“That’s no mirror. You’re on the big screen, thousands of people staring up at you in awe. You’re a star. Everyone wants you. Everyone wants to look at you, to touch you, to fuck you.”
“Leave me alone!”
“You don’t want that. You want to be up on the screen, huge and spectacular. Look at yourself.”
“Let go of me right now, you bastard!”
“You love it, you love it. You love this. See how you’re watching yourself? You can’t take your eyes away. You love how you look. Now, imagine yourself a hundred times larger. Stop that squirming!” He shook her roughly.
She watched her body jerk back and forth, her head bobbing, her breasts jumping.
He stopped shaking her. “Now stand still,” he said, “and I’ll let go of you.”
“Let go,” she said. Her voice came out high and trembling. “Please.”
Marlon released his tight grip on her arms. He slid the shirt down them. As it fell to the floor, he reached around and caressed her belly with both hands. Then his pudgy fingers went to her belt buckle.
Flinching rigid, she clutched his wrists and gasped, “No!”
Marlon laughed softly and undid the buckle. Then he unfastened the button at her waist. As he started to pull her zipper down, Eric leaped out of the red glow, landed on the dresser, skidded to a halt and whirled to face them.
Marlon’s laughter stopped. His fingers stopped.
Eric stood in a crouch on top of the dresser, his body glistening and ruddy. He snarled, baring his fangs, and raised his arms like a miniature boogeyman.
And sprang straight for Marlon’s face.
As Eric flew at him, the director squeaked once in a high voice that sounded nothing at all like the rich resonance of Marlon Slade.
In the mirror, Sandy watched Marion’s horrified, pudgy face vanish—hidden behind the body of her son.
Marlon’s fingers jerked away from the zipper of her shorts.
He stopped pressing against her back.
Her shorts fell to the floor.
They almost tripped Sandy as she whirled around and watched him stumble backward with Eric clinging to his face. He reached up to grab Eric. The bed knocked his legs out from under him. As he fell, he hurled the infant away.
“No!” Sandy cried out.
Her son crashed against the wall near the head of her bed. He bounced off and dropped to the floor, tumbling.
She kicked the shorts away from her feet, rushed over to him and crouched down.
He lay sprawled on his back, blinking up at her.
His teeth and muzzle were bloody. Sandy hoped the blood was all Marlon’s.
She heard the director whimpering behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw him on his hands and knees. He raised his head and gaped at her, his mouth open, his face shredded. “It’s... it’s one of them!” he gasped. “Isn’t it? Isn’t it? My God! Did you see the little fucker attack me?” He pushed himself up, stood on his feet, and stared past Sandy at the baby sprawled on the floor. “Look at that ugly fucker. Son-of-a-bitch! Where’d it come from? Good thing I was here, or it would’ve got you.”
Sandy glared at him and said, “I don’t think so. I’m his mom.”
“What?”
“He’s my kid.”
Marlon staggered toward them, blood spilling from his tattered face.
Sandy stood up in front of him.
“Outa my way, bitch,” he gasped. When he said “bitch,” blood blew off his lips and sprayed Sandy in the face. “I’ve got some business to finish with your little monster, and then...”
She punched him in the nose.
His eyes bulged and he stumbled backward.
Sandy kicked one of his feet sideways. He tripped himself.
With a gasp of alarm, he fell and landed on his rump. The trailer shook.
Sandy turned and lunged for the dresser.
Glimpsed a naked red woman rushing at the mirror.
Jerked open the middle drawer.
Snatched out her butcher knife.
“You take this, ” Agnes Kutch bad said, holding out the big, old knife to her. “You gonna be moving outa the house and living in that trailer out there, you gotta have a weapon. Wish I had a gun to give you, but this here is a real good knife. Mama, she used it on a fella once.”
“I know, ” Sandy’d told her. “I was there. I saw her do it ”
She slammed the dresser drawer and turned to face Marlon.
He was already on his knees, struggling to stand up.
She raised the knife overhead.
Marlon screamed like a woman.
Afterward, Sandy took Eric into the shower with her. Standing under the hot spray, she held him to her chest.
Eric had a lump on his head. It must’ve been sore, because he winced when Sandy touched it—even when she kissed it.
Otherwise, he seemed fine. Maybe a little more subdued than usual.
“My little guy,” she said, caressing him. “You’re such a brave little guy. You knew mommy was in trouble and you dashed to the rescue. My hero. Of course, I oughta spank your little ass for breaking the crib.”
She patted his little ass gently.
Then she started to cry.
Eric made quiet whimpery sounds against her neck.
After a while, Sandy sniffed and sighed. She said, “How do you feel about blowing this town, honey? Cause I guess we can’t stay. Not after this.”
Chapter Two
THE BEAST HOUSE BUS—June, 1997
As the bus started across the Golden Gate Bridge, the young woman in front stood up with her microphone and turned to face the riders. “Good morning, everyone! Welcome aboard! I’ll be your guide for the trip out to Malcasa Point this morning. My name is Patty—and yes, I’m Irish. My grandfather hails from Cork. His name is Bob.”
A few of the riders chuckled.
“I know, I know,” Patty said. “Lame joke.”
“What a dip,” Monica muttered.
Owen nodded and gave her a slight smile. He thought it was a bit early in the game to be calling Patty a dip. Monica, obviously, had taken an instant dislike to her. Monica took instant dislikes to a great many things, but especially to other women...and most especially to attractive ones.
Patty was more attractive than most. Owen supposed she was about twenty-five years old. Her deeply tanned skin and short brown hair made her look athletic. Though you couldn’t call her slender, she wasn’t fat, either. Stout, maybe. Or built. Owen thought she looked very good in the tan shirt and shorts of her guide uniform.
“We’re now crossing San Francisco’s famous Golden Gate Bridge,” Patty said. “If you look out the windows, you’ll see that it is not golden, at all. It’s red. It used to be golden, but the Bridge Authority changed its color to blood red in 1981 in honor of its gory neighbor to the north, Beast House.”
Several riders chuckled and a few even clapped.
“That’s God’s-own-truth,” Patty said, raising her right hand.
Monica leaned over and whispered to Owen, “That isn’t true, is It?”
“Sure, I think so,” he said.
“Can’t be. They wouldn’t paint it red because of some stupid tourist trap. Besides, that place is like ninety miles away.”
“You’re probably right.”
“As you may already know,” Patty continued, “the Golden Gate Bridge was given its name in honor of the famed beavenly Golden Gates belonging to Saint Peter. That’s because so many people have entered Saint Peter’s Golden Gates by jumping off this one.”