CHAPTER SEVEN
With a fresh cup of coffee, Dana Norris returned to her table in a corner of the student union. She read the poem again, wrinkled her nose, and sighed.
Why couldn’t this guy write stuff that made sense?
“Salutations.”
She looked up and found Roland standing in front of her table.
Roland the Retard.
He wasn’t actually retarded—brainy, in fact, but nobody would guess that by looking at him.
His black, slicked down hair was parted in the middle like Alfalfa of the old Our Gang films. The style, he liked to explain, was his tribute to Zacherle, who used to host a latenight horror show on television.
Today, he was wearing a bright plaid sport jacket and one of his assorted gore-shirts. The skin colored T- shirt featured a slash wound down its midsection and a bright array of blood and guts spilling out.
“May I join you?” he asked.
“I’m trying to study.”
Nodding, he pulled out an orange, molded-plastic chair and sat across the table from her.
Dana looked down at her book. “What the hell is a force in a green fuse?”
“Sounds like a slimy wick to me.”
“You’re a big help.”
Roland leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Did you hear what happened out at the Oakwood Inn?”
“Why don’t you go away and get yourself something to eat. You look like—”
“A cadaver?” he suggested.
“Exactly.”
“Thank you.” He grinned. His big, crooked teeth looked like a plastic set you might buy at a gag shop the day before Halloween.
Dana didn’t know how Jason could stand to room with this guy, much less be friends with him.
“So,” he said, “I guess you didn’t hear.”
“Hear what?”
“About the massacre.”
“Ah. A massacre. That explains, the gleam in your eyes.”
“It happened right outside town. There’s that old restaurant, the Oakwood Inn. This couple came up from LA planning to open it again. The place had been closed for years—apparently shut down after several of the patrons turned toes up when they ate there. Food poisoning.” Roland wiggled his thin black eyebrows. He looked absolutely delighted. “So last night they were in the place fixing it up and the husband went totally berserk and blew off his wife’s head with a shotgun. Then a cop showed up and blew away the husband.”
“Just your cup of tea,” Dana said.
“Outrageous, huh?”
“Too bad you couldn’t have been there to enjoy it.”
“Yeah, well, those are the breaks. I drove out there this morning, but the cops have it all blocked off.” He shrugged. “The stiffs were probably gone by then, anyway.”
“More than likely.”
“I sure would’ve like to get a look inside, though. I mean, maybe it hadn’t been cleaned up yet. Can you feature the mess it must’ve made, a gal catching a twelve gauge in the face? Pieces of her brain and skull sticking to the walls…”
“You’re revolting.”
“Anyway, I thought I’d go back later. Maybe the cops’ll be gone by then. Do you mind if I borrow your Polaroid?”
Dana stared at him. She felt a rush of heat to her face. “What makes you think I’ve got a Polaroid?”
“I just know. How about it?”
“That shit. He showed you the pictures, didn’t he.”
“Sure. We’re roomies.”
Her mouth was dry. She lifted her coffee mug with a shaky hand and took a drink. She should’ve known that Jason wouldn’t keep his word. Who else had he shown them to? Everyone in the dorm? She’d wanted to burn the things, but Jason had promised he would hide them, never show them to another soul.
She could just see Roland the Retard drooling over them.
“How about it?” he asked. “Can I borrow the camera?”
“I’m gonna kill that shithead.”
Roland giggled. “If you do, let me watch.”
On second thought, Roland probably hadn’t drooled—probably he hadn’t even found the photos particularly interesting, since they showed no entrails or severed limbs. Unless he supplied all that with his sick imagination, which seemed more than likely.
“Have you seen a shrink about this problem of yours?” Dana asked.
“A shrink? A
“Knock it off.”
Roland’s mouth snapped shut.
“What is it with you? I know you’re Jason’s roommate and buddy and I’m supposed to be nice to you and treat you like a human being, but he’s not here, so forget that shit. What is it with you, huh? I’m curious. Either you’re totally deranged, which I doubt, or this whole obsession with blood and guts is some kind of game. If it’s a game, it’s something you should have outgrown at least five years ago.”
During her outburst, Roland had taken his elbows off the table and pressed himself into his chair. He looked stunned. His tiny eyes were wide open, his jaw hanging down.
“Do you know
Roland glanced over his shoulder, apparently to see who might be within earshot. Nobody was at the nearby tables.
“You’re scared that nobody will know you exist if you don’t go around acting like a weirdo. This way, people notice you. They don’t
Dana stopped. She leaned back in her chair, folded her arms beneath her breasts, and glared at him.
“You’re crazy,” he muttered.
“People were really truly killed out at that restaurant last night,” she said, forcing herself to speak in a calm voice. “It was real—if what you told me is true.”
“Yeah, it—”
“Real, Roland. Not one of those splatter movies you love so dearly. And it’s got you scared pissless, so you have to defend your fragile psyche by trivializing it.”
“You’re a regular Sigmund Freud.”
“The truth is, you probably drove out there in the full expectation that you’d be turned away by the cops. You knew you wouldn’t get to see the bodies or the brains sticking to the walls. The only reason you went out there was so you could brag about it. If you make it part of your weird-guy act and it gets you attention, it isn’t so real anymore, isn’t so scary.”
“That’s not true.”
“You creep, you’re scared of your own shadow.”
“I am not. I
“A coward, Roland. You’re a coward.”
“I would’ve gone in if—”
“Sure. If the cops hadn’t shooed you off. I’ll bet. As a matter of fact, I
