Flesh

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Jake was still trembling when he climbed out of his car. With the flashlight in his left hand and the machete clamped under his arm, he stepped to the trunk. The point of the key missed the lock hole a few times before he managed to fit it in. He turned the key. The trunk opened. He put the machete and flashlight inside, next to the can of gasoline, then slammed the trunk shut.

On the front stoop of his house, he clutched his right hand with his left to hold it steady and got the key into the door lock. Inside, he engaged the dead bolt, then slipped the guard chain into place. Though evening light still came in through the windows, he made a circuit of the living room and turned on every lamp. Along the way, he found himself checking each window and looking behind the furniture.

“Nerves of steel,” he muttered.

In the kitchen, he hit the light switch. He checked the windows and backdoor to make sure they were secure. Bending at the waist because his leather pants were too tight for squatting, he opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of bourbon. A drop of sweat fell from his chin and splashed on the toe of his boot.

Stepping to the sink, he yanked a yard of paper towel off its roll. He mopped his face and wet, stringy hair.

Then he filled a glass with bourbon. He took a few swallows and sighed as the liquor’s heat spread through him.

He carried the glass down the hallway, turning on lights as he went, and entered his bedroom.

He turned on his bedroom light. He looked around. The curtains were shut. The closet door was open, just as he had left it. Taking another drink, he stepped past the closet and looked in. He wandered to the other side of his bed. He had an urge to get down on his hands and knees and peer under the bed.

Don’t be a jerk, he thought. You’re home now. This isn’t the goddamn Oakwood Inn, this is home and there’s nothing under your bed except maybe some dust bunnies.

Besides, it’d be too much effort in this outfit.

After taking another swallow of bourbon, Jake set his glass on the dresser. He unzipped his leather jacket and pulled it off. His blue shirt, dark with sweat, clung to his skin. He tried to open the buttons, but his fingers shook so badly that after getting the top button undone he yanked the shirt up and pulled it over his head.

He unbuckled his gun belt, swung it toward the bed and let go. The holstered revolver bounced when it hit the mattress. He stared at it while he opened his pants and tugged them down to his knees. Sitting on the bed, he popped open the leather strap and slid the revolver free. He placed it close to his right leg, then bent down and pulled his boots off. His socks felt glued to his feet. He peeled them off. He slid the tight pants down his calves and kicked them away.

In the lamplight, his legs were shiny with sweat. He rubbed the clammy skin of his shins, turned his legs and looked behind them.

There were no quarter-size holes.

Hell, of course not. Nothing could’ve gotten through the boots and leather pants. Not without me knowing it.

Jake stood up. His rump had left sweat marks on the pale blue coverlet. He drew down his sodden shorts and stepped out of them.

Okay, I’m a jerk, he thought.

Picking up his revolver, he dropped to his knees and elbows. He lifted the hanging edge of the coverlet and peered into the dark space under his bed.

A pair of eyes looked back at him.

He yelped. He jabbed the gun barrel toward the eyes. He almost pulled the trigger before he realized he was looking at Kimmy’s Cookie Monster doll.

Stretching out an arm, he pulled it out from under the bed. He pressed it to his cheek.

God almighty, what if I’d shot it?

Just a stuffed animal, he knew that. But, like all of Kimmy’s dolls, it was somehow more. It was part of Kimmy, as if she had breathed some of her own life into it. He could hear her say in a low grumbly voice, “Me want cookie!”

Jake had a tight lump in his throat.

“Close call, Cookie,” he whispered.

He pushed himself to his feet. With the chubby blue doll in one hand and his revolver in the other, he headed for the door. He planned to put Cookie Monster back in Kimmy’s bedroom. Then he changed his mind and set it on his night-stand next to the telephone.

Barbara’s side of the closet still had her full-length mirror on the outside of the door. He swung the door shut and looked at himself.

You’d know if it got you, he thought.

Maybe it can make you forget. If it can turn you into a cannibal…

There were no wounds on his legs. His scrotum was shriveled and his penis looked as if it wanted to disappear. He slipped a hand between his legs, checking on both sides of the tight sack and behind it. He prodded his navel, and shivered as he imagined his finger going in all the way. But his navel was okay. The rest of his front appeared all right, though the knife scar under his right nipple looked a little more white than usual.

