Flesh (28 page)

Not yet.

The car’s gas tank went up with a muffled boom. Jake staggered back as heat blasted against him. A spike of glass flew past his cheek. Another stabbed his thigh. He pulled it out. The car was still rocking from the impact.

Now, it was an inferno.

The fucker’s cooked, Jake thought. Cooked. It’s a goner.

For the first time, he noticed a few people watching from the other side of the street. He turned around. More were on the lawn in front of the apartment house. He took a step toward two young men, probably students. One wore a robe, the other wore only boxer shorts. Both men backed away. No wonder, Jake thought. I’m not in uniform, I’ve got this machete.

“I’m a policeman,” he called. “One of you guys call the fire department.”

“I already called,” said a brunette woman in pajamas. “I hope nobody’s
in
that car,” she said.

“Nobody alive,” Jake said.

“How’d it start?” asked the guy in the boxer shorts.

Jake shook his head. Then he turned away. The fire was still blazing. Several of the spectators from the other side of the street were inching forward for a better view.

When Jake rushed into the road, some of them backed off and one young couple turned and fled, the woman shrieking. Apparently, they had missed the news that he was a cop. Or couldn’t bring themselves to trust a guy, cop or not, who was running at them with a machete.

“Everybody stand clear,” Jake yelled. “The fire department is on its way.”

“Somebody’s in the car!” a man shouted, pointing.

“Get back,” Jake warned.

A woman turned away, hunched over, and vomited.

“Everybody move back, back to the sidewalk. There’ll be fire trucks coming in.”

One couple ignored his warning. They were standing over Jake’s gas can, frowning at it and muttering to each other. The girl wore a pajama shirt. The guy wore pajama pants. The girl crouched and reached toward the can.

Oh, shit, Jake thought. “Don’t touch that!” he snapped. “It’s evidence. The arsonist might’ve left prints.”

Clever, he thought.

Dumb asshole, why didn’t you put the can back in your trunk?

As the girl backed away, Jake slipped the blade of his machete through the can’s handle, raised it, and carried the can toward his car.

No point leaving the thing in sight. The fire boys might not be so easily fooled, and he would have a rough time trying to explain why he torched a vehicle with a suspect still inside.

The gas can and machete were locked safely in his trunk by the time he heard the sirens.

The firemen rushed the car with chemical extinguishers. Blasting flames out of the way, they pulled Roland’s carcass off the seat and dragged it into the road. Two firemen fogged it with their extinguishers, then left it there and joined those trying to knock down the car fire.

Jake looked at the corpse. It was still smoking. It was a charred, featureless hulk that hardly resembled a human being. If he hadn’t watched the body being removed from the car, Jake wouldn’t have been able to tell whether it was faceup or facedown. He knew it was faceup. But it had no face. Or ears. Or genitals. The surface was a black, cracked crust flecked with frothy white from the extinguishers. Fluids leaked from cracks in the crust.

When the honking blast of the extinguishers went quiet, Jake heard the sizzling sound that came from the body. It sounded like a rib roast.

It didn’t smell like one.

Jake stepped back, struggling not to vomit.

A fireman showed up and spread a blanket over the body.

Smoke rose from under the blanket.

Jake kept watch.

The fire was out, the car a smouldering ruin, by the time the coroner’s van arrived. The men stayed inside the van, smoking cigarettes, waiting, as instructed, for Applegate to show up.

Soon, Steve arrived in his Lincoln Continental. He climbed out, wearing a warm-up suit and carrying a doctor’s bag. He joined Jake. “What’s going on?”

“This is our man,” Jake said, nodding toward the covered corpse. “Earlier tonight, he killed a girl and tried to nail her roommate. He killed Rex Davidson. There’s a good chance he had our snake-thing up his back when he did it.”

“Oh, terrific,” Steve muttered. “Let me guess: you want a little on-the-scene exploratory surgery to determine whether it’s inside him.”

“Good guess,” Jake said.

“Shit.”

Steve went to the van and spoke to the men through its open window. They climbed out.

