Richard Laymon - The Stake

“Only if you want to.”

“Well, is he expecting us?”

“I suppose.”

“You two aren’t fighting again, are you?”

“Just the usual grief about my culinary preferences. I told him he’s no prize himself, and if he thinks he can do better, he should go ahead and try, and good riddance.”

“True love,” Lane said.

She swung around a bend and accelerated up the road to Henry’s house. He was out in front, sitting on a small, white-painted boulder next to the driveway, reading a paperback. When he saw them coming, he slipped the book into his leather briefcase. He stood up, ran a hand over the top of his crew cut, and stuck out his thumb as if hoping to hitch a ride with strangers.

“What a dork,” Betty muttered.

“Oh, he’s cute,” Lane said.

“He’s a nerd.”

That was a fact, Lane supposed. In his running shoes, old blue jeans, plaid shirt, and sunglasses, he could almost pass for a regular guy. But the briefcase gave him away. So did the rather dopey, cheerful look on his lean face. And the way his head preceded the rest of his body made him look, to Lane, like an adventurous turtle.

He was a nerd, no doubt about it. But Lane liked him.

“Good morning, sports fans!”

“Yo!” Lane greeted him.

Betty climbed out, shoved the seat back forward, and ducked into the backseat. Henry got in after her. Hanging over the seat, he managed to pull the door shut. Then his head swiveled toward Lane. “Foxy outfit there, lady.”

“Thanks.”

“ ‘She had a body like a mountain road,’ ” he said. “ ‘Full of curves and places you’d like to stop for a picnic’ ”

“Mike Hammer?” Lane asked.

“Mack Donovan, Dead Low Tide .” He dropped backward, or was yanked by Betty.

“You never talk to me that way,” the girl grumbled.

He whispered something that Lane couldn’t hear over Ronnie Milsap. She turned the radio down, and heard a giggly squeal from Betty. Making a U-turn, she headed down the hill.

“So, you have a big weekend?” Henry asked after a while.

“Okay,” Lane said. “Nothing special. I went shopping yesterday.”

“No dream date with Jim Dandy, King of the Studs?”

“He had to go out of town with his parents.”

“ Too bad. And I bet he didn’t even have the courtesy to leave you his biceps.”

“Nope, I had to go without.”

“Rotten luck. Should’ve come to the drive-in with us. Saw a couple of dynamite films. Trashed and Attack of the S.S. Zombie Queens .”

“Sorry I missed them.”

“Sorry I saw them,” Betty said.

“Well, you didn’t see much of them, that’s for sure. Between your forays to the snack bar and the John...”

“Hush up.”

“We think she got a bad hot dog,” he explained.

“Henry!” she whined.

“On the other hand, could’ve been a bad burrito or cheeseburger.”

“Lane doesn’t want to hear all the gruesome details.”

“What’s going on with your dad?” Henry asked, leaning forward and folding his arms over the seat back. “Have they started filming The Beast ?”

“Not yet. They just renewed the option, though.”

“Terrific. Man, I can’t wait to see that one. I’ve got rubber bands holding that book together. Read it five, six times. It’s a classic.”

“I would’ve liked it better,” Lane said, “if it hadn’t been written by my father.”

“Ah, he’s cool.”

“And apparently somewhat demented,” Lane added.

Henry laughed.

At the bottom of the hill Lane turned onto Shoreline Drive. Most of the shops along the road weren’t open yet, and the traffic was light. The station wagon ahead of her was filled with children on their way to the elementary school, which was across the road from Buford High at the south end of town. Quite a few older kids were on the sidewalks, hiking in that direction.

Henry, still resting on the seat back, swung his arm toward the passenger window. “Isn’t that Jessica?”

Lane spotted the girl on the sidewalk ahead. Jessica, all right. Even from behind there was no mistaking her. The spiked hair, dyed bright orange, was enough to give her away.

Her left arm was in a cast.

“Wonder what happened,” Lane muttered. “Anyone mind if I offer her a lift?”

“Yeah, do it,” Henry said.

“Terrific,” Betty muttered.

Lane swung the car to the curb, not far behind the swaggering girl, and leaned across the passenger seat. “How about a ride?” she called.

Jessica turned around.

Lane winced at the sight of her.

“God,” Henry muttered.

Jessica was generally considered the foxiest gal in the junior class, maybe in the entire high school.

Not so foxy now, Lane thought.

From the looks of her now, she might’ve gone ten rounds over the weekend with the heavyweight champ.

The left side of her face was swollen and purple. Her cracked lips bulged like sausages. She had a flesh-colored bandage on her chin, another over her left eyebrow. Lane guessed that the pink-framed sunglasses concealed shiners. The girl usually wore huge, dangling rings in her pierced ears. Today the lobes of both ears were bandaged. The low neckline of her tank top revealed bruises on her chest. Others showed around her shoulder straps. Even her thighs were smudged with purple bruises below the frayed edges of her cutoff jeans.

“How about it?” Lane called to her.

She shrugged, and Lane heard a quiet intake of breath from Henry — likely at the way the gesture made Jessica’s breast move under the tight, thin fabric of her top. Only one showed. The other was discretely hidden under the cloth sling that supported her broken arm. The visible one jiggled as she stepped toward the car.

Maybe she got herself gang-banged.

Nice, Lane. Real nice.

Would’ve been her own damn fault.

Cut it out.

Leaning across the passenger seat, she unlatched the door and swung it open.

“Thanks,” Jessica said.

Henry dropped away from the seat back — no doubt with Betty’s help — and lost his chance to watch the girl climb in. Too bad, Lane thought. He would’ve enjoyed seeing Jessica’s leg come out through the slit side of her jeans. The bruises might’ve dampened his enthusiasm, but not by much.

She pulled the door shut. Lane checked the side mirror, waited for a Volkswagen to pass, then swung out.

“Are you sure you want to be going to school?” she asked.

“Shit. Would you, ib you looked like this?”

“I guess I’d probably call in sick.”

“Yeah,” Jessica replied through her split and swollen lips. “Well, better than habbing by old lady in by face all day. She’s such a bain.”

Lane rubbed her lips together, licked them. Listening to Jessica was almost enough to make them ache.

From the backseat came Betty’s voice. “So, you going to let us in on it, or do we have to guess?”

Scowling, Jessica peered over her shoulder.

“It’s none of our business,” Lane said.

“Yeah. Well, I got trashed.”

“Who did it to you?” Henry asked.

“Who the buck knows? A couple guys. Real asswibes. Beat the shit outa be and stole by burse.”

“Where’d it happen?”

“Ober backa the Quick Stob.”

“Behind the Quick Stop?” Betty asked. “What were you doing there?”

“They dragged be there. Saturday night. I went in bor cigarettes, and they got be when I cabe out.”

“Bad news,” Henry muttered.

“Yeah, I’ll say.” With one hand she opened a canvas satchel and took out a pack of Camels. She shook it, raised the pack to her mouth, and caught a cigarette between her fat, scabby lips. She lit it with a Bic, inhaled deeply, and sighed.