"The Stake" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laymon Richard)

Three

“Where are they?” Jean whispered, pressing herself against his side.

Larry shook his head. He couldn’t believe the couple was actually gone. “They probably just wandered off somewhere,” he said. The idea that he would catch them fooling around had been the product of wishful thinking, and he knew that his worries about murder had been farfetched. But so had his worries that they’d disappeared.

“We’d better find them,” Jean said.

“Good plan.”

But all he saw were the rear facades of the other buildings, and the desert stretching away toward a ridge of mountains to the south.

“Maybe they’re playing some kind of trick on us,” Jean suggested.

“I don’t know. Pete was awfully eager for his beer.”

“People don’t go for a leak and vanish off the face of the earth.”

“Only on occasion.”

“It’s not funny.” Her voice was trembling.

“Look, they’ve got to be around.”

“Maybe we’d better go and get the gun.”

“It’s locked in the van. I don’t imagine Pete would be very happy about a broken window.”

“Pete!” she suddenly shrieked. “Barb!”

A distant voice called, “Yo!”

Jean’s eyebrows flew up. Her head snapped sideways and she squinted out at the desert.

Some fifty yards off, Pete’s head and shoulders rose out of the wasteland. “Hey, y’gotta see this!” he shouted, and waved for them to approach.

Jean glanced at Larry, rolled her eyes and sagged as if her air had been let out.

He grinned.

“I think I may kill them myself,” Jean said.

“I’ll go get the gun.”

“Break allthe windows, while you’re at it.” Her voice sounded shaky.

“Come on, let’s see what they found.”

“It better be good.”

They walked over the hard, baked earth, moving carefully as they stepped on broken rocks, avoided clumps of cactus and greasewood. Near the place where Pete waited was an old smoke tree. Larry guessed that Barbara had wandered farther and farther away from Holman’s, looking for a suitably large bush or rock cluster, and had finally decided upon the tree. Its trunk was thick enough to afford privacy, and there was shade beneath its drooping branches.

Pete was standing some distance from the tree. At his back the ground dropped away.

“What’d you find?” Larry asked. “The Grand Canyon?”

“Hey, glad you brought the suds.” He lifted the front of his knit shirt and wiped his face. “It’s nastyout here.”

Larry handed the full bottle to him.

The depression behind Pete was a dry creek bed some fifteen or twenty feet lower than the surrounding flatlands. Barbara, sitting on a rock at the bottom, looked up and waved.

“Did you forget about us?” Jean asked Pete.

He finished taking a swig of beer, then shook his head. “I was just on my way to get you. Figured you might want to see this.” He started down the steep embankment, and they followed.

“We were getting a little worried,” Larry said, watching his feet as he descended the rocky slope. “Thought you might’ve fallen victim to a roving band of desert marauders.”

“Yeah? That’s a good one. Make a good story, huh?”

Barbara stood up and brushed off the seat of her white shorts. “God, it’s hot as a huncher down here,” she said, as they approached. Her blouse was unbuttoned, its front tied, leaving her midriff bare. The knot was loose enough to leave a gap. Her bra was black. Larry saw the pale sides of her breasts through its lace. “No breeze at all,” she added.

“What’s the big discovery?” Jean asked, handing a beer to her.

“It’s no big deal, if you ask me.” She tipped the bottle up. Larry saw a bead of sweat drop from her jaw, roll off her collarbone, and slide down her chest until it melted into the edge of her bra.

“Over here,” Pete said. “Come on.”

He led the way to a cut eroded into the wall of the embankment. There, lying in shadows and partly hidden by tangles of brush, was the demolished carcass of a jukebox. “Must’ve come from that cafe,” he said, nudging its side with his shoe.

“How’d it get all the way out here?” Jean asked.

“Who knows?”

“The thing’s no good, anyway,” Barbara said.

“It’s seen better days,” Larry said, feeling a touch of nostalgia as he pictured it standing fresh and bright near the lunch counter in Holman’s. He guessed that someone had dragged it out and used it for target practice. It would’ve made a tempting target, all decorated with bright chrome and plastic — if the shooter happened to be an asshole who took pleasure from destroying things of such beauty. After the box was blasted to smithereens, it had probably been shoved off the edge of the slope for the fun of watching it tumble and crash.