Wearing gloves, they uncovered the body and lifted it into a body bag. They zipped the bag. One man retrieved a gurney with folding legs from the rear of the van. They hoisted the bagged remains onto the gurney, rolled it to the van, and pushed it in.

“Is this a solo job?” Steve asked Jake. “Or do I get the pleasure of your company?”

“I’ll stick with you.”

“Good decision. Congratulations. Have a cigar.”

Once the cigars were lighted, Jake followed Steve into the rear of the van. He pulled the doors shut. The lights remained on. The smoke from the cigars drifted into vents in the ceiling.

Steve knelt on one side of the body bag, Jake at its end with his back to the doors. He drew his revolver.

“Yes,” Steve said. “I was about to suggest as much.”

“The thing’s probably dead,” Jake whispered. “If it’s in him at all.”

“If it remained between the spine and the epidermis, I would agree with you. But just suppose, when the situation heated up, it took a trip into this fellow’s stomach? It passed through Smeltzer’s stomach, so obviously it has no problem with the acids.”

“This guy must’ve cooked for fifteen minutes,” Jake pointed out.

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Charred on the outside, rare in the middle. That’s how I prefer my steaks.”

Jake squinted at Steve through his rising cigar smoke. “So if the thing went deep, it might be all right?”

“Very likely fit as a fiddle.”

Jake muttered, “Shit.”

Cigar clamped in his teeth, Steve opened his satchel and
pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. He slid the zipper down the length of the body bag.

In spite of the van’s ventilation system and the aroma of the cigars, the stench that rose from the burnt corpse choked Jake. His eyes teared as he gagged, but he watched the bag’s opening and held his revolver steady.

Steve seemed unaffected. He bent over the remains. With the tip of a gloved finger, he prodded a blackened crater a few inches above the groin. “Was this fellow shot?” he asked, his words slurred by the cigar in his teeth.

“Just in the hand.”

“This might be the creature’s exit.”

“Couldn’t the fire have made that?”

Steve shrugged. He pushed with his finger. The charred surface in the center of the crater crumbled, and his finger went in deep. He wiggled it around. “Nope,” he said. He pulled his finger out.

Then he grabbed the far side of the body bag, lifted and pulled it toward him. The corpse rolled out, bumping facedown onto the gurney. Black flakes fell off it.

Jake switched the revolver to his left hand long enough to wipe his right hand dry on his trouser leg.

Steve spent a while looking at the back of the corpse. Then he took a scalpel from his satchel. He turned his eyes to the barrel of Jake’s revolver. “Try to miss my hands if we have a sudden visitor. They mean a lot to me.”

“What about that exit hole on the other side?”

“If that’s what it is.”

“Great.”

“Ready?”

Jake eased his forefinger over the trigger. “No, but go ahead.”

Steve pressed the blade of the scalpel to the nape of the neck, pushed it in, and slid it downward.

“Jesus,” Jake muttered, watching the crust of skin crumple at the edges of the incision.

Nothing came bursting out.

Steve brought the blade again to the back of the neck. He inserted its point into the slit and poked around. “I think we may be all right,” he said. He grinned at Jake. “Just watch it don’t come popping out his arse.”

“Thanks.”

Setting the scalpel aside, Steve used both hands to spread open the incision. The outer layer of black cracked and flaked off with a sound like dry leaves being crushed. Steve dug in with all the fingers of his right hand. After probing inside the wound for a few moments, he said, “The thing was here, all right. I can feel a definite separation of the lower epidermal layer from the muscle fascia.”

Picking up the scalpel again, Steve ran the blade the rest of the way down the spine. He did more exploring with his hands.

“Yep,” he said.

“So it was in him, and now it’s gone,” Jake said.

“That’s how it looks. Took a powder through the stomach hole. That’s my professional opinion. Of course, the thing
might
still be inside him…lying low, so to speak. Won’t know that, for sure, until I’ve done a full autopsy. I’ll get the boys to bag him up again. We’ll keep him in cold storage and I’ll call you over so you can ride shotgun when it’s time for the big event. Though, as I said, I’m almost sure it’s not in him at this point.”

“If it’s not,” Jake said, “the thing is either ashes inside his car or else…it’s not.”

