Authors: Richard Laymon
NIGHT MISSION
Albert wished he could take his father’s car, but starting it inside the garage would make too much noise. He took his bicycle
instead, wheeling it out of the garage, climbing on and coasting down the driveway.
At first, he was cold without his jacket. His turtleneck offered little protection from the night’s chilly wind. His only
jacket was bright yellow, though. Such a color wouldn’t do at all for a night operation.
Soon, the cold no longer bothered him. He enjoyed the feel of the wind in his face. It smelled fresh and clean like Betty’s
hair.
“I’ve got twenty dollars for you,” he had told her on the phone that afternoon.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t sure.”
“I just mean, I don’t do it on credit. If you have a down payment in mind, and small monthly installments…”
“Hardy har. Very funny.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’ve got the twenty dollars.”
“Okay then. How about eight o’clock?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow?” Betty had asked. “What’s the matter with tonight?”
“I’ve got a previous engagement.”
“Previous engagement, huh?” She sounded suspicious. “With whom, may I ask?”
“That’s my business.”
“If it’s Suzy Hayden, forget it. She’s a pig. Besides which, I happen to know she’s got a contagious disease.”
“You’re not very friendly to your competition.”
“
Competition?
Suzy Hayden? Oh, honey, you’re pulling my leg. She’s not competition, she’s a bargain basement.”
Albert turned onto Jeffers Lane and started pedaling up the slope. At the fourth house from the corner, he climbed off his
bike. He lowered it quietly to the grass and ran to the front stoop. The address on the door was 3212. The next house on the
left should be the Broxton’s.
It had lights on.
Crouching, Albert dashed across the space between the two houses. He knelt against the wall. Above him was a window. He paused
for a few moments, catching his breath and waiting for his heart to slow down. Then he raised himself.
He peered into the window.
The living room. Lamps were on at each end of a long, blue sofa. The television screen was blank green. He saw no people.
Maybe nobody’s home
.
He ran along the side of the house and across the backyard to an elevated stoop. At the top of its concrete stairs, he peered
into the windows of the door.
The kitchen. Dark.
He hurried down and ran to the garage. Its side door had windows. He pressed his face to the glass. By the dim moonlight,
he could see an expanse of emptiness. The two-car garage appeared to be carless.
How convenient.
Albert quickly returned to the kitchen door. He pulled a thick mitten over his right hand. With a quick, sharp blow, he punched
through a corner of the glass. Then he reached inside and opened the door.
The soles of his tennis shoes crunched bits of glass and made scratching sounds against the kitchen floor. He thought about
taking his shoes off. That might put him in a fix, however, if he had to make a quick run for it.
Keeping them on, he entered the lighted hallway.
The front door of the house was straight ahead.
Walking toward it, a wall on one side and a staircase on the other, he felt as if he were trapped in a narrow canyon. He didn’t
like it. But there wasn’t much choice—not if he wanted to go upstairs. He felt like running, but that would mean noise. So
he walked slowly and silently forward, staring straight ahead at the door, half expecting it to fly open.
By the time he reached the foot of the stairway, he needed to crouch down to ease the cramps in his bowels.
What’s going on? he wondered.
Maybe that fried chicken I had for supper.
But he figured it was more likely fear. He’d gotten cramps before when he was scared.
Nothing to be scared of, he told himself. Nobody’s here.
Probably.
But this was the first time he had ever broken into someone’s house. Only natural to have a little indigestion at a time like this.
Soon, feeling better, Albert hurried up the stairs.
To his right was a bedroom with model airplanes strung across the ceiling in dogfights. The bed was empty. He started to enter
the room, then stopped as he was gripped by more cramps.
He leaned against the door frame and shivered.
Getting worse! What’m I gonna do?
Gonna crap my pants…
Turning around, he saw the doorway of an upstairs bathroom only a few feet away. He hurried over to it, slapped the light
switch, rushed to the toilet, jerked his jeans down and dropped onto the seat just in time.
