Flesh

CHAPTER SIX

The buzz of the alarm clock startled Jake out of sleep. He killed the noise and pushed himself up on one elbow. Ten o’clock. He’d slept for seven hours. So how come he felt like death warmed over?

Because of yesterday.

Groaning, he swung his legs off the bed, sat up, and rubbed his face.

Yesterday. One charbroiled man hanging out the windshield. One woman with pieces of her brain and skull clinging to the wall and spread around in clumps on the kitchen counter. One man munching on her flesh.

Jake felt sick, remembering.

Then his sickness changed to fear as his mind did a slowmotion replay of Smeltzer going for the shotgun. The patch of skin in Smeltzer’s teeth flapped lazily, sprinkling blood, as he turned and reached. Jake thought, He’s going for it! He thought, This is it! He fired, feeling the revolver jump, feeling the blasts slap his ears, smelling the pungent smoke, watching Smeltzer jerk each time a bullet kicked into him, saw again how one slug opened his throat and how he drifted backward, hosing Jake with blood, the skin still clamped in his teeth, his body twitching after he hit the floor, the blood raining down on him.

Jake took a deep, shaky breath, and got to his feet.

I had to do it, he told himself. I’d be dead if I hadn’t dropped him.

It wasn’t an excuse; it was the truth. And he had reminded himself of that truth so many times since last night that he was tired of it.

He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Last night, the water going down the drain had been pink from Smeltzer’s blood. He’d showered until the hot water ran out. Then he had waited half an hour, and taken a second shower. This would be number three.

He stepped under the hot spray and began to soap himself and saw Smeltzer look up at him, ripping a patch of flesh from the woman’s belly. The flesh tore away and he started to turn. He’s going for it!

“Turn it off!” he snapped. “We’ve seen it, we’ve seen it a hundred times, thank you very much. What is this, the goddamn network?”

Just what it’s like, he thought. How many times had they shown the footage of Hinkley blasting away at Reagan, or the Challenger rising beautifully into the sky and blowing up? And each time they show it, you hope it’ll be different this time, you hope they rewrote the script and Hinkley waves instead of shoots, and the Challenger makes it into orbit, and you go charging into the kitchen and Smeltzer and his wife are busy mopping the floor and they look at you as if you’re nuts. But the script never changes. Each replay is identical to the last one, no matter how hard you wish it different.

They aren’t mopping. She’s on the floor with just her chin on the end of her neck, and Smeltzer is down on her. My God what is he doing!

Oh, I do not need this not one little bit. It’s my day off, how about my memory taking the day off, too? Pick up Kimmy in about an hour. That should help. A lot. Call Applegate first, though, find out when he’ll be winding up the autopsy on Smeltzer—guy must’ve been drugged out, probably angel dust, which is about the only logical explanation for what he did. Eating her, Jesus! Had to be angel dust.

But how does angel dust connect with the van? The two incidents had to be related, somehow. Didn’t they?

When he finished showering, Jake got dressed and made a cup of instant coffee. Then he dialed the morgue. “Betty? It’s Jake.”

“How you doing, fella?”

“Hanging in.”

“I heard about last night. Pretty rough, I guess.”

“I’ve had better times.”

“I’m free tonight, just in case you could use a little loving.”

“Thanks for the offer,” he said. Betty’s idea of a little loving was a lot of hard work. She was a twenty-two-year-old blonde beauty. She had been a champion gymnast in high school, and now her performances were confined to the bedroom. She was truly awesome. Jake’s several encounters with her had been real adventures, but exhausting, and afterward he had always somehow regretted the time spent with her.

He was glad, now, that he had an honest excuse for avoiding Betty. “Afraid I can’t, tonight. This is my weekend with Kimmy.”

“Just let me know.”

“I’ll be sure to. Is Steve around?”

“He’s out for the day.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wouldn’t kid you, fella. He got a call first thing this morning from Dr. Willis—the coroner over in Marlowe? Willis wanted him to take a look at some stiff they turned up.”

“We’ve got stiffs of our own.”

“Willis and Steve are old pals. And Willis has a country club in his backyard. I think there was more to it than just a professional consultation. Steve took his golf clubs.”

“Great. And tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“He told me you’d be calling. He said to tell you he’ll be in tomorrow, for sure, and do his number on your guy first thing.”

“Okay.”

“You sure about tonight? What time does your kid hit the sack?”

“I wouldn’t be much fun, anyway.”

“Sure you would. But hey, it’s up to you.”

“I’ll be in touch,” he said. “Take it easy now.”

“You, too, Jake.”

He hung up.

Fifteen minutes later, he swung his car onto the circular driveway and stopped if behind a red Porsche with the cutesy license plate, BB’S TOY.

BB’s toy would look best, Jake thought, wrapped around a tree. Then he felt guilty. After all, she was Kimmy’s mother. Kimmy loved her. Poor taste on the kid’s part, but you love the mother you get, even if she is a slut.

His chest felt tight, his mouth dry, as he stepped onto the front stoop and pressed the doorbell. From inside came the faint sound of chimes playing the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth.

Harold Standish opened the door, stepped back, raised his hands high and said, “Don’t shoot.”

