Endless Night by Richard Laymon Page A

could tell me a lot of things, Hank, but more than a few of them might be wrong. Matter of fact, my second collar was a weenie-wagger I found inside a clothes dryer.”
    “He fit?”
    “Sure. He was a little fella. In every way.” The cop walked closer to me. He sounded like he was almost right underneath me when he stopped. Then the cupboard doors gave their chirping sounds as they came unclamped. “He’d been entertaining all the gals at the laundromat.” The doors bumped back shut. I heard Pat walking away. “I just so happened to have a quarter.”
    The other cop, Hank, laughed.
    “Seemed like a great idea, give him a little spin. But then about two minutes after I dragged him out, he blew his supper all over my back seat.”
    “Aw, shit!” Hank went.
    “Not shit, puke.”
    These guys were a barrel of laughs.
    Then they were gone.
    I stayed put. Eventually, the helicopter went away. The silence was great. I couldn’t feel anything crawling on me. I relaxed and fell asleep.
    And slept until Hillary Weston showed up in the morning to do her wash.

Chapter Eleven
    When I woke up, a woman was humming in the room down below me. I couldn’t see her, though. The edge of the cupboard top was in the way. All I could see was the ceiling. It was sunlit and painted yellow.
    I wanted to know what she looked like.
    From the sound of her humming, she seemed to be near the washing machine or dryer. If she was facing either of those machines, she wouldn’t have a view of the cabinet.
    So I scooted forward and looked past its edge.
    She stood in front of the washer, at an angle that showed me her side and her back. Unless she had tremendous peripheral vision, I was out of sight.
    By the time I saw her, she’d already finished throwing in her laundry. She was busy sprinkling detergent powder into the hole at the top of the machine.
    She looked good. Slim and not too old. You can’t always tell with women, but I’d say she was under thirty by at least a couple of years. She had thick brown hair. Her face had points and corners—cheekbones that stuck out too much, too sharply. A nose and jaw like that, too. Not exactly pretty, but unusual and what you might call “striking.”
    In fact, her whole body was like that.
    She wore a bright yellow tank top and red shorts. Her shoulders were bare except for the straps. They had a deep golden tan but looked rather bony. Her butt made me think of the word, “pouting.” Maybe because it stuck out like the lower lip of a bratty kid. It was small but prominent, and looked solid. Her legs looked hard and glossy as if they’d been carved out of wood.
    You don’t get a body like that without working for it.
    Which meant she was tough-minded, determined, proud.
    Just my type.
    But it also meant she’d be fast and strong.
    Taking her would be a risky job, but I knew she’d be worth it.
    When she was done with the detergent, she set the box out of the way and shut the top of the washing machine. She turned toward me just a little bit as she reached her right arm across the machine and turned the dial. Her left breast pushed at her tank top. It was like the rest of her—small, compact and pointed.
    All of a sudden, I was thinking about the girl from the house. You know, the one that got away.
    She was built a little like this one.
    She was younger, of course. And much softer, and miles prettier. But the size was about the same.
    And I thought how badly I wanted her. I remembered the look and feel of her. And how much trouble she’d caused. And I wondered how to find her.
    I was still thinking about those things when water started gushing into the machine and Hillary turned away and walked to the door.
    After she was gone, I climbed down off the top of the cabinet. I hung by my fingers, then dropped. Then I hurried and crouched at the end of the freezer.
    And waited. You wouldn’t believe how hot it was in that place. Sweat dribbled all over me. It tickled. I felt like my whole