“And looking for a new home,” Steve said.

“Or already found one,” added Jake.

The ringing of a bell woke Alison up. She raised her face off the pillow and turned her head. After a moment of confusion, she realized that she was lying on the sofa in Jake’s living room. The lamps were on. No light came through the curtains, so it wasn’t yet morning.

The bell rang again.

She threw back the sheet and sat up. A strap of her negligee hung off her shoulder. She brushed it back into place.

The front door was open a few inches, the guard pulled taut.

Jake, she remembered, had warned her to barricade herself in the bedroom. Not wanting to take his bed from him, she had chosen to sleep on the sofa. She had heeded his warning enough, however, to fasten the door chain to prevent him from entering while she slept.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“Jake.” A belt with a holstered revolver swung through the opening and dropped to the floor. “I’ll step away. Bring the shotgun, unchain the door, then back off and keep me covered.”

“Just a minute.” She lifted the sweater off the coffee table and slipped into it. She fastened the middle button to keep it shut across her breasts. The shotgun was propped against the table. She picked it up and went to the door.

She pushed the door shut. She glanced down at herself.

The negligee was
awfully
short.

Her face heated.

He’s seen me in it before, she told herself. Hell, he’s seen me in nothing else.

She slid the guard chain to the end of its runner, let it drop, and opened the door.

Jake was standing on the lawn. He shook his head. “That’s no way to cover me.”

Shrugging, Alison lifted the butt of the shotgun off the floor. She clutched the weapon in both hands. But she didn’t aim at him. She backed away.

Jake entered the house and shut the door. A miasma of unpleasant odors came in with him. Though more than two yards in front of him, Alison smelled gasoline, cigar smoke, sweat, and a disgusting, sweetish stench that she couldn’t recognize.

Jake’s face and clothes were smeared with soot. One leg of his tan trousers was torn at the thigh and matted with dry blood.

“What happened to your leg?”

“Flying glass. No big deal.” He untucked his shirt, opened the buttons, and took it off. Then he turned around.

Alison stepped closer. The odors got worse, but his back looked fine. She reached out with her left hand and ran fingers down his spine. She felt no bulges. His skin was cool and damp. “Except for the stink,” she told him, “you’re fine. What happened?”

Jake turned to face her. “I found Roland. He’s dead. He was already dead by the time I found him.”

Alison nodded. She suddenly felt sick, and didn’t know whether it was the godawful odors from Jake or learning that Roland had died.
I
killed him, she thought.

It’s good that he’s dead.

I
killed him.

It was self-defense. He deserved to die after what he did to Helen…what he did, maybe, to Celia.

“Gouging his eye?” she muttered.

“He had a bad stomach wound when we found him. I suspect that was the finishing touch.”

“A stomach wound? So it wasn’t me who killed him?”

“Wasn’t you.”

“Thank God.”

“I’d better take a shower before you pass out on me. You’re looking a little green around the gills.”

She nodded. “What
is
that odor?”

“I found Roland in his car parked on a side street near the campus. I didn’t want to take a chance of the…remember that snake-thing I told you about?”

“I don’t think I’m likely to forget that.”

“Well, I doused Roland’s car with gasoline and torched it. With him in it.”

“Christ.”

“The idea was to burn the snake-thing. Afterward, I had the coroner cut Roland open to see if we could find it.” Jake shook his head. “Wasn’t in him. We think it left from his stomach. That’s what made the wound that probably polished him off. It knew that Roland was on his last legs, wouldn’t be any more use.”

“It broke out of him…like that monster in
Alien?”

“Something like that. We’re hoping Roland was inside the car when it happened. All the windows were rolled up. So if the thing was trapped in the car, it almost has to be dead. I searched the rubble afterward. Couldn’t find any trace of the thing, but that doesn’t mean much. Might’ve been nothing left but a heap of ashes.”

“It might be dead, then, or it might not?”

“We’re going to assume it’s alive until we know otherwise.”

“And if it
is
alive?”

“Then it’ll try to find someone else to get in, and we’re pretty much back where we started. I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you the whole mess is over.”