Jake stared at him. The man’s routine hadn’t been amusing the first time he pulled it, over a year ago. It had become less amusing with each repetition. This morning, it gave Jake an urge to tear off Harold’s trim little mustache.

“Just pulling your leg, Jako. Come on in. The little woman’s getting the Kimmer ready for her big day.”

Jake stepped onto the marble foyer.

Harold headed for the living room, walking sideways and smiling, keeping his eyes on Jake—apparently afraid to turn his back. Jake had never spoken a sharp word to the man, had certainly never threatened or assaulted him. But Harold knew what he had done. And, quite obviously, he knew what he deserved.

What Harold did not know was that Jake had never blamed him for the situation. It might have been different if he’d seduced Barbara with good looks and charm, but Harold was a skinny guy with a receding hairline, a nose like a turkey’s beak, and all the charm of a field mouse. He was a wimp. A wimp who made big bucks filling teeth. And Barbara, not Harold, had been the seducer.

She hadn’t dumped Jake for a man. She’d dumped him for a handsome bank balance and plastic cards with dreamy credit lines. Harold was a piece of excess baggage that came along with the good stuff.

If it hadn’t been Harold, it would’ve been someone else.

Barbara was the one who deserved…

“Could I get you some coffee, a sweet roll?” Harold asked.

“No thanks.”

Harold sat on a recliner, but didn’t settle back. He stayed on the edge of the seat as if ready to rush off, and cupped his hands over his knees. “So,” he said.

Jake sat on the sofa.

“So, how are things in law enforcement business? Keeping the criminals in line?”

“We try.” Apparently, Harold hadn’t heard about last night. That was fine with Jake.

Harold nodded as if pondering the response. He gazed at the floor. He seemed nervous about the silence. Afraid Jake might take the opportunity to bring up an unpleasant topic, such as adultery? Ah, he must’ve thought of something. His eyebrows lifted and he looked at Jake. “How do you feel about the handgun initiative?”

“I’m against it.”

“One would think that a man in your line of work, who sees the tragedies caused by private ownership of guns—”

“We had a seventy-two-year-old widow, last month, who woke up to find a stranger in her bedroom with a knife in one hand and a hard-on in the other. She shot him four times with a pistol she kept on her nightstand. Me, I’m glad she had the gun.”

“But statistics show—”

“Save it, Harold. You want the bad guys to win, that’s your business.”

Harold dared a condescending smile. With a shake of his head, he stood up. “I’ll see what’s keeping the ladies,” he said, and backed out of the living room.

He was no sooner gone than Barbara came in.

“Tag team?” Jake asked. He felt sick. He always felt sick when he saw her, but this morning was worse than usual because of what she wore.

“Kimmy’s almost ready,” she said.

“Fine,” he muttered, staring at Barbara and wondering what the hell she was trying to do.

She wore a blue silk kimono. Its front was open, showing a long V of bare skin all the way down to the sash at her waist. The glossy fabric shimmered from the motion of her breasts. Turning away from Jake, she crossed the living room. The kimono was very short. At the far side of the draperies, she reached high to pull the draw cord and the garment lifted above the pale curves of her buttocks. The draperies skidded open. She lowered her arms, and the fabric drifted down.

“Real cute,” Jake said.

Whirling around, she glared at him.

Jake smiled. His mouth felt rigid. His chest ached.

“Problem?” she said.

His smile died. “You’re some piece of work, woman.”

“You better believe it.”

“What’re you trying to pull?”

“I’m not trying to pull a thing, darling. Do I take it that you don’t approve of my attire? It’s an early birthday present from Harold. Isn’t it heavenly? And it feels so scrumptious.” Staring at Jake, she smiled lazily and half shut her eyes. Her hands started high and glided downward, caressing the kimono, rubbing the fabric against her breasts. “Scrumptious,” she whispered.

“If only Harold could see you now.”

“So what if he did.” She squirmed slightly as she rubbed her breasts. Her motions had loosened the front of her kimono, widening the opening. It was open all the way down.

“For godsake!” Jake snapped in a hushed voice.

She smirked. “Turning you on?”

“I get turned on better scraping dog shit off my boot.”

Barbara’s eyes went wide. Her face colored. Her back went stiff. She tugged the kimono shut. “You bastard.” Her voice trembled when she said it. Her chin started to shake.

Astonished, Jake realized she was about to cry.

She pivoted away from him. “Kimmy!” she shouted. “Get your ass down here!”

“Barbara!” Jake snapped.

“Fuck you.” She hurried from the room.

Jake stayed on the sofa, stunned and angry and confused. What the hell had just happened?

Normally, when he came to pick up Kimmy, Barbara acted as if he were a visiting peasant: haughty, sarcastic, delighted by the opportunity to rub his nose in the lifestyle she had achieved by dumping him for Harold.

What was this, today?

Acting like that with Kimmy and Harold in the house.

Harold had to know she was dressed that way.

What was she trying to prove?

That’s pretty obvious, he thought. She was trying to prove she could turn me on.

Look how she flew apart when I put her down.

The gal’s got a major-league problem.