After the explosive diarrhea, he felt much better.
He wiped his rear end. Then he wiped the sweat off his face. Then he stayed on the toilet and wondered whether to flush.
Better wait. If I flush and somebody’s in the house, I’ll be up
Shit Creek.
He pulled up his jeans and fastened them. After washing his hands at the sink, he resumed his search of the house.
There were two more bedrooms. One seemed to be a guest room, the other the master bedroom. Albert found nobody in either of
them, so he returned to the bathroom, flushed the toilet, and sprayed the area with pine scented air freshener.
Then he went into the boy’s bedroom. Using his penlight, he checked the cluttered top of the dresser. No money. He went through
the drawers. He scanned shelves that were loaded with books, model ships, and Indian souvenirs: a tom-tom, a miniature teepee,
a headdress full of colorful feathers, a tomahawk with a rubber head.
He picked up the tomahawk.
Too bad it isn’t real.
On its handle was printed, WISCONSIN DELLS—VACATION WONDERLAND.
Albert put down the tomahawk and continued his search.
He found an ashtray filled with foreign coins, but no other money.
On the bedstand, beside an empty drinking glass, was a Boy Scout sheath knife.
All right!
Keeping it, he went to the desk. The pencil holder held pencils, a gum eraser, an old crayon, and two pennies. He gave the
top drawer a tug. Locked.
“What have we here?” he whispered.
Using the Boy Scout knife, he pried open the drawer and found a tattered copy of
Playboy
. He set the knife aside and pulled out the magazine. It was the September, 1973 issue. On its cover, a naked gal was crouching.
Her right breast actually showed. Even her nipple.
Hands trembling, Albert flipped through the magazine. Miss September was a great-looking blonde.
Wow!
He searched the small print for her name:Geri Glass.
He started to grow hard, staring at Geri’s photos.
I’ll take this with me, he thought. The little Boy Scout shouldn’t have a nasty magazine like this, anyway. I’ll be doing
him a favor.
Chuckling softly, Albert left Geri behind and searched the magazine for more treasures.
Near the back, he found an article about a movie called
The Naked Ape.
It had a photo of Johnny Crawford stark naked.
The kid from
The Rifleman
?
Holy shit, that’s him, all right! And you can see his peter!
Not interested in
any
guy’s peter, Albert moved on and found that the article had a pretty good layout on the movie’s other star, a brunette named
Victoria Principal.
Not bad, he thought.
But he liked Miss September better. Something about Miss September really got to him.
He flipped back to the center section and gazed at her, then shut the magazine and slipped it under his arm.
He resumed his search by trying another desk drawer. This one wasn’t locked. Inside, he found flat tubes of model airplane
glue, bottles of paint, a few instruction sheets and an assortment of spare airplane parts.
The third drawer was a catchall: it had caught just about everything except money. But in the bottom drawer, Albert came upon
a tobacco tin. He shook it and grinned.
Inside were eight dollars.
That’ll do it! That’ll put me over the top for Betty!
“Thank you, kid,” he whispered. “Wherever you are.”
With eight dollar bills in his pocket, the sheathed knife in his hand and the
Playboy
under one arm, he stepped into the hallway and headed for the master bedroom.
That’s when he heard a thump and rumble.
Familiar sounds, but he couldn’t quite…
The garage door was opening!
His heart jumped with fright.
He rushed to the guest room and knelt beside one of the twin beds.
A door thudded. Then another.
The bed was too low. Just as well. They made great hiding places because adults never looked under them, but he always felt
trapped under beds. Flat on his belly. The box springs pressing against his back. No room to turn. No way to get out fast.
Under beds, he had to fight off panic. Especially after the night his mother was killed just above him and the blood kept
dripping onto the toe of her slipper just inches from his face. It had been exciting but awful, and he had rarely hidden under
beds after that.
From downstairs came quiet sounds of voices.
And footsteps.
