Richard Laymon: Flesh

“Smart move, folks,” Jake muttered.

He hoped they were smart enough, at least, to check the doors and windows carefully. Assuming they had locked up before leaving (and they’d certainly taken long enough, Jake remembered), then the guy probably couldn’t have entered without breaking something.

Unless he was already inside before they secured the place. Hiding.

What if they know?

The thought astonished Jake. He stopped walking and stared at the restaurant. And toyed with the idea.

They weren’t hostages—that didn’t fit at all. But what if they were cooperating with the guy for some reason?

What reason?

Money? Maybe the guy’s loaded and bribed them to help out.

Ron’s story about going for ice always did sound fishy.

And they spent an awfully long time inside when they were supposed to be locking up. Maybe discussing the situation with their new friend.

They leave with me. Come back after dark. With a shotgun.

A shotgun for their pal.

Jake started walking again, frowning as he gazed at the restaurant.

What do I know about the Smeltzers? he asked himself. Next to nothing.

Hell, the van might’ve been on its way here when somebody got the bright idea of running down Celia Jamerson.

You’re stretching it, aren’t you?

Just covering the bases. Taking a good look at every angle. That’s how you avoid surprises.

Do you really believe they’ve thrown in with the guy?

The wife, maybe. Yeah, I could believe that. But Ron?

Maybe Ron’s a terrific actor.

Jake doubted it.

They had to both be in on it, or neither of them. So it was neither. Probably.

As Jake neared the restaurant, he decided that, in all likelihood, the two had simply decided to ignore the risk, bring a gun along for protection, and spend a while finishing up their chores. But he couldn’t ignore the other possibilities, remote as they might be.

Better safe than dead.

He chose not to knock on the door.

Instead, he silently climbed the porch stairs and peeked through one of the bay windows to the right of the entrance. He saw no one. The area beyond the window would be the cocktail lounge. A long, dark wood bar with a brass foot rail ran the length of the room. It had no stools, but there were a couple of folding chairs and a card table in front of it, about halfway down. The card table held a small collection of bottles and cocktail glasses.

There’s some evidence for you, Jake thought. They had been planning to drink here. Ron must’ve been telling the truth about going for ice.

Jake crept to the other side of the door. Through the window there, he had a full view of the main dining room. Without any tables or chairs, it looked huge. The dark paneled wall to the left had half a dozen windows. Sconces were hung in the spaces between the windows, between the windows at the rear, and along the wall to the right. The wrought iron sconces each held three imitation candles—white stalks with glowing bulbs at the top. Apparently, they didn’t provide enough illumination for the Smeltzers. One table lamp rested on the floor, casting a pool of light across the glossy hardwood.

Next to the lamp stood a vacuum cleaner. A broom was propped against a stepladder. There was an open toolbox on the floor, and an assortment of rags and cans and bottles of substances to be used for cleaning and polishing.

Jake figured that the wall on the right must close off the kitchen area. About halfway down it, light spilled out from bat-wing doors.

Jake climbed down from the porch. He made his way around to the right side of the building and approached one of the glowing windows toward the rear.

Quiet music came from inside, so he realized that the window was probably open. He crept toward it cautiously.

The window was open, all right.

It was high off the ground, its sill level with Jake’s shoulders. Bracing himself with a hand against the rough wood wall, he peered in at a corner. He smelled the window screen and a faint odor of ammonia.

Ron, in a far corner of the kitchen, was bent over a bucket, levering dirty water out of a sponge mop with a long handle. He wore jeans and no shirt. His shirt was draped over the counter close to the radio.

Jake spotted the shotgun. It stood upright, barrels propped against the wall in a nook probably intended for a stove or refrigerator.

He couldn’t see the wife.

Ducking low, he made his way along the side of the building. He stepped around the corner and peered through a rear window.

The wife was at the other end of the kitchen, down on her knees, scrubbing the floor. She still wore her red shorts. But nothing else. Her back was arched. She held herself up with one hand and scrubbed with the other. Her breasts shook as she worked.

Jake suddenly felt like a voyeur.

He stepped away from the window, leaned back against the wall, and stared out at the dark field and nearby woods.

So much, he thought, for checking out the Smeltzers.

It was pretty obvious they weren’t harboring his fugitive.

Whether or not they were safe—that was anyone’s guess. But they had chosen to assume the risk, and they’d at least taken the precaution of bringing a firearm. Jake had done his duty; he’d warned them, even snuck around here to check on them. He couldn’t see himself knocking on the door to warn them again—especially not after spying the half-naked woman.

He had an urge to look again.

Don’t be a jerk, Corey.

He headed away.

“Did you hear that?” Peggy asked.

“Hear what?”

“Turn off the damn radio.”

Ron dragged the sponge mop behind him to the counter and silenced the radio.

Peggy let go of her scrub brush. She straightened up, wiped her wet hands on her shorts, and stared at him.

“I don’t hear anything,” he whispered. He looked frightened. His eyes were wide and his mouth hung open a bit.

A drop of sweat trickled down from Peggy’s armpit. She brought her arm against her side and rubbed it away.

“Maybe you just imagined it,” Ron said.

“I didn’t imagine anything.”

Ron’s head swiveled, eyes darting from window to window.

“Not out there,” Peggy told him. Raising her arm, she pointed at the closed door to the cellar.

The color went out of Ron’s face. “You’re kidding,” he muttered.

In a harsh whisper, she said, “I heard something, damn it, and it came from there.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Don’t just stand there, get the gun.”

He looked over at it, then back to Peggy. “What kind of noise was it?”

“A thud, a thump, I don’t know. For godsake, Ron…”

“Okay okay.” He tiptoed across the kitchen, lifted the shotgun, and held it at his side, barrels pointing at the cellar door.

Peggy glanced sideways. Her wadded jersey was on top of the counter, just out of reach. Bare to the waist, she felt very vulnerable. She watched the cellar door and inched her way toward the counter on her knees. She realized that she was afraid to make any quick movements. She couldn’t take her eyes off the door. Reaching up, she patted the counter until she touched the jersey. She pulled it down. Holding it at her belly, she gazed at the door and fingered the jersey until she found its opening. She slipped her hands through the armholes, raised her arms high, and let the jersey drift down. For a moment, it blinded her. She tugged it quickly down off her face.

Gripping the countertop with one hand, she stood up. “Let’s get out of here.”

“You mean leave?” Ron asked.

“Yes.”

“You must be kidding.” The tone of his voice pried Peggy’s gaze off the cellar door. She looked at him. His face was still pale, but a corner of his mouth twitched as if he were working on a grin. “We haven’t finished the floor,” he mocked her.