Here, though, it needn't be as dramatic as flames and carcassripping devastation. Subtlety was the order of the day. He'd cranked up the AC so that the growing stink wouldn't alert anyone too soon. And he'd tucked the comforter up to the woman's chin. That would help dissuade the blowflies from searching out the decaying matter as nurseries for their brood. By the time the proliferation of insect life made the room unbearable, he'd be many miles away.
The comforter served a threefold purpose. It absorbed the blood leaking from her body and would take a lot more before it showed. It also concealed the missing digits from her right hand. Ideally, Cain would've preferred to deliver her entire corpse to his repository in Jubal's Hollow; there were some nicely shaped bones under that alabaster skin of hers. For now, he had neither the time nor the inclination for further diversion. The fingers stripped from her hand would have to do. They were easily concealed in the pocket of his jacket, easily transported, and could be dropped off next time he visited his secret place.
It was like preparing for a school picnic. He'd wrapped the fingers in cellophane, packed like snack-sized hotdogs, and secreted them alongside the plastic bag holding George's thumbs. When he had time, he'd strip the flesh away and keep only the bones. He preferred them that way. Without the associated baggage of rotting meat. For now, he could content himself with fingering his souvenirs through their plastic casing without fear of getting her filth on his hands.
In his other pocket was a similar package. Fingers taken from the woman's boyfriend, who had kindly given Cain the fresh set of clothes and the keys to his VW Beetle. The boyfriend himself was in the shower, no more alive than the girlfriend was. Locked in the cubicle away from prying eyes, he would stay undiscovered for as long as the girl did.
Finally, Cain raised himself up. Bedsprings squealed in protest at the redistribution of weight. A creaking eulogy for the woman as she settled deeper into the mattress.
'I'd love to stay and chat a little longer,' he said. The woman remained unresponsive beneath the bedsheets. 'I'm not normally the type who just has his way with a girl, then makes off with hardly a thanks. It's just that I've got something that needs doing and time's a-wasting.'
He sat on the edge of the bed amid further creaks and groans and pulled on a thick pair of hiking socks. He had some intense blisters on the balls of both feet, but the good-quality woolen socks alleviated some of the discomfort. Socks in place, he tucked the hems of his jeans into them before tugging on sturdy lace-up boots. Then he retrieved the lightweight anorak containing his souvenirs and pulled it over his checked shirt. A black baseball cap emblazoned with an American eagle completed the ensemble.
He paused to admire himself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. His fair hair and pale green eyes gave him a boyish air that he knew endeared him to the ladies. 'Well, hello there.' He smiled at his reflection. 'Who is that ruggedly handsome guy?'
He'd entered this room the epitome of Joe College. He now looked like a seasoned hiker, exactly like thousands of others who passed along this highway day in and day out.
Before leaving the room, he wiped down all the surfaces he'd touched, as well as all those he couldn't remember touching. He used the cloth to wipe the door handle, then draped the cloth over it to prevent depositing fresh fingerprints when he finally left the room. 'Pays to be extra careful,' he told the woman.
Best that he didn't leave any incriminating friction ridges for a CSI person to find. That would really stir things up. He scanned the room for the minutiae he might have missed, but decided he'd been as thorough as ever. He wasn't concerned about hair or saliva, or even semen. His DNA wasn't on any
A return to the bed allowed a straightening and tucking in of the comforter. A soft pat of his hand on the woman's head. 'Now don't you worry. As long as I don't leave any prints, I'll remain anonymous. By the time the police get around to checking out a sample of DNA taken under warrant, I'll already be one of two things: famous or dead. Probably both. And by then it won't matter, will it?'
His old set of clothing was packed into the dead man's backpack, along with other articles that could come in handy. His utility belt for one. He slung the backpack over his shoulder, took one last look at the woman on the bed, winked at her, then slipped out of the room.
The early morning cool washed over him. Within hours this same place would be oven-hot, the air shimmering before his eyes. But now everything was calm, and he could see way off across the sand-blasted wastelands to an orange haze on the horizon. Not the dawning sun— it was on the wrong horizon. The light he could detect was artificial, half a billion streetlights tainting the skyline with their putrid glow. Toward those lights he must travel. For it was there he'd find fame.
Not to mention the thief who stole his knife.
The motel was your typical low-slung timber structure. A series
of cabins set out in two parallel rows behind the booking office. The office was in darkness, as were the other cabins. Not too many patrons had stayed the night. Drawn up in the parking lot were only four vehicles, one of which was his recently acquired VW Beetle. True to his sense of destiny, the VW was an orangey yellow color. Just like the one driven by the man born Theodore Robert Cowell on November 24, 1946. Cowell would later adopt his stepfather's surname and be known as Theodore Bundy. Ted Bundy, the talented serial killer who was soon to be eclipsed by the exploits of one Tubal Cain.
A quick reconnoiter of the area satisfied him that no other guest was out of bed. He walked toward the VW, jangling the keys in his hand. The aged car was more stubborn wreck than it was vintage model. A little temperamental to start, if memory served. Hopefully the chugging of the engine wouldn't alert anyone nosy enough to see him depart. But then again, why should that matter? By the time the bodies were discovered, he'd have arrived in one of the cities and acquired alternative transport. The Beetle would be a burned-out shell in some vacant lot.
Opening the door of the car, he slung the backpack onto the backseat. Surprisingly, the car started on his first attempt, and he disengaged the emergency brake and drove off without a look back. He drove without hurry, but with purpose. From his shirt pocket, he teased out a slip of paper, on it a handwritten telephone number. Beneath it, he'd written the address of the hotel.
'Stupid, stupid thief.' His laughter was as bitter as sucking on unripe lemons. 'If you want to get into my kind of game, you have to learn the basic rules. First rule: Cover your tracks.'
The amateur who'd hijacked him, taking his SUV and beloved Bowie knife, obviously hadn't thought of the
