No Sanctuary by Richard Laymon Read Free Book Online Page A

would be strange, trying to sack out with images of herself on the ceiling and wall.
    The sport who lives here must get quite a kick out of looking at himself... or herself. Could be a woman, she thought. But definitely not married. Definitely on the make.
    Her curiosity aroused, Gillian went to the closet and opened it. The inside of the door had a necktie bar. On the floor were men’s shoes. The hanging clothes were shirts, slacks, and sport coats.
    Our Narcissus, she decided, is definitely a guy.
    Gillian shut the closet. Beyond the end of the bed was a bureau. She could inspect its contents later. Beside it was another television. This TV, like the one in the den, had a VCR attached.
    Leaving the room, Gillian went to the front door. She opened it, looked around, then stepped out on the porch. She gathered up her shoes, clothes, purse and suitcase, and carried them into the house.
    Then she headed back into the den. She spent the next few minutes gluing the square of glass into its original place in the door. She taped it there to hold it while the glue had a chance to set. Then she packed up her tool satchel and entered the house.
    She locked the sliding door.
    In the living room, she opened her suitcase and took out her burglar bar. She extended its telescoping rod, fitted its V-shaped end under the doorknob and jammed its other end against the carpet at a wide angle.
    “All right,” she said. “The house is mine.”

Chapter Six
    Rick woke up. The tent was dark. He pulled an arm out of his mummy bag and fingered a tab at the side of his wristwatch to light the digital numbers. Eleven-fifty. He grimaced. He’d been asleep less than two hours, and now he felt wide awake.
    Bert, in her own bag alongside his, breathed slowly in and out. She was deeply asleep, gone, and Rick felt abandoned.
    Trying to find a more comfortable position, he rolled onto his side. The rubber mat under his bag helped a little, but it was thin and the cold earth was unyielding. Too much weight bore down on his shoulder, upper arm and hip.
    They’ll fall asleep before I do, he thought.
    He rolled the rest of the way over and crossed his arms beneath the makeshift pillow of his rolled coat. This was better; the ground felt fine under his thigh muscles. But he was pressing down hard on his lower ribs. His penis, sideways against his groin, felt mashed. He turned slightly to relieve the pressure. Now his knee pushed against the ground and there was more weight on the left side of his ribcage. After a while, the knee and ribs began to ache.
    Muttering, “Shit,” he rolled onto his back again and gazed at the slanted walls of the tent.
    This is madness, he thought. I could be home in my own soft bed, instead of out here in the wilderness scared out of my gourd. Like last time ...
    He listened to Bert’s slow breathing, and resented her. This was all her fault.
    “Get off it,” he told himself. “You didn’t have to come. And she’s been great.”
    Rick wished he’d had a couple of shots before turning in. He’d been reluctant, however, to let Bert find out that he’d brought the bourbon along. She might not complain, but she would certainly disapprove. She did complain about her parents’ drinking, whose cocktail hour had stretched into two hours on the several occasions when she and Rick had dined at their house. She didn’t complain to them. She complained to Rick later on. By implication, her comments seemed directed at Rick since he had matched her parents drink for drink. “Can’t people have a good time,” she would say, “without trying one on?”
    Rick had seen opportunities to sneak a couple of slugs after dinner tonight when Bert left camp to gather firewood. But he’d resisted the urge, knowing that she would smell it on his breath later when they made love.
    I should’ve brought vodka instead of bourbon, Rick thought. Hell, she would’ve smelled that, too. Its odor is faint compared to bourbon, but distinctive.
    He