Larry crouched beside its shattered plastic top. The rows of record slots were empty. The tone arm dangled from its mount by a couple of wires.

“Probably worth a few of grand,” Pete said.

“Forget it,” Barbara told him. “He thinks we should take it with us.”

“She’s sure a beaut,” Pete said. “A Wurlitzer.”

“Think you could get it working?” Jean asked.

“Sure.”

He probably could, Larry thought. The guy’s house was a museum of resurrected junk: televisions, stereo components, a toaster oven, lamps, a dishwasher and vacuum cleaner, all once disgarded as useless, picked up by Pete and restored to working order.

“You might get it playing again,” he said, “but it’s too messed up to ever look like anything.” Its chrome trim was dented and rusty, one side of the cabinet was smashed in, the speaker grills looked as if they’d been hit by shotgun blasts, and bullets had torn away at least half the square plastic buttons used for selecting tunes. “You probably can’t even get replacement parts for a lot of this stuff,” he added.

“Sure would be neat, though.”

“Yeah.” Turning his head sideways, Larry blew dust and sand from its chart of selections. Bullets and shotgun pellets had ripped away some of the labels. Those that remained were faint, washed out by rainfall and years of pounding sunlight. Still, he could make out the names of many titles and artists. Jean crouched and peered over his shoulder.

“There’s ‘Hound Dog,’ ” he said. “ ‘I Fall to Pieces,’ ‘Stand by Your Man.’ ”

“God, I used to love that one,” Jean said.

“Sounds like it’s mostly shit-kicker stuff,” Pete said.

“Well, here’s the Beatles. ‘Hard Day’s Night.’ The Mamas and the Papas.”

“Oh, they were good,” Barbara said.

“This one’s ‘California Dreaming,’ ” Larry told her.

“Always makes me sad when I think about Mama Cass.”

“All right!” Larry grinned. “ ‘The Battle of New Orleans.’ Johnny Horton. Man, I must’ve been in junior high. I knew that sucker by heart.”

“There’s Haley Mills,” Jean said, her breath stirring the hair above Larry’s ear. “ ‘Let’s Get Together.’ And look, ‘Soldier Boy’ ”

“Here’s the Beach Boys, ‘Surfin’ U.S.A.‘ ”

“Now we’re talking,” Pete said.

“Dennis Wilson, too,” Barbara said. “So many of those people are dead. Mama Cass, Elvis, Lennon. Jesus, this is getting depressing.”

“Patsy Cline’s dead, too,” Jean told her.

“And Johnny Horton, I think,” Larry said.

“What do you guys expect?” Pete said. “This stuff’s all at least twenty, thirty years old.”

Barbara took a few steps backward, stumbled when her sneaker came down on a rock, but managed to stay up. Sweaty face grimacing, she said, “Why don’t we get out of this hellhole and look around town? That’s what we came here for, isn’t it?”

“Might as well.” Jean pushed against Larry’s shoulder and rose from her squat.

“Let’s see if we can lift this thing,” Pete muttered.

“Oh no you don’t!” Barbara snapped. “No way! You’re not carting that piece of trash home with us. Uh-uh.”

“Well, shit.”

“If you want an old jukebox so bad, go out and buy one, for godsake. Jesus, it’s probably got scorpions in it.”

“I think you’d better forget it,” Larry said, rising to his feet. “The thing’s beyond saving.”

“Yeah, I guess. Shit.” He gave his wife a sour look. “Thanks a heap, Barbara dear.”

She ignored his remark and started climbing the slope. Below her rucked-up blouse her back looked tawny and slick. The rear of her shorts was smudged with yellow dust from the rock where she’d sat. The fabric hugged her buttocks, and Larry could see the outline of her panties — a narrow band inches lower than the belt of her shorts, a skimpy triangle curving down from it. Jean, climbing behind her, was hunched over slightly. Her blouse was still untucked. It clung to her back, and the loose tail draped her rump.

Pete was watching, too.

“Couple of good-looking chicks,” he said.

“Not bad.”

“You ever get the feeling they run our fucking lives for us?”

“Only about ninety-nine percent of the time.”

Pete choked out a laugh, slapped Larry’s arm, and took a long drink of beer. “Guess we’d better be good little boys and go with them.” He glanced back at the jukebox. He sighed. He shrugged. “Adios. No more music for you, old pal.”

