The Cellar

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Anytime, now.

In the dim light filtering through the curtain, Roy dressed. He got up and looked at the girls. Their skin seemed very dark against the white of the sheets.

He wanted to start a fire. It would take care of the girls, and whatever evidence he might be leaving behind. A fire would be perfect. But not without a delayed start.

He had no candles.

A cigarette or cigar might work as a delaying device, but he didn’t have one.

Maybe the girl.

Crouching over her small pile of clothes, he lifted the T-shirt. It had no pockets. He picked up the cut-off jeans and searched their pockets. Nothing.

Shit!

He couldn’t just set the room on fire and run: He had to give himself time. Time to get into Cabin 12, time to get into 9, time to get a good distance away in Donna’s car.

Wait.

Shit, he’d have to burn 9 and 12, too.

Forget it.

Forget the whole thing.

He suddenly smiled. Without a delayed fire ready to set this place ablaze, he wouldn’t have to rush. He could take his time, enjoy himself.

What he’d do, he’d wipe the place clean, make sure he left no prints.

He wandered the rooms with the girl’s T-shirt, rubbing all the surfaces he remembered touching. Somehow, it seemed pointless. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt a hollow ache in his stomach as if something had gone very wrong. Something he’d forgotten about.

He dumped the backpack onto the floor. Along with the ground cloth and sleeping bags, four cans of chili and spaghetti rolled out.

He should’ve eaten. That’s what made the ache.

He rubbed the cans with the T-shirt.

No, it wasn’t just hunger. Something else was wrong.

He rubbed the aluminum tubing of the pack frame.

Shit!

Karen and Bob’s place! He’d never found out, for certain, whether or not it had burned.

That morning, on the radio, they’d only mentioned the one fire. If Karen and Bob’s place didn’t go up, then the cops would have all the proof they’d need.

Okay, maybe it went up, and he just hadn’t heard. He should still be careful with this place.

Not leave evidence.

Not leave witnesses.

He swept the room with his eyes, wondering if he’d missed anything. When he was satisfied the place was clean, he went into the bathroom and urinated. He came out. Bending down, he raised his cuff and slipped the knife from its sheath.

A single clean slash across the throats would do it. He’d stand back to stay out of the spray.

Knife in hand, he stood.

He took one step toward Joni’s bed and realized she was gone.

Impossible!

Rushing to the bed, he slid his hands across its sheets to be certain his eyes and the darkness hadn’t deceived him. No, the bed was empty. She’d somehow worked the ropes loose.

He glanced down between the beds. No sign of her.

Under the bed?

The doorknob rattled. Roy looked, saw the small girl reaching, pulling. The door flew open for a moment, and shut.

“Oh fuck!” Roy muttered.

He ran to the door, swung it open, and stepped out. He shut it silently. Except for a few lighted cabin windows, the parking lot was dark. Roy looked to the left, thinking she would head for the office. No sign of her. He glanced to the right. Still nothing. Maybe she’d run around back.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

He would just finish off the other one, first.

He tried to twist the knob. It resisted, as if frozen.

Locked out. Keys inside.

Roy drew a deep, shaky breath. He wiped the sweat off his hands, then hurried around the corner of the cabin. Ahead was only darkness. Woods. The night sounds of crickets.

He wanted his flashlight.

He’d left it inside.

Walking quietly, he entered the darkness to find Joni.

The little bitch!

His hand ached, gripping the knife so hard.

He’d rip her! God, he would rip that little bitch! Up one side, down the other.

“Where are you?” he muttered. “Think you can hide from me, little bitch? I know your smell. I’ll sniff you down.”