He turned around. He looked over one shoulder, then the other. He probed between the sweaty cheeks of his rump.

You’re all right, he thought, unless the damn thing went up your butt. Couldn’t have done that, though, without going through the leather pants, and the pants didn’t have any holes.

Satisfied that the thing hadn’t invaded him, Jake took another drink of bourbon. The glass was almost empty. He carried it, along with his revolver, into the kitchen. After refilling the glass, he opened a drawer and took out a large, clear plastic freezer bag.

He wondered if he’d flipped his lid.

Nobody will ever know about this, he told himself. It makes you feel better, so do it.

Some kind of cop, scared as a kid.

He slipped his revolver into the bag and pinched the zip-lock top shut along its seam.

Jake locked himself into the bathroom. He searched the floor, the walls and ceiling, the sink, the tub. Then he turned on the shower. He had a couple of drinks while he adjusted the heat of the spray, then set the glass on the toilet seat and climbed into the tub. He slid the frosted glass door shut.

The built-in soap dish had a metal bar above it for holding a washcloth. He slipped the barrel of his bagged revolver between the bar and the tile wall, wiggled the weapon until he was sure it wouldn’t fall, then picked up the soap and began to wash himself.

The strong, hot spray felt good. Jake told himself that he couldn’t be much safer: the door was locked, he’d checked the bathroom, he was shut behind the shower doors, and his revolver was within easy reach. Nothing could get him.

Then he noticed the sudsy water swirling down the drain.

Gooseflesh crawled up his back.

Don’t be crazy, he told himself. There’s a metal drain basket down there, nothing could come up.

He dropped to his knees. His fingertip went into the drain only as far as the first knuckle before it touched the obstruction.

Okay. No problem.

Your only problem, pal, is your head.

Two hours alone, searching that damned restaurant.

If it was going to get you, it would’ve gotten you then.

It didn’t come home with you. It’s probably already found a new home—in whoever broke into the restaurant between Thursday night and this afternoon. Some lucky bastard is running around with the thing up his back, looking for a meal. Give us this day our daily broad. Good old Barney, he can joke about it. He should’ve gone in there. He might be worried about drains, himself.

Jake stayed in the shower until the water started turning cold. Then he climbed out, dried himself, took another drink of bourbon and took the revolver out of the bag. In his bedroom, he combed his hair and put on a robe. He carried his drink and revolver into the living room. Sitting on the sofa, he crossed his legs to keep his feet off the floor. He rested the gun on his lap. Then he swung the telephone over from the lamp table and dialed Barney’s home.

Barney answered by saying, “Higgins.”

“It’s Jake.” His voice sounded all right. “Did Applegate get back to you?”

“Sure did. Y’were right on the John Doe from the van. Perfect match on the teeth ’n blood type. How’d it go from yer end?”

“I checked out everyone who was at the crime scene Thursday night. Nobody was carrying.”

“How’d y’make sure?”

“Strip searches.”

“They musta liked that. Tell’m why?”

“Damn near. I said Smeltzer had a parasite infestation. They were pretty cooperative.”

“Coulda told’m I’d ordered a circumcision survey.”

Jake ignored the remark. “After I finished with them, I went out to the Oakwood. Somebody’s been in there. The front and back doors had both been forced. I found a bag of flour on the kitchen floor.”

“A bagga what?”

“Flour. Like you use for cooking. You know.”

“Somebody makin’ cookies?”

“I doubt it. No oven. There were some footprints, too. Somebody had stepped in the blood and left tracks. A bare foot. About a size seven. And somebody had polished off a bottle of vodka the Smeltzers had left out in the bar area.”

“What d’ya make of it?”

“Maybe a derelict. The size of the footprint, though, makes me think a girl was in there. Maybe a couple of kids from the college had themselves a party.”

“But no sign of a’ old Sneaky Snake?”

The skin on Jake’s thighs and forehead seemed to go stiff and tight.

