Flesh by Richard Laymon Page B

little bit at a time. The vodka scorched his throat and ignited a fire in his stomach. When his mouth was empty, he took a deep breath and sighed.
    If he drank enough, he could numb himself to the whole situation.
    But that would make him more vulnerable.
    One more swig, then he recapped the bottle.
    Crouching over his pack, Roland lifted out Dana’s camera and folded it open. A flash bar was already attached to the top. He stood up and took another deep breath. It felt good inhaling, filling his lungs. They didn’t seem tight like before. In fact, he realized that he was no longer shaking. There was a slightly vague feeling inside his head. Had the vodka done this?
    Back at the table, he set down the camera and took one more swallow.
    Then one more.
    Picking up the camera, he went to the end of the bar. He lifted the hinged panel, tipped it back so it would stay upright, and stepped through the opening. He stopped in front of the bat-wing doors. Beyond them was darkness.
    The kitchen.
    “Anybody…” He almost said, “here?” but that word wouldn’t come out. He wished he’d kept quiet. His fear had come back with the sound of his voice, a tight band constricting his chest.
    He raised the flashlight above the doors. Its beam spilled along the kitchen floor, shaking as it moved.
    He smelled the blood before he saw it. He knew the odor well, having collected some of his own in a mayonnaise jar and smeared it over his face on Halloween to gross out the guys in the dorm. His blood had smelled just this way—metallic, a little like train rails.
    The flashlight beam found the blood. There was lots of it, all over the floor about halfway across the kitchen. It looked brown.
    There were pale, tape outlines showing the positions of the bodies.
    This is getting real, he thought.
    Shit.
    This is getting very real.
    He’d made a big mistake. He had no business here. He was a dumb-ass kid intruding where he didn’t belong.
    He lowered the flashlight. Backed away. Felt someone sneaking up on him and whirled around. Nobody there. He hurried to the other side of the bar.
    I don’t need this. I don’t need to prove anything. I don’t need Dana’s money.
    Near the door, he dropped to his knees and stuffed the camera into his pack.
    Take pictures. Sure.
    He stood, lifting the pack by one strap and hooking a finger of the same hand through the draw cord of his sleeping bag.
    Shit, the candles.
    The bundles swinging at his side, he rushed to the card table. As he puffed one candle out, he spotted the chairs he’d set up to block the hall to the rest rooms.
    Leave them. Who cares.
    He blew out the other candle. Followed the beam of his flashlight to the door. Opened the door.
    The night breeze, smelling of rain, blew against his face.
    He stared through the downpour at Dana’s car—a small, dark object waiting at the far edge of the lot. The plastic banner on its aerial waved in the breeze.
    I’d be surprised if you last ten minutes.
    The bitch, she’ll never let me live this down. She’ll tell everyone. I’ll be a joke.
    Roland kicked the door shut.
    “I’m staying!” he yelled. “Fuck it!”
    He stepped close to the bar. He unrolled his sleeping bag, took off his cap and jacket, and sat on the soft, down-filled bag.
    I should’ve done it like this in the first place.
    Shouldn’t have snooped around.
    Should’ve done it the way I’d planned.
    Reaching deep into his pack, pushing aside the candles and camera, he touched steel.
    The handcuffs rattled as he pulled them out.
    He snapped one bracelet around his left wrist, the other around the brass foot rail of the bar.
    Flashlight clamped under his left arm, he aimed it at the card table and gave the handcuff key a toss. It clinked against one of the bottles and dropped onto the table.
    Out of reach.
    We’ll see who chickens out, he thought.
    We’ll see who lasts the night.

C HAPTER T EN
    It was almost quitting time, and the rain outside Gabby’s showed no sign of