Chapter One
Bradley Morgan, better known as Buster to his friends and most people in the town of Arbella, Connecticut, came out the front door of the country club and stood for a long moment under the portico breathing in the cool night air. He’d had too much to drink this night as he did on most nights, but he was hoping as always that the walk across the parking lot to his car would clear his head for the short drive home. Not that he had to worry about the police arresting him for driving under the influence, not in the town of Arbella where he had lots of friends. If the police should happen to pull him over, he’d be recognized instantly, and the worst that would happen is that he’d be driven the rest of the way home and have to pick up his car at the police lot in the morning.
It’s nice to live in a town where people know you, Buster thought to himself. The idea made him feel warm and content, so much so that he almost went back inside for a nightcap. But he knew that if he got really and truly drunk at the club Brick might hear about it, and the last thing he wanted to face first thing in the morning at work was a bawling out from the boss.
Making a conscious effort to propel himself forward, and stumbling only slightly as he stepped off the curb, he headed out across the parking lot with all the grim determination of the early pioneers. He knew where his car was parked because he always parked it under the same light so he’d have no trouble finding it again on his return. As he walked diagonally across the lot, Buster praised himself, as he did every night, for having this amount of foresight. But a worrying hint of confusion entered into his mind as he drew closer to the car that he thought was his. Leaning against the front fender of the vehicle with her back to him was a young woman. At least he guessed she was young because of her slender waist and blond hair down to her shoulders. She was looking across the parking lot as if there was something fascinating that only she could see in the lines of parked cars.
For a moment Buster’s alcohol soaked mind tempted him to steal up behind her, clap his hands over her eyes, and shout, “Guess who?” He always liked to hear girls scream, invariably it gave him the opportunity to put his arms around them and offer comfort and apologies. But then he recalled that the last time he had tried that, over two years ago in this very same parking lot, the girl, who couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds, had turned out to be a third degree black belt in some Asian martial art. She had elbowed him smartly in the side of the head and then given him a remarkably powerful roundhouse kick to his solar plexus. All of this ended with him on his knees trying to catch his breath, followed by his vomiting a prodigious amount of alcohol and bar snacks onto the asphalt. Even more humiliating were the scornful smiles of the ambulance attendants who took him to the hospital to be checked over.
No, this time I’ll play it by the book, he thought, and complimented himself on his prudence.
He walked up to the rear fender of his car, checked the license plate to make absolutely certain that it was his, then cleared his throat theatrically to warn the woman that he was there. She gave no indication that she had heard him. Buster walked as far as the driver’s door.
“Can I help you, miss?” he asked.
There was no response.
“I need my car, so you’d better get off the fender,” he said, deciding that this politeness had gone far enough.
Again, she didn’t turn or give any sign that she had heard him. Buster considered starting the car, and if that didn’t move her, he’d just back up and let her fall on her butt. But the memory of his unfortunate past experience in the parking lot had made him doubly cautious. With his luck she’d turn out to be the deaf daughter of a wealthy member who was a lawyer, and he’d find himself sued for grievous bodily injury. Buster didn’t know for sure what that was, but it sounded like something to be avoided. So instead of getting in the car and driving on his carefree way, he walked forward until he was only three feet behind the woman.
“Excuse me,” he said, hoping the sarcasm would make it seem like he was the one in control of the situation.
When there was still no response, he wondered if she really was deaf. He took another step forward and touched her gently on the shoulder.
She spun around so fast that Buster stumbled backwards and almost fell. Then he stared at her for a long second, trying to understand what he was seeing.
The left side of her face and neck were covered in some kind of dark liquid that had run down over the front of her white dress. Blood! Buster suddenly realized. It was blood. His eyes slowly moved in the direction of her raised right hand. He saw the long thin bladed knife at the exact moment she plunged it down into his left shoulder. The pain made him cry out. Buster knew he hadn’t said a word, just some kind of grunting, animal sound. He glanced at her face and saw the lips curl into a malicious smile. The hand with the knife went up again.
Buster knew with absolute certainty that if he didn’t move he would die right there, tonight, in this parking lot. With a greater effort of will than he had previously demonstrated at any time in his adult life, Buster turned and began to run. After staggering for the first few steps, he picked up speed until he was cruising along at what he knew had to be his fastest pace since he’d run eighty yards for a touchdown at the Thanksgiving Day game during his senior year at Arbella Consolidated. It didn’t hurt that he clearly pictured the girl chasing him with her knife upraised.
When he finally reached the front door of the club, he pulled it open and rushed inside. Only when he could see some of his friends sitting in the bar, did he dare to take quick glance behind. There was no one there. Surprise mixed with relief as he caught his breath, not taking his eyes off the front door. When several minutes had passed and everything seemed safe, he slowly walked back to the glass door and looked outside, sure that she would suddenly pop up in the center of his field of vision.
But as he stared out into the parking lot, he saw nothing unusual. Buster counted the lights until he came to his own car. As far as he could tell from this distance, she appeared to be gone. If she had ever been there at all, Buster suddenly thought. That moment of doubt got him wondering if all his years of drinking had finally caught up with him. He’d heard of guys suffering from hallucinations due to a lifetime of too much booze, but Buster had always figured that he had a long way to go before he reached that sad state. But what if he was wrong? What if this was the beginning of a slow brain rot that would eventually deprive him of his grip on reason?
He stood staring out the window, almost in tears over the impending loss of his mind. Then, as the adrenaline subsided, Buster became aware of a pain in his shoulder. He raised his left hand and watched, awestruck, as blood dripped off the ends of his fingers. For a moment he felt relief, knowing that the girl really had been there and that his sanity was intact. He smiled at the thought that he could happily go back to drinking.
Then he fainted.
When the Last Dance is Over by Glen Ebisch will be available from Avalon Books in February, 2012.