“Y’looked, didn’t ya?”

“I looked. I spent more than two hours looking. I checked every inch of that place.”

“No luck, huh?”

“I didn’t find it—”

“M’I hearin’ a but on the way?”

“Yeah, But.” He felt breathless, a little dizzy. He sat up straight and filled his lungs. “Down in the cellar, behind the stairs, I found a half a dozen eggs.”

“Eggs?”

“Yeah.”

“Like chicken eggs?”

“No, not like chicken eggs.”

Barney whistled softly into the phone. “Like its eggs?”

“I…yeah, I think so. They were clear. Like…almost like jelly beans, but soft. Red, but clear. I could see inside them. And each one of them had a little…like a little worm.”

“You puttin’ me the fuck on, Corey?”

“Little gray worms.”

There was a long silence from Barney. Then he said, “Where’re they, these eggs?”

“Still there.”

“You left ’em!”

“I stomped them flat.”

“You crazy? Shit!”

“What was I supposed to do, bag them for evidence?”

“We coulda’ had tests run, found out—”

“I know. I know that. I…I freaked out a little, Barney.”

There was another long silence. “Y’ all right?” Barney asked in a soft voice.

“I’m managing.”

“Yer not a guy loses it.”

“Oh, I can lose it pretty good.”

“I shouldn’ta had y’go in there alone. I’m sorry. Y’gonna be okay?”

“Sure.”

“Y’mashed the little fuckers.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Well, maybe just as well. Guess we don’t want’a be takin’ any chances.” Jake heard him sigh. “So momma wasn’t there, huh?”

“I think…it could be anywhere, but there’s a good chance it went out of that place with whoever it was that broke in.”

“The party kids.”

“It’s just a guess.”

“No idea who they were?”

“Just that one was probably a female, and I don’t imagine she went in that place by herself. Probably with a guy. We might lift prints off the door handles and the vodka bottle. I bagged the bottle, so we might as well check it. But I don’t think that’d get us much of anywhere. We’ve got three thousand students at Clinton U., about five hundred more at the high school, print cards in our files on maybe two dozen.”

“How ‘bout strip searchin’ every kid in town? I’ll help y’out ’n do the gals myself.”

“Yeah, sure. I almost wish we could. That or print them all, it’s about the only way we’d find the thing.”

“No guarantee the woocha got one a’ the kids, anyhow,” Barney said.

“Whoocha?”

“A bad-ass whatchamacallit. Coulda gone off ’fore the kids showed. Gotta move in mind?”

“Not really. Maybe stake out the Oakwood. I’m pretty sure the thing’s gone, but there’s always a chance that the kids might return.”

“Slim t’none. Y’better get some rest. Our whoocha got into someone, maybe it’ll fly the coop and be outa’ our hair. It sticks around, then we’ll have us a missing person or a dead body next day or two, and maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Either way,” Jake said, “we’ll have to go public with it.”

“Y’had to remind me,” Barney muttered.

“If I didn’t, Applegate would.”

“Yeah. We talked it over when he called. We’re gonna hold off till noon Tuesday. Then it’s press conference time if we haven’t nailed it. You, me ’n him, we’ll be instant celebrities—the three stooges that panicked the nation. Oh, what fun. We better get that fucker by then.”

“I hate to just wait around.”

“No point wastin’ yer time, you haven’t got any leads. Just sit tight, try t’get yer mind off it.”

“Yeah.”

After hanging up, Jake finished his bourbon. He went into the kitchen to start dinner and was peeling a potato over the sink when he realized that he had left his revolver on the sofa. He didn’t go after it. For some reason, his jitters had gone away.

Maybe it was the bourbon. More likely, it was talking to Barney—talking about the thing and its eggs, and about the break-in. Especially about the break-in. He had no doubt, any more, that the creature had found a new host. It wasn’t slithering around, looking for a chance to sneak up on him. It wasn’t ready to lurch out of the garbage disposal in a burst of potato peelings and bite his neck.

It was up the spine of a kid who’d gone looking for fun in the wrong place.

Jake wondered if the kid was getting hungry.