Night Show by Richard Laymon Read Free Book Online Page A

head, she felt the soft brush of her hair. Her stomach knotted.
    Don’t you think about that.
    She sat up quickly. No more thinking, no more waiting.
    She swung her legs off the bed and carefully stood up. Though her left leg felt weak and achy, she knew it was strong enough. The cast had been off for two weeks. She’d exercised constantly to strengthen the slack muscles, and finally, today, decided she was ready.
    She stepped to the open window and slipped her nightgown off. The warm night breathed against her, fragrant with summer, making her shiver with fearful delight. Her own breath trembled as she gazed from her high window. All the houses but one were dark. Nothing moved on the lawns, the sidewalks, the street. The neighborhood looked deserted, as if everyone had fled a terrible menace.
    Linda turned away from the window. Easing open a dresser drawer, she took out her Yankee ballcap and put it on. Only then did she allow herself to look in the mirror. She grinned, her teeth pale in the dim reflections. Taking out an Ace bandage, she wrapped her chest. The elastic band was only long enough to circle her body once, but she pulled it tight, squeezing her breasts until they hurt. She fastened the bandage in place with its tiny clips, then took a dark, plaid shirt from the drawer. Her brother’s shirt, filched that day from the back of his closet. She put it on and closed the buttons. Rolling the sleeves up her forearms, she studied her image. In the large, loose shirt, her flattened breasts made only the slightest bulges. At a distance, anyone would think she was a boy.
    From her closet, she took blue jeans and her Adidas running shoes. She slipped into them, and returned to the dresser.
    She reached into the open drawer, pushed aside a neat stack of panties, and pulled out her father’s .38 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver. Sucking in her belly, she pushed its barrel under the waistband of her jeans. The weapon felt big and cool. Its muzzle, tight against her groin, rubbed her as she stepped toward the door. She thought of moving it, but the sensation was hot and exciting.
    She inched the door open. Leaning out, she glanced both ways. The hallway was empty and dark, no stripes of light showing beneath any of the doors.
    She took long strides down the carpeted hall, silently rolling her feet from heel to toe just as she’d done that other night when three boys took her . . .
    No, she couldn’t let herself think about that.
    In front of her brother’s door, a floorboard groaned. She winced but kept walking, reminding herself that Bob slept like the dead.
    She reached the head of the stairway and started down, one hand on the banister, shifting her weight to it whenever a step threatened to squeak. When she reached the bottom, she breathed more easily. Down here, small noises would mean nothing.
    She hurried into the kitchen. From a large brandy snifter on top of the refrigerator she took two books of matches. She slipped them into her shirt pocket and headed for the connecting door to the garage.
    The garage, with its single small window on the far side, was much darker than she’d expected. She bumped against her father’s Imperial. Feeling along its side, she found the door handle. She pulled. The door opened, triggering the car’s interior light.
    Enough to see by. She found the empty milk carton on the cluttered shelf where she’d left it.
    In front of the car, she stopped at the power mower. Crouching, she reached over it and picked up the tin of gasoline. Its weight overbalanced her. She stumbled, the gun barrel digging in painfully, her knee ramming the top of the mower. But she caught herself without dropping either the can or the milk carton. She straightened up. There was a warm pain, and she wondered if the gunsight had cut her. She nudged the pistol butt with her wrist, felt the barrel move away from the tender place. Then she stepped to the clear area beside the car.
    She filled the milk carton, the