Richard Laymon: Tread Softly

Squatting beside the body, she ripped out a ringlet of hair. She squeezed the breast to force more blood to the surface, and dabbed the hair in it. She tied the sticky cord into a knot. She flicked it into her pouch, then picked up a hand. The plum fingernail polish was chipped. One nail was broken, but the rest were long and neatly rounded. She pared off the tips of four, catching them in her palm, and brushed them into her bag.

"Now, that's all there is to it," she said, looking up at Merle. "Wouldn't have taken you half a minute, and I could've laid down a dandy spell and we'd still be in Fresno today. You didn't even have to take blood. If you'd just had the good sense to bring me hair and nails, I'd have had the essence to throw a cover on us."

"I like it here fine," he mumbled.

"Well, I don't." Her knees crackled as she straightened up. "I like my creature comforts, Merle. I like a good meal and a cold beer and nice clothes and a soft bed."

"And men," he added, showing a sliver of a smile.

"That's the truth." She pushed her knife into its sheath at the side of her dress, and started tying the pouch to her belt. "You deprived me of all that 'cause you were horny and careless."

"I told you, Ettie. He spoke to me."

She didn't believe him. "Don't go laying off your blame, Merle. Now, you take care of the burying and bring up their things to the cave. I'll come along and check before sundown, and I want to see this place looking like nobody was ever here. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And if you ever offer down again without my say-so, you'll be the sorriest young man that ever walked on two legs."

He looked down at his feet. "Yes, ma'am."

Leaving him there, Ettie made her way along the rock-bound shore. At the narrow, southern tip of the lake where its feeder stream splashed down from Upper Mesquite, she crouched and cupped water to her mouth. Even after spending a month up here, she still couldn't get over the cold, fresh taste of it. Hard to believe that water could be so fine. She knew she would miss it in September, when they had to leave. Wouldn't miss anything else, though: not the heat steaming off the rocks, or the mosquitoes, or the wind that tore around at night so loud it often kept her awake, or the cold when the sun went down, or the hard ground she slept on. She'd be glad to leave all that behind. Not the water, though.

She unsnapped the canvas bag of her canteen, and pulled out the aluminum bottle. After twisting off its cap, she upended it. The old water burbled out. She held the empty canteen under a lip of mossy rock, gripping it tightly as fresh water washed over her hand. When the bottle overflowed, she capped it, then slipped it back into the case. It felt heavy and good against her hip as she stood up.

Staying close to the stream, she climbed up pale, broken slabs of granite to the ridge between the two lakes. She turned slowly, scanning the slopes that rose high above her. Then she peered toward the trail slanting down from Carver Pass beyond the northern end of Lower Mesquite. Once every few days, backpackers hiked by. Until yesterday, when those two stayed and camped, Merle had been just fine.

Blast Merle. Damn and shit!

The trail was deserted now. More than likely, if anyone should show up today, it wouldn't be till the afternoon. The pass was a hard, three-hour climb from the nearest lake to the east, so Merle should have plenty of time to take care of the mess. Besides, there was the spell.

Stepping onto a flat surface of rock, Ettie unbuckled her belt with all its gear. She set it at her feet and opened the buttons of her faded, shapeless dress. She pulled the dress up over her head. Except for her heavy socks and boots, she was naked. She felt the sun on her skin, the caress of soft breezes. The air smelled hot. It smelled of scorched pine needles, of baking rock.

Bending over, she spread her dress across the granite. Then she sat on it. Through the thin layers of fabric, the rock felt hard and rough. The heat seeped through, stinging her buttocks as she removed her boots and damp socks.

When they were off, she untied the leather pouch from her belt. She crossed her legs and sat upright, with her back arched, her head straight forward. With both hands, she clasped the pouch to her breastbone.

"Into darkness," she whispered, "I commit the essence of my foes. As their essence is obscured, so let all traces of their presence be banished from this canyon, that those who seek them might find no cause to trespass here."

Lowering her head, she opened the drawstrings of the pouch. She pulled out a bloody lock of hair and placed it into her mouth. She chewed slowly, working it into a sodden clump, and swallowed it. She did the same with the second coil of hair. She washed them down with water liom her canteen. Then she dumped the fingernails onto her palm, raised them to her lips, and ate them. She drank some more water.

The rock was rough and hot through her dress. The hair felt thick and heavy in her stomach.

But she was done.

She smiled. She raised the canteen and poured its cold water over her head. It streamed down her face, her shoulders. It rolled down her back. It spilled over her breasts, dripped from her nipples, ran down her belly and sides. Moving the canteen, she let the water fall onto her crossed legs, her groin. She sighed at its icy touch.

Too soon the canteen was empty.

She stared at the glinting blue of Upper Mesquite. Why not? She deserved a treat. Leaving everything, she skipped over the searing rocks to the shore. She waded in, shivering and gasping, and hesitated only a moment before plunging headlong.

They stopped at a gas station in Fresno. Rolling down his window, Julie's father asked the teenaged attendant to "fill her up with super unleaded and check under the hood."

With the window open, heat rushed into the car. Julie fanned her face with her book.

"Guess I'll make a pit stop," Karen said.

"Me, too," said Benny.

They both climbed out.

"Julie?" Dad asked.

"I'll wait till they're back." She watched them walk through the glaring sunlight toward the side of the station. Benny was smiling up at the woman, grinning and talking.

"Benny seems to really like Karen," Dad said.

"I noticed." The two disappeared around a corner of the garage.

"I think you'd like her, too, if you gave her half a chance."

"What have I done?" Julie blurted.

"It's your attitude."

"I can't help it if I'm not crazy about her. What am I supposed to do, worship the ground she walks on?''

"There's no call for sarcasm."

"I didn't ask her to come with us."

"Well, I did, and I'd appreciate it if you'd get your act together. You've been miserable all morning."

"I am miserable." Her throat tightened. She suddenly felt as if she might start blubbering.

Dad looked around at her. "What's the matter, honey?" he asked in a gentle voice.

"Nothing," she mumbled.

"What is it?"

"I don't see why I even had to come." Tears filled her eyes. She stared out the window at the gas pumps. "I should've stayed home with Tanya. You don't want me here anyway."

"Of course I do."

"No you don't. You've got Karen. You don't need Benny and me."

"Look, if I'd wanted to be alone with Karen, would I have insisted you come with us? I could've left you home easily enough, but I wanted you and Benny along. Hell, it wouldn't be half as much fun without you two. Now come on, buck up, old girl. Let's see a smile."

Julie wiped her eyes, but didn't try to smile.

"Come on."

The squeak of a squeegee drew her eyes to the young attendant. He was grinning down at her through the passenger window as he scraped away the dirty water.