Richard Laymon - Tread Softly

"Rabies tests? Was the bastard rabid?"

Karen shook her head, wincing at the pull of her stiff neck muscles. "We were worried about his mother's knife."

"His mother?"

"Yeah." She explained about the tents being slashed open, the head cuts on everyone except Flash and Nick, the mother showing herself and cursing them.

"Like a fuckin' horror film," Meg said. "What was she, some kind of witch?"

"That's what Benny says. He's pretty spooked about the whole thing."

"And you're not?"

"I'm not gonna lose any sleep over a curse. Sleep, ha! Wonder what that is. Feel like I haven't slept for a week."

"Maybe you'd better hit the sack."

"Funny, I'm not sleepy. Just kind of shaky and spaced out, and like I might vomit. But, anyway, I've gotta take a bath first. Probably turn the water black."

"Can I do something for you? Fix you something to eat?"

"No, thanks. We ate on the road."

"How about a drink? You could probably use a stiff one."

"Yeah. A good belt of Alka-Seltzer. I'll get it." She pushed herself forward, stood up, and limped toward the kitchen. Meg, hurrying ahead of her, turned on the light and went to a cupboard. "Any trouble with the cops?"

"They're sending out a team to search for the body. I guess there won't be an inquest or anything unless they find something."

Meg ran cold water from the tap, and filled the glass.

"Nobody's really sure the guy's dead. We think so, but the way the body disappeared…"

"Good Christ."

"We think the mother took it. Anyway, they're investigating the whole thing." She accepted the glass from Meg. "They said they'd be in touch."

"What a mess."

"Yeah."

Meg returned to the living room. Karen carried her glass up the short hall to the bathroom. Leaning against the sink, she opened the medicine cabinet and found a packet of Alka-Seltzer. Her hands shook badly as she tried to tear tin- foil. Finally, she ripped it with her teeth. She dumped tin two tablets into her glass.

While she waited for them to dissolve, she stared at herself in the mirror. She looked as bad as she felt. Her blond hair was dark and stringy. Her face was puffy and smudged with bruises. There were shadows under each eye. The eyes themselves were like those of a dazed, haggard stranger. She touched the cut above her right eyebrow, and felt the tiny ridge of scab. Combing her hair down with her fingers, she found a swath that was too short.

I have your blood and hair.

The bitch wasn't kidding.

Karen lifted the glass. The cool fizz tickled her nostrils as she drank. When she was done, she stripped off her filthy clothes. Many of the bruises on her neck and shoulders and breasts were shaped like teeth marks.

Beautiful. That's what the female deputy had said while inspecting the marks. Karen had blushed then, and she blushed now at the memory of it. The surge of blood made the pounding in her head hurt worse.

'Beautiful?" she'd muttered.

"The fella would've been an orthodontist's dream. These are nearly as good as fingerprints." Then the deputy had taken an endless series of photos — long shots and close-ups of each injury. "And you're positive there was no ejaculation?" she asked when she finished.

"Does it make any difference?"

"Yes and no. It's rape irregardless, so long as he penetrated without your consent. A semen specimen can be typed, though, if he's a secreter. By that, I mean his blood type can often be determined from a semen sample. That'd be good evidence in court."

"He didn't ejaculate." Scott had. A specimen, if any traces could still be found, would only serve to confuse the situation.

The deputy had shrugged. "We can live without it."

"We can live without it," Karen muttered to the bruised face in the mirror. "Jeez." She turned away. Her head throbbed as she bent over the bathtub and turned the faucets on. When the water was hot, she twisted the shower handle. There was a pause, then water sprayed down. She stepped over the side of the tub, into the hot rush, and pulled the plastic curtain shut.

The water felt wonderful splashing against her, matting her hair and spraying her face, running hot down her body. She turned slowly, sighing as it struck the back of her head, her sore neck and shoulders. Its gentle force massaged her, eased the pain in her head, brought a languor that made washing seem like too much effort.

Finally, she forced herself to shampoo. Her arms ached as she rubbed the suds into her hair and scrubbed her scalp. When she finished rinsing, she stood motionless, arms hanging limp, letting the spray hit her, feeling the hot streams slide down her body. She didn't want to move, except to lie down in the enveloping heat. But she needed to be clean first, to soap away the grime of the trails, her own sweat, the filth of the man who'd soiled her by his touch.

