from the glare.

She aimed the light at his crotch.

“Peed your fucking pants,” she said. “Did you really think I was a ghost?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled.

Dana chuckled. Then she crawled to the pack, searched it, and found an envelope. Inside the envelope were the photographs. She flicked through them, counting. All ten were there. She set the envelope on the floor and took her camera from the pack.

“What’re you doing?” Roland asked.

“Just recording the moment for posterity.” Standing up, Dana faced him and clamped the flashlight between her thighs aiming it so the beam lit his wet jeans. She raised the camera to her eye. “Say ‘cheese.’” She took three shots, the flash bar blinking bright. “Now take off your pants.”

He shook his head.

“Want me to leave you here?”

With his one free hand, Roland opened his jeans and tugged them down to his knees.

“You don’t believe in underpants?”

Dana snapped three more shots, then gathered up the photos that had dropped to the floor. She tucked them inside the envelope and put the envelope and the camera into his pack. She put her stocking cap in with them, swung the pack up and slipped her arms through the straps.

She shined the beam on Roland, who had pulled up his pants and was zipping the fly. “Adios.”

“Unlock me,” he said, squinting into the light.

“Do you think I’m nuts?”

“I went along with it. You promised. Now come on.” He wasn’t pleading. He sounded calm.

Dana thought about it. She really wanted to leave him here. But that would mean coming back tomorrow or sending Jason over to set him free. Also, he would end up winning the bet. A hundred bucks down the toilet.

“I don’t care about the pictures,” he said. “You can keep them.”

“Mighty big of you. I’d like to see you just try to take ’em off me.”

“Then what’s the big deal? Get the key.”

“Maybe. Stay put while I get dressed.”

“Very funny.”

She left him there. With the aid of the flashlight, her return to the kitchen was easy. Her foot had left smudges of blood on the linoleum. She wrinkled her nose at the sight of the mess she had stepped in.

Using the wool cap, she began to brush the flour off her body.

The gag had certainly worked.

Scared the hell out of Roland.

Wet his pants.

Funny how he hadn’t tried to hide that, just flashed the light down there to show her the damage as if it were nothing.

In fact, he’d been awfully calm about letting her take the pictures. Even pulled his pants down without much protest.

After having the headless ghost come at him, everything else must’ve seemed easy.

Maybe he’s in shock, or something.

Probably is.

On top of which, he’s scared shitless I’ll drive off and leave him. He knows he damn well better cooperate. Without the key, he’s stuck and he knows it.

Dana shined the light down at her body. Most of the flour was off, but her skin was still dusted white. She would need to take a shower when she got back.

After dressing, she slipped the envelope containing the photos into a rear pocket of her jeans. She pulled the poncho over her head and picked up Roland’s pack.

Her dorm room was without a kitchen, so she had no further use for the flour. She left the open bag on the floor and returned to the cocktail area.

Roland still sat with his back against the bar and his legs stretched out. He looked as if he hadn’t moved at all while she was gone.

“So,” Dana said. “I guess you’re ready to leave.”

He nodded.

“I don’t want pee on my car seat.”

“I’ll sit on my sleeping bag.”

“I’ve got a better idea. How about if you walk back to campus?”

“It’s raining.”

“Yeah, well, you can use a shower.”

“Just give me the key.”

Dana stepped to the table. “I knew you wouldn’t last out the night,” she said. The small key to the handcuffs glinted among the bottles and glasses. She picked it up. “The cuffs were a pretty neat idea, though. You would’ve won for sure if I hadn’t come along. But you lost, all right. I always knew you were a chicken. I guess you knew it, too, or you wouldn’t have cuffed yourself in. Huh? You knew you didn’t have the guts to stick it out.”

She twisted the cap off a bottle of vodka. They key was small enough to fit through the bottle’s neck. She dropped it. The key made a quiet splash. A moment later, it clinked against the bottom. She screwed the cap back on and tightened it with all her strength.

“Do yourself a favor,” she suggested. “Drink your way down to the key. It’ll help take the sting out of your hike.”

Dana tossed the bottle onto his lap.

At the door, she smiled back at him and said, “Cheers.”

The door bumped shut. Roland, in the darkness, clamped the bottle between his legs and twisted the cap off. He tugged his T-shirt up. Dumped vodka onto his belly until the key fell onto his bare skin. Flung the bottle away. Peeled the key off his belly and unlocked the cuff at his wrist.

Dana, walking quickly through the rain, was only a few yards from her car when she figured that Roland had probably succeeded, by now, in removing the handcuffs. It would still take him a while to gather up his sleeping bag. She glanced back, anyway.

Roland!

He looked crazy sprinting toward her, his head thrown back and his mouth wide, his arms windmilling as if he were trying to swim, not run.

In his right hand was a knife.

Dana raced for the car.

She thought, that was damn quick of him.

She thought, what’s he doing with that knife?

Where are my keys?

In the ignition.

Lucky. No fumbling.

She grabbed the door handle and pulled. The force of her pull ripped her fingers from the handle and she remembered she had left the car by its passenger door.

She whirled around.

Roland was almost upon her.

“Okay, look, you can ride back with me!”

He stopped. His lip curled up.

“Hey, Roland, come on.”

He clutched the front of her poncho, jerked her forward, and rammed the knife into her belly.

Roland pulled the knife out. He shoved Dana backward, keeping his grip on the poncho, and lowered her to the pavement. She sat there, moaning and holding her belly.

Roland sat on her legs.

He punched her nose and she flopped back. Her head thumped the pavement. She didn’t lose consciousness, but she didn’t struggle. Rain fell on her face. She blinked and gasped for air.

Straddling her, Roland plucked the front of the poncho away from her body, poked his knife through it, and sliced the plastic sheet open to her throat.

“Plea—” she gasped.

He cut open the front of her sweatshirt and spread it apart.

Rain sluiced away the blood on her belly, but more blood poured from the gash. Her chest rose and fell as she panted. Roland stared at her breasts. Then he put his knife away.

Bending low, he stretched out his arms. He held her breasts. They were wet and slick, warm beneath the wetness.

He kissed the gash on her belly.

He sucked blood from it.

Dana shrieked and jerked rigid beneath him when he bit.

She stayed alive for a long time. It was better that way.

Her heart still throbbed when Roland tore it from her chest cavity.

He was almost full, so he didn’t eat much of it. He stuffed what was left into her chest, then crawled to her head.

He scalped her, cracked open her skull with the pry bar, and scooped out her warm, dripping brain.

The best part.