Albert got up. He tiptoed to the closet. Then he pushed back the sliding door, stepped inside the closet and slid the door
shut.
Wire hangers pinged together when he hit them with his head. To free a hand, he pushed the blade of the boy’s sheath knife
under his belt. Then he reached out to the side. His fingers pushed against flimsy plastic. He edged his foot sideways. It
stopped against a box.
Better not try burrowing in, he thought. Too much other stuff.
Even if he could manage to hide himself more deeply in the closet, it would only make getting out more difficult.
And he might have to get out fast.
More sounds of footsteps. Voices.
One was a woman’s voice. He supposed it probably belonged to Mrs. Broxton, but he couldn’t be sure. After all, he’d only heard
her speak a few words at the Safeway that morning. He couldn’t quite make out what she was saying, either.
The man’s voice was smooth. He laughed at something.
From the sounds, Albert supposed the man and woman were climbing the stairs.
He knelt down to keep his head from knocking against empty hangers.
Now they seemed to be coming up the hall. In a few more seconds, they would be entering the master bedroom.
Wait till they’re in there, Albert thought, then get the hell outta this place.
Or stay and try to watch them?
That wouldn’t be very smart, he told himself.
Might be worth the risk.
He’d never actually watched anything like that. But he’d always
wanted
to.
The bottom edge of his closet door lit up.
What? This is the guest room! What’re they doing in here?
On the other side of the closet door, there was a long silence. Then came a moan from the woman. “You don’t mind, do you?”
she asked.
“No, it’s fine,” said the man. “Who needs all that room, anyway?”
“This might not be as comfortable, but I’ll feel so much better. I just wouldn’t feel quite right in there.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. I don’t care which bed, I only care which woman.”
There was another long silence. Albert wondered if they were kissing.
“You’re my first Boy Scout widow,” the man said. They both laughed. “I always knew there was a lot to be said for campouts.”
“Shush.”
More silence.
“I’ll be right back,” the woman said.
“Going to get into something more comfortable, I presume?”
She laughed softly. “How did you know?”
“I’m psychic.”
“I won’t be long.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Albert heard her leave the room. Then he heard the man walking on the carpeted floor.
Coming closer.
He slid the knife out of its leather sheath.
Closer.
What’s he gonna do, hang up his clothes?
The door slid open, flooding the closet with light.
Albert crouched in the shadow of the man, who was holding a blue sports coat in one hand. As he reached for a hanger with
his other hand, he let out a quiet gasp.
He stared down at Albert with shocked eyes.
Albert slashed.
The man sucked in a quick breath and stumbled backward, grabbing his gashed thigh. Blood pumped through the cracks between
his fingers. He dropped to the floor. Gasping and squirming, he clutched his wound with both hands.
Keeping the
Playboy
clamped tight against his left side, Albert crouched over him and slit his throat.
“Charles, what’s going…?” Mrs. Broxton came in from the hall. As she stopped in the doorway, her eyes leaped from the
crumpled body to Albert.
“You!”
she gasped. Then her back hunched. She spun around and ran.
Albert dropped the magazine and raced after her.
Halfway down the hall, he got close enough to drag the knife down her back. The blade split her slip open to her waist—her
slip and the skin beneath it. Crying out, she fell.
Albert clenched the knife between his teeth. Grabbing her ankles, he twisted until she flipped over onto her back.
When he tore away her underpants, she moaned and covered herself.
“Move your hands.”
“Don’t,” she gasped. “Please.”
“Move ’em or I’ll kill you.”
She shook her head and didn’t move her hands.
Albert took the knife from his mouth. “Think I’m kidding?” he asked.
Before she could answer or take her hands away, Albert pounded the knife deep into her belly.
She grunted, sat halfway up, and fell back.
Albert slipped the blade out and shoved it in again, sliding it into the same slit, shoving it deep.
Convulsions jerked her body.
He pulled out the knife.
She had a raw, vertical split just below her naval. It was three inches long and pumping blood.