Off the deep end, or she wouldn’t be pulling that kind of stunt.

Troubles with Harold?

Oh, wouldn’t that be a shame.

Golly, I’m so sorry. It breaks my heart, you slut.

The harsh thoughts made Jake feel a little guilty. He told himself that he had loved her once, that it was wrong to wish misery on her.

What about Kimmy? If Barbara and Harold were having problems, she could certainly be affected. He didn’t want that. If Kimmy had to live with her mother—and there was no real alternative as long as Jake remained unmarried—then he wanted her to be in a home where there was love and happiness.

The situation was only tolerable as long as he could be sure that Barbara was taking good care of her. If this morning was any indication, however, Barbara was losing her grip.

Maybe it’s nothing, he told himself. Just a fleeting aberration. Tomorrow’s Barbara’s birthday. She would only be twenty-seven, but he remembered her saying, when she hit twenty-one, that it was all downhill from there. She apparently believed it, too. Each year, after that, she had fallen into a pit of depression around birthday time.

That must be it, he decided.

Flaunts her stuff in front of her ex-husband to prove to herself that she’s still got something to flaunt.

And he smashes her down.

Shit.

At least it was good to know that her bizarre behavior was nothing more serious than the birthday blues.

If that’s what it was.

“Hi, Daddy!”

He stood up, suddenly feeling good as Kimmy came toward him, smiling. As always, after going days without seeing her, he was amazed by her beauty. A gorgeous four-year-old kid with big blue eyes and a great smile, she couldn’t go anywhere without people taking a second look.

Harold stood in the entryway, holding her overnight bag. Kimmy had Clew, her tiny stuffed kitten, clutched in one hand. She raised her arms, and Jake picked her up and kissed her. “How’s my baby?” he asked.

“I’m not a baby, I’m a little girl.”

“Oh, well excuuuuuse me.”

Leaning back and grinning, she poked a finger against a button of Jake’s shirt. “You have a spill, Daddy.”

“I do?” He looked down.

Kimmy darted her finger up and poked his nose.

“Oow! Y’got me!”

Laughing, she sucked on her forefinger. Her eyes were eager with mischief. A Wet Willy was on its way.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Jake said, forcing her away before she could twist the wet finger in his ear. She giggled and tried to hold on, but he freed himself and put her down.

Not in front of Harold, he thought.

Then he wondered, with a tug of pain, if she ever gave Wet Willies to Harold.

“Let’s get the show on the road,” he said.

He reached down his hand. Kimmy took a firm grip on his forefinger and led the way.

“You two have a good time,” Harold said as they approached him. He gave the overnight bag to Jake. His smile looked strained. “You’ll have her back tomorrow?”

Jake nodded.

They left. It was good to get out of the house. He smiled down at Kimmy.

Her smile was gone. “Don’t I get to stay by you tomorrow?”

“Not this time. Tomorrow’s Mommy’s birthday.”

“I know that.” She gave him an annoyed look. She did not approve, at all, of being told what she already knew. Clearly demeaning.

“Well, you want to be there for her party, don’t you?”

“I s’pose.”

“It’ll be fun.”

He opened the passenger door for Kimmy, and lifted her onto the safety seat. While he strapped her in, she tucked Clew into the top of her bib overalls so the tiny gray head poked out like a kangaroo in its mother’s pouch.

Then she stuck her forefinger into her mouth.

“Oh, no, you don’t!”

“Yes, I do!”

Jake grabbed her wrist, but let himself be overpowered. The wet fingertip pushed into his ear and twisted. “Eaah! You got me!” Before she could get him again, he ducked out of the car.

He hurried around and climbed in behind the steering wheel. Kimmy was ready to bestow another Wet Willy. She strained to reach him, but it was no good.

“Saved by the car seat,” he said.

“C’mere.”

“Not a chance. Think I’m dumb?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding.

“Wiseacre.” He pulled into the street. “So, what would you like to do today?”

“Go to the moojies.”

“The moojies it is. Anything special you want to see?”

She made an eager face with her eyes wide and her brows high. “Peter Pan.”

“We saw Peter Pan last week.”

“I really want to see Peter Pan again.”

“Sure, why not. Maybe this time the crock will gobble up Captain Hook…”

Gobble up.

Ronald Smeltzer.

Could’ve gone all day without thinking about that.

“Can we eat at McDonalds?”

“No.”

“Daddy!” She shook her fist at him, grinning over the tiny knuckles.

“Well, if you insist.”

“Daddy, can I talk to you?”

“Sure. Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?”

She braced an elbow on the padded armrest of her seat, and leaned toward him. She looked serious. “There isn’t any such thing as crocodiles, is there?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, because it’s just a moojie.”

“That doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

“Dracula and werewoofs and the mummy aren’t really real, you said so, so crocodiles aren’t really real, are they?”

“Gotcha worried, has it?”

“This is not funny.”

“Crocks are real, but I wouldn’t worry about them.”

“I do not want to get eaten.”

Jake felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. “Well, you’ll just have to keep your eyes open. If you see a crock waddling your way, toss it a Twinkie and run. It’d much rather eat Twinkies than you.”

“I’m not so sure.”