“So much for that,” Larry said when he saw the padlocked hasp across the double doors of the Sagebrush Flat Hotel.

Pete fingered the lock. “Doesn’t look very old.”

“Maybe someone’s living here,” Barbara said.

“Hey, Sherlock, it’s locked from the outside. What does that tell you?”

“Tells me we’d be trespassing.”

“Yeah,” Jean said. “The doors are locked, the windows are boarded. Somebody’s trying to keep people out.”

“Kind of sparks my curiosity. What about you, Lar?”

“Sparks mine, too. But I don’t know about breaking in.”

“Who’s gonna find out?” Pete turned away from the doors. He stepped off the sidewalk, bent over and swept his head slowly from side to side in a broad pantomime of scanning the town’s only road. “I don’t see anyone. Do you see anyone?”

“We get the point,” Barbara told him.

“I’ll just mosey on over to the van.” He started across the pavement, walking at an angle toward Holman’s.

“What’s he got in mind?” Jean asked.

“God knows. Maybe he’s planning to ram the doors open.”

“That’d be rather drastic,” Larry said.

“It’s a matter of pride, at this point. A challenge. Pete wouldn’t be Pete if he let a little thing like a lock keep him out.”

Jean rolled her eyes upward. “I guess this means we’re going to explore the hotel whether we want to or not.”

“Just consider it an adventure,” Larry suggested.

“Yeah, right. Jail would be an adventure, too.”

Pete climbed into the rear of the van. A few seconds later he jumped down, swung the door shut, and waved a lug wrench overhead. It had a pry bar at one end. In his other hand was a flashlight.

He’s really going to break in, Larry thought. Good Christ.

Barbara waited until he was closer, then called, “We’ve been having some second thoughts about this, Pete.”

“Hey, what’s life if you don’t take a little chance now and then. Right, Lar?”

“Right,” he answered, trying to sound game.

“You’re a lot of help,” Jean muttered.

Pete bounded onto the sidewalk, grinning and brandishing his tire iron. “Got my skeleton key right here,” he announced. “Fits any lock.”

“Anybody want to wait in the van?” Barbara asked.

“Ah, pussy.”

“Well, I guess I’d like to have a look around,” Larry said.

“Good man.”

Pete gave the flashlight to Larry. Then he rammed the wedge end of the bar behind the metal strap of the hasp. He yanked with both hands, throwing his weight backward. Wood groaned and split. With a sound like a small explosion the staple burst out of the door, bolts and all. “Well, that was a cinch.”

He shoved the bar under his belt, turned the knob on the right and pulled the door open.

“I suppose we could always say we found it like this,” Barbara muttered.

“You won’t have to sayanything. Half an hour or so, we’ll be long gone.”

“If we don’t get shot for trespassing.”

Ignoring her remark, Pete leaned into the doorway and called, “Yoo-hoo. Anybody home?”

Larry winced.

“Here we come, ready or not!”

“Cut it out,” Barbara whispered, slapping the back of his shoulder.

“Nobody home but us ghosts,” he said in a low, scratchy voice, and turned around grinning.

“Real cute.”

“So who’s coming in?”

“I think we should all go in or none of us,” Larry said, hoping Pete wouldn’t figure him for a pussy. “I don’t think we should split up. I’d be worried the whole time that something might happen to the gals while we’re in there looking around.”

“Good man,” Barbara said, and patted his back.

“Guess you’re right,” Pete admitted. “If they got themselves raped and murdered while we were in there, boy would we feel like a couple of heels.”

“Exactly.”

“Real cute,” Jean said, borrowing not only Barbara’s phrase but also her disdainful tone.

“What do you say?” Barbara asked her.

“They’ll hold it against us forever if they can’t go in on our account.”

“Admit it,” Pete said. “You’re dying to come with us.”

“Let’s get it over with,” Barbara said.

Larry gave the flashlight back to Pete and followed him into the hotel. In spite of the closed doors and boarded windows, sand had found its way into the lobby. It made soft scraping sounds under their shoes.

“We probably shouldn’t leave the door open,” Jean said. There was a tremor in her hushed voice. “In case someone comes by.” Without waiting for a reply, she closed the door, shutting out most of the daylight.

