Richard Laymon: Flesh

“We should’ve done the kitchen after lunch,” Ron said.

“My dear, we’d planned to do it after supper—having no idea, of course, that the long arm of the law, so to speak, would reach out and fuck us over.”

“He was just trying to help.”

“I can live without that kind of help, thank you very much.”

“We didn’t have to leave.”

“You couldn’t wait to get out of there and you know it.”

“I still think it was the wise thing to do. Why should we put ourselves in a possibly hazardous situation when it can be avoided?”

“Why, indeed?” she muttered.

“I really don’t appreciate your attitude,” Ron said.

“Too bad.” She started to take a drink.

“Damn it, Peggy!”

Her hand jumped. The chill liquid sloshed, spilling down the sides of her chin. “Shit!” She sat up. It trickled down her neck. With her left hand, she lifted her jersey and blotted herself dry. “You didn’t have to yell.” Her throat felt thick and her eyes burned. “Now I’m all sticky. Jeez, Ron.”

“I’m sorry.”

She tugged the cutoff jersey down to cover her breasts, took a drink, then set her glass on a coaster. “Excuse me.”

In the bathroom, she wiped her chin and neck with a damp washcloth. Ron appeared in the medicine cabinet mirror. His hands caressed her belly. “I am sorry,” he said again.

“Me, too,” Peggy said in a small voice. “I’ve been such a bitch. It’s just that I wanted to get it over with tonight.”

He lifted the jersey. His hands covered her breasts.

“I was worried about you,” he said. “That’s all.”

“I know.”

“If you want to stay here, I’ll go back tonight and get a start on the floor.”

“By yourself?”

“I could take the gun,” Ron told her.

“I’ve got a better idea. Take the gun, and we’ll both go.”

Jake Corey, sitting with his back to the trunk of a eucalyptus tree, scanned the fields with the binoculars he’d brought from home.

It was dusk. A breeze had come up and it felt good, a real improvement over the afternoon heat that had punished him during the long trek after he’d left his patrol car.

He must’ve hiked two miles or more, searching, crisscrossing his way through the weeds before coming to the high ground to settle down and watch.

“Don’t waste your time,” Chuck had said at the shift’s end.

“I haven’t got anything better to do.”

“Bullsquat. You oughta go out and get yourself some action, it’d do you good.”

Jake was in no mood for the kind of action Chuck meant. If he didn’t do this, he would spend the night alone in his small rented house, reading, maybe catching some TV, hitting the sack early. And he’d still feel guilty for letting the crash survivor slip away from him.

This way, at least, he was doing something about it.

The guy could be miles gone by now.

On the other hand, he might be nearby. The fields were far from flat. He could’ve found himself a depression and stayed low, resting and waiting. Biding his time until he felt it was safe to start moving.

That was the scenerio Jake counted on.

That was why he waited, well concealed among the high weeds with the tree to his back, scanning the area through binoculars.

Especially the area near the deserted restaurant.

That’s where you would head, he thought.

You’re hurt. You’ve been lying low in the weeds for hours. You’re hungry and parched. You’re starting to want a glass of water more than just about anything in the world.

Well, there’s the creek. You could get your drink there.

You’d still head for the restaurant.

You’re not just thirsty, you’re hungry, too. And this is, after all, a restaurant. You’re not from around here, you’ve got no idea it’s been closed for years. You only know that it isn’t open tonight. So it’s closed on Thursdays. You’re in luck. Get inside, you can have a feast. Take enough when you leave so you’ll be fixed up for days.

Jake’s position on the high ground gave him a good view of the restaurant. At least of its front and south walls. The other side and rear could be approached by an army, and he’d never know. Not from here.

Maybe the guy’s already inside.

Jake wished he had checked the place out before settling down for his vigil. At this point, he was reluctant to leave his cover.

Wait for dark.

That wouldn’t be long, now. Color was already fading from the landscape, the bright greens and yellows dimming, turning shades of gray.

Dark in a few more minutes.

Like waiting at a drive-in for the movie to start.

Jake was in his Mustang. With Barbara. His window was rolled down, the speaker hooked over its edge. Almost dark. Almost time for the movie. Kids were on the swings and teeter-totter of the play area under the screen.

Barbara. In a white knit shirt, white shorts, socks, and tennis shoes. Fresh and beautiful. Her skin dusky next to all that white.

A walk to the refreshment stand. It was always popcorn and soda during the first feature, then back at intermission for an ice cream sandwich or red vines. Usually red vines.

A lot of fooling around went on with the red vines. You could whip with them. Or tickle. Or tease. You could each take one end of the same vine in your mouth and chew your way toward the middle.

Until you met Barbara’s mouth. Her cherry-flavored mouth.

The sound of a car engine snapped Jake back into the present, and he felt as if he’d awakened from a sweet dream.

Headlights appeared on the road to the restaurant.

The car approached. As it passed below him, Jake saw that it was a station wagon.

Terrific.

So much for his warning.

And so much for his plan to check the place out.

He watched the red taillights rise and fall with the dips in the road. When the brake lights came on, he raised the binoculars. A door opened. The car’s interior light came on.

Smeltzer and Smeltzer. The dynamic duo.

Ron opened the rear door. He pulled out a double-barreled shotgun.

The door shut. Jake lowered his binoculars and watched the couple climb the stairs. They spent a few moments on the porch, Ron at the door. Then they both went in. Moments later, light appeared in the bay windows.

So what gives? Jake wondered. Why’d they come back?

Forgot something? If that’s the case, they’ll be out in a minute. Unless they get jumped.

Jake realized he was holding his breath, listening for a shotgun blast. Or a scream.

He got to his feet. He started down the slope to the road. Still listening. He heard his own heartbeat, the foliage crunching under his boots, the normal constant sounds of crickets and birds.

Maybe the guy doesn’t jump them, Jake thought. Maybe he hides. He would’ve heard the approach of the car. An old restaurant like that, it must have plenty of good hiding places.

If he’s in there at all.

He might just as easily be in the trees beyond the restaurant. Or two or three miles away. He could be anywhere. Hell, he could be lying in the weeds, dead from his injuries.

Or he might be crouched in a dark corner of the Oakwood Inn, watching for a good chance to pounce.

From a high spot on the road, Jake could see the station wagon and restaurant. But not the Smeltzers.

They didn’t forget a damn thing, those idiots. They came back to work.

Not a big surprise.

Jake picked up his pace.

The woman, that afternoon, had obviously been reluctant to leave. Ron was the sensible one. But weak. The little wife must’ve pursuaded him that they shouldn’t let a little thing like a possible killer in the vicinity stand between them and their chores. Scared? Take the shotgun. You stand guard while I sweep up the dust bunnies.