Stepping away from the shower so the water fell just against her calves, she began to rub herself with a bar of soap. Except for a patch of skin out of reach in the center of her back, she lathered herself from neck to ankle. She set the bar in its dish. She felt as if she wore a suit of slick, hugging suds. With a wet washcloth, she began to scrub herself. She did it hard, despite the flickers of pain as she scoured the bruised areas. Squatting, with the spray on her back, she swabbed between her legs. Tomorrow, she thought, she would stop by the Thrifty and buy a douche. She wished she didn't have to wait that long, but the store would be closed by now, so there was no choice.

She stood up and rinsed, cleaned her face and ears, and was done.

Crouching, she stoppered the drain. The sound of the shower changed immediately: a loud sound, hollow and plopping, not unlike the drum of rain on a tent.

It hadn't been raining when the man entered her tent. It had been raining when she came to. When Scott made love to her, the noise of rain smashing the tent was all around them, part of it all, as close to them as the sound of their heartbeats and breathing.

It was a good memory.

Karen sat down in the pooled water and slid herself backward until the spray enveloped all but her outstretched legs. Drawing them up, she wrapped her arms around her knees. She sat there, huddled under the hot shower, the water level rising, the sound like the rain hitting the tent;two nights before when Scott was with her, so gentle, so hesitant, afraid of hurting her, finally filling her and making so much of the real hurt go away.

She wished she could be with him now. He'd asked her to come home with him, but it hadn't seemed right. "I'm such a mess," she'd objected. "You'd better take me to my place." Even as the words came out, they'd left a hollow, lonely place inside her. She'd wanted, more than anything, to go home with Scott. She didn't want to leave him. She didn't want to leave Benny or Julie. But they deserved time to be together as a family, time away from her. Even if they wanted her in their home tonight, she knew she would feel like an intruder.

The water splashing on Karen seemed less hot than before. Sliding forward, she twisted the shower handle down. The spray ceased, and water gushed from the faucet. She stopped all the cold, and continued to fill the tub, a hand under the spout until the falling water started to cool. Then she shut it off.

She lay down, her head against the rear of the tub, all but her face submerged in the warmth. The enamel was slick against her back, but she felt the washcloth under her rump. She pulled it free, wrung it out, and spread it over her face.

Wrapped in heat, she felt tranquil and lazy. The soreness seeped from her muscles. Her limp arms were buoyed up. She forced them down, and slid her fingers beneath her buttocks to stop them from rising.

Her mind began to drift. She was crouching by a mountain stream, splashing herself with water so cold it stung. She saw Scott's eager eyes, felt his hand cup her breast. When he pulled off her shirt, she reminded herself that he hadn't done that; they'd kissed and moved on and found the campsite for their first night. But now he did. He pulled off her shirt and kissed the teeth marks on her breasts. There shouldn't be teeth marks, but there were, and he kissed them gently. He plucked open the drawstring of her sweatpants. She'd been wearing shorts that afternoon, but never mind. They were off and she was sprawled naked on a hot granite slab beside the stream, with the spray of the tumbling water icy on her skin, and the sun hot. Scott, standing between her spread legs, wore only a gray sweatshirt. Karen's sweatshirt. It was much too tight. He struggled to take it off, but couldn't, so he slit it up the front with a straight razor. He knelt down. "I've got a surprise for you," he said. Reaching into a bowl, he scooped out a handful of white lather. He spread it on her groin. "Are you going to shave me?" she asked. Scott didn't answer. He rubbed her with the thick, slippery cream, then piled a huge heap of it on her belly. As he smeared it over her skin, he said, "It's not what you think." She asked, "What is it?" He swirled it over her breasts, made tiny white peaks on each nipple, and licked them off. "Whipped cream," he said. "I'm going to eat you up." He raised his face and grinned, but he wasn't Scott anymore but a gaunt, wrinkled old woman with watery eyes and crooked brown teeth. There were dabs of whipped cream on her lips and the tip of her nose. "No! Get away!" Karen gasped. The awful face darted down. She tried to twist away, but the teeth clamped on her breast and sank in. The old woman shook her head like a savaging dog, jerked free, and loomed over Karen's face, chewing a clump of flesh; blood and whipped cream spilled onto Karen's lips. Karen started to scream. Her mouth filled with water.