the mattress. He stared at it while he opened his pants and tugged them down to his knees. Sitting on the bed, he popped open the leather strap and slid the revolver free. He placed it close to his right leg, then bent down and pulled his boots off. His socks felt glued to his feet. He peeled them off. He slid the tight pants down his calves and kicked them away.
In the lamplight, his legs were shiny with sweat. He rubbed the clammy skin of his shins, turned his legs and looked behind them.
There were no quarter-size holes.
Hell, of course not. Nothing could’ve gotten through the boots and leather pants. Not without me knowing it.
Jake stood up. His rump had left sweat marks on the pale blue coverlet. He drew down his sodden shorts and stepped out of them.
Okay, I’m a jerk, he thought.
Picking up his revolver, he dropped to his knees and elbows. He lifted the hanging edge of the coverlet and peered into the dark space under his bed.
A pair of eyes looked back at him.
He yelped. He jabbed the gun barrel toward the eyes. He almost pulled the trigger before he realized he was looking at Kimmy’s Cookie Monster doll.
Stretching out an arm, he pulled it out from under the bed. He pressed it to his cheek.
God almighty, what if I’d shot it?
Just a stuffed animal, he knew that. But, like all of Kimmy’s dolls, it was somehow more. It was part of Kimmy, as if she had breathed some of her own life into it. He could hear her say in a low grumbly voice, “Me want
Jake had a tight lump in his throat.
“Close call, Cookie,” he whispered.
He pushed himself to his feet. With the chubby blue doll in one hand and his revolver in the other, he headed for the door. He planned to put Cookie Monster back in Kimmy’s bedroom. Then he changed his mind and set it on his night-stand next to the telephone.
Barbara’s side of the closet still had her full-length mirror on the outside of the door. He swung the door shut and looked at himself.
You’d know if it got you, he thought.
Maybe it can make you forget. If it can turn you into a cannibal…
There were no wounds on his legs. His scrotum was shriveled and his penis looked as if it wanted to disappear. He slipped a hand between his legs, checking on both sides of the tight sack and behind it. He prodded his navel, and shivered as he imagined his finger going in all the way. But his navel was okay. The rest of his front appeared all right, though the knife scar under his right nipple looked a little more white than usual.
He turned around. He looked over one shoulder, then the other. He probed between the sweaty cheeks of his rump.
You’re all right, he thought, unless the damn thing went up your butt. Couldn’t have done that, though, without going through the leather pants, and the pants didn’t have any holes.
Satisfied that the thing hadn’t invaded him, Jake took another drink of bourbon. The glass was almost empty. He carried it, along with his revolver, into the kitchen. After refilling the glass, he opened a drawer and took out a large, clear plastic freezer bag.
He wondered if he’d flipped his lid.
Nobody will ever know about this, he told himself. It makes you feel better, so do it.
Some kind of cop, scared as a kid.
He slipped his revolver into the bag and pinched the zip-lock top shut along its seam.
Jake locked himself into the bathroom. He searched the floor, the walls and ceiling, the sink, the tub. Then he turned on the shower. He had a couple of drinks while he adjusted the heat of the spray, then set the glass on the toilet seat and climbed into the tub. He slid the frosted glass door shut.
The built-in soap dish had a metal bar above it for holding a washcloth. He slipped the barrel of his bagged revolver between the bar and the tile wall, wiggled the weapon until he was sure it wouldn’t fall, then picked up the soap and began to wash himself.
The strong, hot spray felt good. Jake told himself that he couldn’t be much safer: the door was locked, he’d checked the bathroom, he was shut behind the shower doors, and his revolver was within easy reach. Nothing could get him.
Then he noticed the sudsy water swirling down the drain.
Gooseflesh crawled up his back.
Don’t be crazy, he told himself. There’s a metal drain basket down there, nothing could come up.
He dropped to his knees. His fingertip went into the drain only as far as the first knuckle before it touched the obstruction.
Okay. No problem.
Your only problem, pal, is your head.
Two hours alone, searching that damned restaurant.
If it was going to get you, it would’ve gotten you then.
It didn’t come home with you. It’s probably already found a new home—in whoever broke into the restaurant between Thursday night and this afternoon. Some lucky bastard is running around with the thing up his back, looking for a meal.
Jake stayed in the shower until the water started turning cold. Then he climbed out, dried himself, took another drink of bourbon and took the revolver out of the bag. In his bedroom, he combed his hair and put on a robe. He carried his drink and revolver into the living room. Sitting on the sofa, he crossed his legs to keep his feet off the floor. He rested the gun on his lap. Then he swung the telephone over from the lamp table and dialed Barney’s home.
Barney answered by saying, “Higgins.”
“It’s Jake.” His voice sounded all right. “Did Applegate get back to you?”
“Sure did. Y’were right on the John Doe from the van. Perfect match on the teeth ’n blood type. How’d it go from yer end?”
“I checked out everyone who was at the crime scene Thursday night. Nobody was carrying.”
“How’d y’make sure?”
“Strip searches.”
“They musta liked that. Tell’m why?”
“Damn near. I said Smeltzer had a parasite infestation. They were pretty cooperative.”
“Coulda told’m I’d ordered a circumcision survey.”
Jake ignored the remark. “After I finished with them, I went out to the Oakwood. Somebody’s been in there. The front and back doors had both been forced. I found a bag of flour on the kitchen floor.”
“A bagga what?”
“Flour. Like you use for cooking. You know.”
“Somebody makin’ cookies?”
“I doubt it. No oven. There were some footprints, too. Somebody had stepped in the blood and left tracks. A bare foot. About a size seven. And somebody had polished off a bottle of vodka the Smeltzers had left out in the bar area.”
“What d’ya make of it?”
“Maybe a derelict. The size of the footprint, though, makes me think a girl was in there. Maybe a couple of kids from the college had themselves a party.”
“But no sign of a’ old Sneaky Snake?”
The skin on Jake’s thighs and forehead seemed to go stiff and tight.
“Y’looked, didn’t ya?”
“I looked. I spent more than two hours looking. I checked every inch of that place.”
“No luck, huh?”