“But maybe it is.”

“I’d bet a month’s salary that the damned thing is dead. But I won’t bet your life on it.” He rubbed the shirt across his face, smearing sweat and soot. “I’d better take that shower, now.” He stepped past Alison and headed for the hallway.

When she noticed the sound of the water running, she realized that she hadn’t moved since Jake left. She dragged the shotgun over to the door and propped it against the wall. She attached the guard chain.

The disgusting odors still filled the room. In the kitchen, she searched until she found candles in a drawer. She lighted three of them, dripped wax onto paper plates, and stuck them upright. She brought the candles into the living room and placed them on the coffee table.

Sitting on the sofa, she leaned back and propped her feet on the table between two of the candle plates.

She wondered if Jake would come back into the room after his shower. Maybe they could have a drink together.

He’d been through a nightmare of his own, tonight: burning Roland, watching while the coroner cut him open. That one odor, the really bad one…

And he apologized to me for not having better news.

Maybe he won’t like seeing the candles. They might remind him of what happened earlier.

Alison sniffed. The nasty odors seemed faint. She puffed out the candles and carried them back into the kitchen. Then she went to the front door. She opened it enough to peer out, then shut it again, removed the guard chain, and swung the door wide.

The breeze smelled wonderful. It blew her hair. It felt cool and good on her body. She opened the sweater. The breeze caressed her through the negligee, moved up her bare legs. It felt just as fine as before, when she was standing naked at her bedroom window, and then it stopped feeling fine as the memory surged in of waking to find Roland above her. Moaning, she swung the door shut. She leaned against it, head against her crossed arms.

“Alison?”

She turned around. Jake was standing in the hallway entrance, wearing a robe.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Not very. How about you?”

“Better.”

“I was just letting in some fresh air.”

She saw his gaze stray downward, then back to her face. Just in time to catch my blush, she thought.

“I guess I’d better hit the sack,” Jake said. “Don’t you want to trade places? I’m sure my bed would be a lot more comfortable for you.”

“The sofa’s fine. Really.”

“It’s up to you.” He rubbed his chin. “Well, see you in the morning, Alison. Sleep tight, huh?”

“Yeah. You, too.”

He turned away. Alison looked down at herself. You sure gave him an eyeful, she thought. He noticed, too, but he didn’t get funny. That’s good. Would’ve been awkward if he’d decided it was some kind of an invitation.

Was
it some kind of an invitation? she wondered. How come I didn’t bother pulling the sweater shut before I turned around? He probably thinks I did it on purpose.

I bet that’s why he ran off so fast. He came in, maybe to spend a while talking, saw me like this, and decided he’d better beat a quick retreat.

Scared him away.

Don’t flatter yourself, she thought. He left because he’s had a long, rough day and he’s tired. Probably didn’t care, one way or the other, about me and my nightie.

She took off the sweater. Standing there, she folded it slowly and watched the hallway.

Jake was probably in bed already.

Alison moved quietly through the room, turning off lights. There was no need for the lights now that Jake was here.

It felt good, knowing that he was in the house, only a few seconds away.

Alison lay down on the sofa and pulled the sheet up.

He didn’t have to rush off like that, she thought. We should’ve talked for a while.

She imagined herself walking down the dark hallway to his room. Asking if he was asleep. Telling him that she didn’t want to be alone, not just yet.

Why not crawl into his bed while you’re at it? Sure. You just dumped Evan because he wasn’t interested in anything but making it and you’re hot to jump in bed with a guy you hardly know.

I am not. I wouldn’t do that. Why am I even
thinking
about it, after all that’s happened tonight?

What do you
want
to think about—Helen?

She saw Helen on the bed, glasses crooked…

The image clenched her with cold, tight fists. She lurched up and gazed through the darkness, gasping.

When Jake woke up, his room was bright. He squinted at the alarm clock on the nightstand. Almost ten o’clock. But what day was this? Monday.

He rolled onto his belly and pushed his face into the soft warmth of the pillow.

Need to get up, he thought. Need to—what? Go back to where you found Roland, check around, talk to people. What for? See if they saw anything. A snake in the grass.

