Pity you’re gonna miss this, buddy.
Owen wandered through the group. He nodded greetings to those who seemed to notice him, and kept on moving. Leaving them all behind, he stepped over to the gate of the parking lot. It was still open. The lot was empty except for seven or eight cars.
John’s blue Ford Granada wasn’t among them.
Still up in the hills? Or maybe it got towed off and impounded by the cops.
Owen turned his back to the parking lot.
Nobody seemed to be watching him.
Scanning the group, he found the best-looking gal. Maybe thirty, she had light brown hair, a deep tan, and lively eyes. She was slender, but not skinny. She had a firm, athletic look. For whatever reason, she was dressed in a white tennis outfit: a knit pullover shirt, a sweater tied around her neck, a very short pleated skirt, ankle socks with a puffy little balls at the back, and sneakers.
She was with a man who wore a red knit pullover and plaid Bermuda shorts. He looked husky and powerful and cheerful.
No wonder he’s cheerful, Owen thought. Has a gal looks like that.
Owen turned his attention to the weirdo. Probably no older than twenty, she had done herself up in vampire cbic. She was at least six feet tall and as sleek as a cover girl. Her skin looked smooth and oddly white. Her raven hair was cut short, slicked down. Her pierced left eyebrow sported a ring. Her eyelids were blue. She wore a gold stud in her nose, a ring in her upper lip. Her lipstick was black. She had about six rings along the rim of each ear. A tattoo of barbed wire surrounded her neck. She wore a black bra that looked like satin, no shirt at all, a belly button ring, and an open jacket of black leather. Low and tight around her hips was a pair of tight, black leather short-shorts. Below them, her long legs were bare and very white. She wore black boots that reached almost to her knees.
She wasn’t alone.
Her handsome young friend had a delicate, rather feminine face. Compared to her, he looked almost clean-cut. He showed no signs of makeup, piercings or tattoos. His shaggy blond hair blew softly in the breeze. He wore a loose, long-sleeved shirt that appeared to be black silk. Unbuttoned, it exposed pale, hairless skin almost down to his waist, where the shirt was tucked into black leather trousers. His belt buckle was a white, snouted beast, possibly carved from ivory.
There’s a real fan, Owen thought.
These two are really into it. If the tour gets boring, I can just watch them.
Owen noticed that he wasn’t the only one checking out the weirdos: so were two guys standing near the road. One was a beanpole with stringy brown hair. The other was short and pudgy and had a crew cut. They both wore gray sweatshirts, plaid Bermuda shorts, white socks and sneakers.
They hardly looked old enough for an “adults only” tour. The cut-off age was supposed to be eighteen. These two might’ve been sixteen. Had they used fake i.d.’s to buy their tickets?
Maybe they don’t have tickets.
Maybe they aren’t even here for the tour.
Owen supposed that they could’ve simply stopped by to enjoy the spectacle of the vampire queen and her eunuch. They kept glancing at the pair, whispering, chuckling and elbowing each other.
Couple of dorks.
Owen hoped they wouldn’t be going on the tour; they’d probably interrupt Lynn, laugh when they shouldn’t, make wisecracks...
Jungle Jim, eyeing those two, seemed to share Owen’s opinion. Maybe fifty years old, with a lean and rugged face, he studied them with a haughty look. One of his eyebrows was cocked as he surveyed the guys through his gold-rimmed glasses. He wore a safari jacket replete with epaulets, pocket flaps and a cloth belt. His tan trousers, matching the jacket, were tucked into the high tops of his paratrooper boots. His outfit seemed incomplete without a hunting knife and a high-powered rifle. He did, however, carry a weathered black camera around his neck.
Maybe he’s a photo journalist, Owen thought—just back from covering tribal warfare in Rwanda.
The only remaining early-arrivals were a man and woman who appeared to be married. Thirty-five to forty years old, they were both slender, attractive and nicely dressed.
The man, going bald on top, made up for the loss with thick eyebrows and a heavy mustache. He had lively, almost impish eyes that seemed to be scanning the area in search of oddities or mischief. His clothing looked new and expensive: a crew-neck, camel sweater with long sleeves; trim gray slacks; and black leather wingtip shoes.
His wife had thick brown hair, a lovely face, a creamy complexion and fabulous eyes.
Make that three babes, Owen thought. Then he felt a little guilty. This woman was beautiful, but it seemed wrong to consider her a babe. She seemed too...dignified. A woman, not a babe.
Her eyes somehow looked calm and excited and amused and intelligent all at the same time. She wore a fuzzy, forest green sweater over a white blouse with an open collar. Her bare neck looked long and sleek. The sweater, rising over the push of her breasts, reached down past the waist of her skirt—a kilt of Stuart plaid. Below the hem of her kilt, her legs looked bare. She wore no socks. On her feet were brown, penny loafers.
What a great-looking couple, Owen thought. Doctors, maybe. Or professors. What the hell are they doing at a place like this?
Nobody else seemed to be standing around.
Owen counted.
Ten, including himself.
He had one extra ticket in his pocket. So only two people (other than John) were missing.
He glanced at his wristwatch.
7:52
In eight minutes, the picnic would start.
I’d better stop screwing around and do something about the ticket.
Reaching inside his windbreaker, Owen fingered the tickets in his shirt pocket and pulled one out. He raised it overhead.
“Excuse me, everyone!” he announced. “Do all of you have tickets for tonight? I have an extra one I’d be glad to sell.”
The vampire queen gave him a narrow glance. Her eunuch ignored him. The tennis lady and her husband politely looked at Owen and shook their heads.
“Sorry, man,” said the beanpole.
His chubby friend said, “Can’t help you, dude—we got ours.”
Not such bad guys.
Jungle Jim took the pipe out of his mouth, scowled at Owen and proclaimed in an excessively loud, high-pitched voice, “Sorry, old chap. It seems we all had the foresight to purchase our tickets in advance.”
“That’s what I did,” Owen explained. “I bought two, but then my friend got sick. I was hoping maybe I could unload his ticket.”
The well-dressed, mustached man said, “You might be able to turn it in for a refund.”
His wife nodded in agreement. Large eyes fixed on Owen, she looked concerned. “I should think you might be able to sell it without too much trouble. This is an awfully popular attraction.”
“From what we hear,” said her husband, “it’s always a sellout.”
“That’s right. So there may very well be people trying to get tickets at the last moment.”
“I’ll take the ticket off your hands!” piped a familiar voice from behind Owen.
His stomach knotted.
The woman smiled as if delighted by Owen’s quick success.
“There you go,” said her husband.
“Dude!” proclaimed the chubby teenager.
The skinny sidekick gave Owen a thumb’s up.
Jungle Jim planted the pipe between his teeth and nodded briskly at Owen, looking pleased with himself as if he’d caused the customer to materialize.
Trying to keep a smile on his face, Owen turned around.