she'd heard might have been Livingston's men, or Collins', searching Hollister's apartment. Or it might have been Hollister and Ineida. Or, as she'd suggested, it might have been a dream. Like this entire case; dreams within dreams. There were as many different worlds as there were people, it seemed, and maybe this world or that one corresponded to reality. Or maybe none of them did. Maybe there was no reality. All dreams. Or was that too terrifying to think about?
'Where do you live?' Nudger asked.
Whap! 'Across the street there. My window's in front. I like it there; you can see everything that goes on, even real late when nobody thinks anybody's eyes are on 'em.'
Nudger looked up at the second-story window she was pointing to. It was uncurtained; a crooked, yellowed shade was pulled halfway down. She'd have a good view from there, all right. 'Have you seen anything unusual going on over here during the past week or so?'
'Nope.' Whap! Whap! 'I gotta go.' She began backing away, worm of youth wriggling.
'Okay,' Nudger said. He was even more anxious to get inside now. 'Thanks, Midge.'
'Sure, Nudger.' Whap! The red ball bounced ten feet into the air, described an arc out over the street. She twirled gracefully and closed on it like a young female Willy Mays, made a perfect basket catch over her shoulder, and ran down the shadowed street and out of sight. It was a great catch, considering she'd been looking straight into the sun.
Nudger opened the door and went inside.
The apartment was still. Its air was stale, as if it had been closed up without movement all night and most of the day. There was a kind of residue of cooking-gas scent that was often detectable in places that had been sealed tight for a number of hours. Nudger could take in most of the apartment in a glance, right through to the courtyard beyond the sliding-glass-door draperies that were opened to outside, where the sun lay in slanted gold rays across the well- tended garden. A large bee of some sort was flitting around out there, sampling blossoms. In the kitchen the refrigerator clicked on, humming softly and contentedly.
Nudger began nosing around. There was no sign that anyone had searched the place before him, but there wouldn't be. The people interested in Hollister's and Ineida's whereabouts were professionals. Wall hangings, kitchen utensils, the small and unimportant trappings of living were still here, but the larger and more personal items were gone. Only a ragged wool sweater remained in the bedroom closet. The dresser drawers were empty but for lint, and the desk in the living room was cleaned out except for a few blunt pencils and a folded piece of blank notepaper. Nudger spread the paper flat and used a soft-leaded pencil to lay graphite markings gently over it and try to pick up an impression of what had been written on the last, missing sheet of paper. That didn't prove effective; it only seemed to work in detective novels and movies. There sure were a lot of misconceptions about this job.
He put down the pencil and stood up from the desk. This visit hadn't helped him much, only left a steadfastly reliable witness to swear that he'd been here under false pretenses, if the law ever forced the issue in court.
He decided to leave, yet a part of him wanted to stay. It was an eerie feeling, as if his subconscious were telling him something and recoiling from it at the same time.
From where he stood, one corner of the bedroom wasn't visible. He walked toward the open bedroom door. The bed protruded there; he couldn't see beyond it to the wall.
Slowly, he entered the bedroom and walked toward a point near the brass footboard from which he'd be able to see the other side of the bed. He'd never believed the hair on the back of anyone's neck actually rose, but his felt as if it were doing so now. He moved a few steps to the left, craned his neck cautiously, painfully, for a clear angle of vision.
The carpet on the other side of the bed lay flat and bare.
Nudger let out a long, hissing breath and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck in relief. He'd seen every corner of the apartment now; it was empty of any of the things he dreaded finding.
But when he turned to go he stopped and stood still, as if he'd walked into a wall of icy air. In the dresser mirror he could see the reflection of the hall and the sliding glass door, and beyond the door the sunny courtyard. The rosebushes Hollister had planted were still there, growing in a row alternating red roses with white.
But something was different about them. Now, at the end of the row, there were two white rosebushes in succession, then a red. Someone had dug up, then replanted the rosebushes, but had neglected to replant the two end bushes in the same order they had been in. Had reversed them.
Nudger went to the sliding glass door, unlocked it, and stepped outside. The lowering sun was warm as well as bright; some of the rosebuds on the bushes had bloomed and their petals seemed virginal and fragile in the gentle light.
In a crawl space beneath the sundeck, several garden tools were stored. Nudger rummaged around in the shadows, found Hollister's long-handled shovel, and carried it to the row of newly planted rosebushes.
He dug almost in a frenzy, feeling his arm and back muscles tighten and ache from the effort, afraid the sickening hollowness in his stomach would get out of control if he didn't work hard to keep his mind off it.
Nudger remembered a case Hammersmith had told him about back in St. Louis. A guy on the east side had murdered a woman he'd picked up in a bar, strangled her, and then buried her in the woods. He'd been seen with her in the bar, and it bothered him that when the body was found, he might be tied to the murder. It bothered him so much that after two weeks he'd gone back one night, dug up the decomposed body, and removed the head to make identification from dental records impossible. Hammersmith hadn't said what the killer had done with the head; Nudger hadn't asked and didn't want to know.
But it bothered Nudger that anyone could do that to a woman he'd buried two weeks before. And it puzzled him. What was it about people like that? What was missing in their minds or hearts? He knew he could never do what the man on the east side had done. Nudger would rather die in the electric chair than do that. Really.
He was damp all over with cold sweat. Emotion clawed at his features. He didn't want to uncover what he was sure lay beneath the loose earth. He kept digging
XXXI
Hey, old sleuth, you gotta get over here,' Fat Jack told Nudger on the phone.
Nudger had only been back in his hotel room for half an hour, had stopped his uncontrollable shaking only a few minutes ago. He was washing the dirt from his hands and arms after digging in Hollister's garden. His hands were still wet when he answered the phone; he wondered if anyone had ever been electrocuted this way. 'Where's here?' he asked.
'My office at the club,' Fat Jack said, as if Nudger were crazy for having to ask. 'I just got a phone call from David Collins.'
'What kind of call?'
'I better tell you in person.'
'Okay, I'll be there in twenty minutes.'
'Great. Hey, I got real problems, Nudger. Ultra-problems.'
'You ain't seen nothin' yet,' Nudger said.
'Huh?'
'Al Jolson used to say that before he laid the really big number on the crowd. Same way Ronald Reagan.'
'I know. So what?'
'See you in half an hour,' Nudger said, and hung up.
He stood for a moment, shirtless, staring down at the dark spots of water he'd dripped on the carpet. Then he went back in the bathroom, finished washing, and hurriedly toweled his hands dry. He felt like switching on the ceiling heat lamp in the tiny bathroom; despite the inability of the hotel's air conditioning to hold back the warmth of the day, he was getting chills. He put on a fresh shirt, shrugged into his wrinkled brown sport coat, and left for Fat Jack's. 'I hung up on Collins just a few minutes before I phoned you,' Fat Jack said. He was standing behind his desk, twitching around as if he were too nervous to sit down. It was warm in the office, too, but Nudger's chilliness had accompanied him there.
