In Laymon's Terms

This part of the gig was the safest part; the coyotes weren’t hungry anymore. Didn’t have to worry that they’d turn on their masters after they’d already eaten. Releasing them, now that’s when there was some danger. Starving the beasts for days to get them ready for their kills tended to make them hostile. Perfect for what Miles wanted, but you had to be very careful at the same time.

The animals came bounding back through the deepening darkness. Wayne got them settled into the cages while Miles and Paul finished taking down the cameras and video equipment.

Miles smiled to himself again. Yeah, this was some great footage! These tapes would pull in top dollar. That family was perfect! Miles didn’t know how Reggie’d gotten them to take this road, but he always figured something out. That was his specialty—finding the best pigeons and luring them to where and when Miles needed them. He’d plant a small radio-detonated charge in their wheel well while they were preoccupied, which Miles would activate when they drove by to blow out the tire and set his scene.

Looking around at his crew as they tore down the equipment, Miles beamed with pride. “Good job everybody; I think this is the best one yet. I’d be proud to stamp my name on this one...if I could.” He smiled and the others laughed in response. “Paul, I can’t wait to see the footage you got of the father, down the road.”

“It was beautiful, man! I ain’t never seen anyone run so fast. You shoulda’ seen the look on his face! But ain’t a man alive can outrun our boys here.” Paul glanced at the coyotes in the cages, then back at Miles. “How much you figure we’re gonna make from this set?”

Miles shook his head. “Can’t really say till I get the editing done and see how it all comes out. But it’ll be a lot. Over a hundred grand easy.”

Most people still refused to believe that an underground snuff film industry even existed, and that was fine with Miles. The only exposure he wanted was to the clients who bought his films. He’d built up a respectable clientele over the years, and the market kept growing. People loved the reality TV shows, but all the recent third-rate copycats had lots of people looking for something more, and they were finding it in the snuff film underground. He’d become obsessed with making this kind of film after seeing his first Faces of Death video as a teenager. He was now one of the most successful snuff producers around.

Traditionally, snuff films were sexual, but Miles was always looking for a new twist. He liked experimenting with ground-breaking styles, and he’d always liked the theme of “man against nature”—with nature winning. He smiled again at the thought.

With the coyotes in their cages, it was time to tie up loose ends. “Hey Wayne, go down and get the remote cameras, and check for residue from the tire explosive. Then get the little girl out of the van.”

“You want I should kill her, Boss?”

Miles rolled his eyes and sneered at him. “No, you idiot! That’d be a freakin’ waste! Bring her back and we’ll take her with us. We can use her for something else later on. She’s pretty cute, isn’t she?”

Wayne nodded as a vicious grin spread across his face, and he headed down towards the van.

Patricia Lee Macomber

NEVER MET Richard Laymon face-to-face. Time has a way of stealing important moments from you when you don’t pay attention. But I spoke to him on the phone several times. The first time he called was for HWA business. It was fairly late in the day and I’m sure he was at home and when I picked up the phone, he was laughing. It wasn’t just any laugh, but one of those deep, hearty laughs that are given only to people who are happy deep down inside, not the sort of people who are happy for an hour or a day, but genuinely happy. And he apologized for it. But his laughter had made me smile on a bad day and I remember thinking that something—someone—on the other end of that line was the cause of that laughter. No matter what Richard was talking about, he always had laughter in his voice. It’s rare to find someone who’s that profoundly happy. It’s even rarer to find someone who can bring that same kind of joy into your own life, just by talking to you on the phone. What a wonderful gift!

Patricia Lee Macomber

HE OLD BOOKSTORE stood forlornly among the other, newer shops. It had once been a grocery, a church, a clinic, a candy store. With its band of candy-striped awning around the roofline and the large, overly heavy wood door, it seemed to be the place—the only place—where real books could be found in Stantonville.

Charlie Drier flew down the street on a Western Auto steed with playing cards on the spokes and a jet stream of leaves in his wake. He flashed past the other children, Christmas-dreaming through the toy store window and flew past the park where trees gently wept.