Shit. It seemed pointless.

Need to do something, though. Need to make sure the thing’s dead, is what. Cause if it’s not dead, Alison…

She’s here. Sleeping on the sofa.

And me in my bed. What virtue. Congratulations, Corey.

Missed your big chance.

It would’ve been wrong. Taking advantage.

I know, he thought. Don’t I know. Fell asleep last night telling myself just how wrong it would be…and how nice. Even if we’d done no more than hold each other, it would’ve been fine.

He remembered how small and vulnerable she had looked sitting behind Barney’s desk, holding onto the coffee cup as if it were a talisman that would keep harm away.
And sitting in the car, that nightie barely covering her legs. And when he came out after the shower and her sweater was open.

Jake’s penis was pushing uncomfortably against the mattress. He rolled onto his back to relieve the pressure.

Real nice, he thought. The knight in shiny armor has a hard-on.

Sorry about that, Alison.

Alison, a pretty name. Alison Sanders.

He wondered if she was still asleep. It would be nice to see her sleeping on the sofa, probably looking as peaceful as a little kid. He couldn’t go sneaking in and watch her, though. What would she think if she woke up?

Go in and make a pot of coffee. Take a cup to her.

We’ll sit for a while, talking. Alison will be all sleepy, her hair mussed. Maybe she’ll have the sheet wrapped around her so neither of us will have to be embarrassed about her nightgown.

Take your robe to her. That way, she’ll know your intentions are honorable.

Jake pulled the sheet aside. He rolled off the bed and stood up. He was shirtless and wearing his pajama pants. Though his erection had diminished, the front of the pants still bulged somewhat. He headed for the dresser, planning to put on his pajama shirt before venturing from the room, and stopped abruptly at the foot of his bed.

Alison was asleep on the floor.

She lay curled on her side, a pillow under her head, her bare feet protruding from the sheet that covered her to the shoulders.

Jake stared down at the girl, bewildered by her presence. Unless she had walked in her sleep, she had come here on purpose, needing the comfort of being close to him. She must’ve been suffering, alone in the other room. Needed a friend. So she’d snuck in here and made her bed on the floor to be near him.

I should’ve stayed up with her, he thought. I should’ve realized.

He crouched in front of Alison. Wisps of hair hung over the side of her face. Her mouth was open, its lower corner buried in the pillow. The peaceful way she looked reminded Jake of Kimmy.

But Kimmy had never had a swollen, discolored jaw and cheek like Alison.

A bruise on her arm, though. She’d shown it to him when they got to Jack-in-the-Box last night.

Should’ve given Barbara a bruise for
her
arm.

Ever hurts Kimmy again, it’ll be a court order. How could the bitch slug her own daughter like that? How could
anybody
slug a girl like Kimmy?

Or a girl like Alison?

The guy who did that is dead. A hunk of burnt meat.

Deserved it, the bastard. Pounded Alison, tried to rape and kill her.

Reaching out, Jake lightly brushed the hair upward from the puffed and purple side of her face. He slipped it behind her ear.

“Good morning,” Alison said, her voice quiet and husky. She turned her head, rolling back slightly until her rump touched the edge of the box springs. She smiled lazily up at Jake, but with only the right side of her face. The punished left side didn’t move much.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Jake said.

“You didn’t. I’ve been awake for a while.”

“Playing possum, huh?”

“A little bit. Mostly too ruined to move.”

“Hard floor,” Jake said.

“Least of my problems. I feel like I’ve been hit by a Mack truck.”

“You
look
like you’ve been hit by a Mack truck.”

The right side of her lip curled up, baring some teeth. “That bad, is it?”

“Not that bad. You look pretty fine, all things considered. Did you sleep well down here?”

“Not bad, all things considered. You snore, you know.”

“Sorry.”

“It was nice. Kept me reminded you were there.”

“If you…I would’ve stayed on my own side of the bed, you know. Kept my hands to myself. Especially if I didn’t wake up.”

She smiled slightly with the working half of her face. Then the smile faded and she studied his eyes. “We’ll never know,” she said.