Light still came in around the doors, spilled through cracks and knotholes in the planks across the windows — pale, dusty streamers that slanted down to the floor. Pete turned his flashlight on, its beam pushing a tunnel of brightness into the gloom. He swept it from side to side.

“Boy, there’s a lot to see in here,” Barbara whispered. “What a find!”

The lobby was bare except for a registration counter. On the wall behind the counter were cubbyholes for mail or messages. Over to the left a wooden staircase rose steeply toward the upper floors.

“Should we check in before we have a look around?” Pete asked.

“Probably no vacancies,” Larry whispered.

“A couple of real comedians,” Jean muttered.

Pete led the way to the counter, pounded its top and said in a loud voice, “How does a guy get some service around here?”

“Creep. You want to hold it down?”

“What’s everybody whispering for?” He vaulted the counter, dropped into the space behind it and ducked out of sight. He reappeared, rising slowly, the flashlight at his chin to cast weird shadows up his face. Where the beam touched him, his skin gleamed with sweat.

Goofing off like a kid, Larry thought. But he sometimes pulled the same gag, especially around Halloween, more to amuse himself than to frighten Jean or Lane. They had come to expect such antics. The old flashlight-on-the-face routine hadn’t scared Lane since she was about two.

It did make Pete look strange and menacing. Larry knew that if he let his mind go with it, he wouldget a shiver. “Mmm-yes?” Pete asked, pitching his voice high. “May I help zee veary travelers?”

“God, it’s hot in here,” Jean whispered.

“A damn oven,” Barbara said.

“Anything back there?” Larry asked, carefully avoiding his friend’s face.

“Only me and zee spirit of zee night clerk, who hung himself many years ago.”

“If we’re going to look around,” Jean said, “why don’t we, and get out of here?”

“I’d like to have a look upstairs,” Larry said.

“Vait. Let me ring for zee bell captain.”

“Oh, the hell with him,” Barbara muttered. “Come on.” She turned around and headed for the stairs. Jean went after her, and Larry followed. Barbara’s legs and the bare part of her back were nearly invisible in the darkness. Her white shorts and blouse, pale blurs, seemed to float above the floor on their own. Jean, in darker clothes, was a faint smudge in front of him.

He heard Pete strike the floor and stride up behind him, sand crunching under his shoes. The flashlight beam flicked across the backs of the women, swung over to the staircase and swept upward, skimming past balusters, tossing their long shadows against the wall. Midway up was a small landing. The remaining stairs rose to the narrow opening of the second-floor corridor.

“You don’t want to go first, do you?” Pete asked in his normal voice as Barbara started to climb.

“If I wait for you, we’ll be here all day.”

The light moved downward, gliding just above the stair treads, and something touched by the low edge of its aura winked like gold. A small, questioning breath of surprise came from Pete. The light skittered backward and down. Its bright center came to rest on a crucifix. “Christ,” he whispered.

“That’s right,” Larry said.

The crucifix, directly below the landing, was attached to wood paneling that closed off the space beneath the staircase.

“What is it?” Barbara asked, leaning over the banister near the bottom of the stairs.

“Somebody left a crucifix on the wall,” Larry told her.

“Is that all?” She leaned farther out, then shook her head. “Big deal,” she said.

Jean stepped around the side of the staircase for a closer look.

“Anybody want a souvenir?” Pete asked. He strode toward the crucifix.

“No, don’t,” Larry warned.

“Hey, somebody just forgot it here. Finders keepers.”

“Leave it alone,” Barbara said from her perch on the stairs. “For godsake, you don’t go around stealing crosses. That’s sick.”

The cross was made of wood. The suspended figure of Jesus looked as if it might be gold-plated. Pete reached for it.

“Please don’t,” Jean said.

He looked at her. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, yeah.” Apparently he had just remembered that Jean was Catholic. He lowered his hand. “Sorry. I was just kidding around.”

“Reason prevails,” Barbara muttered. She pushed herself away from the banister and resumed climbing.

She got as far as the landing.

The wood creaked under her weight, then burst with a hard flat crack like a gunshot.

Barbara sucked in her breath. She flung her arms up as if trying to find a handhold in the dark air as she dropped straight down.