Flesh

He shut off the faucet, listened, fought an urge to venture into the bar area for a glance out a front window, and turned the water on again. He began the task of washing his back. This was more difficult.

Restaurants ought to have showers, he thought, for occasions like this. He grinned.

When he supposed he must’ve gotten most of it, he splashed across the floor until he was standing almost at the rest room door. There, he looked over his shoulder. He was far enough from the mirror so that it reflected his back all the way down past his rump. The green-yellow bruise ran down his spine and angled across his right buttock, but he saw no blood.

He used the other towel to dry himself. Now that he was clean and dry, he was very careful not to slip on the puddled tiles. He skated slowly along as he worked at his few remaining chores.

After draping the towel over one shoulder, he spent a few minutes at the sink washing his knife and handcuffs. He retrieved his shoes and socks from the space behind the toilet, and carried them, along with the knife and cuffs, to the rest room door. He opened the door and tossed them onto the hardwood floor outside.

Crouching beside Jason’s covered body, he flung the blanket aside and took the car keys from a pocket of Jason’s trousers. His hand got bloody again, doing it, and he sighed. He found Jason’s wallet in a rear pocket, removed the student ID and the driver’s license with its phonied birth date. After making sure that nothing remained in the wallet to identify its owner, he flushed the cards down the toilet.

He picked up his jeans. In the dorm yesterday, he had removed everything from his pockets that could be used to identify him. (The Skidrow Slasher, he knew, had been caught because the idiot had lost his wallet, driver’s license and all, on a hillside while fleeing from a break-in.) He took the handcuff key from the right front pocket and was about to toss the jeans down again when it occurred to him that they didn’t look too bad.

They were wet from lying on the floor. They were matted with blood. But they were blue jeans.

He spent a while at the sink, scrubbing them with hot water and wringing them out. When he shook them open, he found that the stains were not especially noticeable.

He left the rest room with them. Leaning against a wall by the door, he cleaned his feet. He stepped into the damp, clinging jeans and pulled them up.

You’re in business, pal.

A warm, sunny day like this, nobody would think twice about seeing a guy shirtless. And nobody except the cortez would react to the bruise up his back.

Roland put on his shoes and socks. He folded his knife shut and slipped it into the case on his belt. He stuffed Jason’s car keys, the handcuffs, and their key into a front pocket of his jeans.

All set.

He was about to leave when he remembered that he had left the spray can of oil in the rest room behind the toilet. It would have his fingerprints.

Fuck it, he thought. I’ve already got my shoes on. I’m not going back in there.

His prints were probably all over the restaurant. Big deal.

The area in front of the bar looked okay. There were some smears on the floor, but no large quantities of blood. He pulled the towel off his shoulder, spent a few moments scrubbing the area, then tossed the towel behind the bar. He picked up the empty champagne bottle and set it on the card table.

Was he forgetting anything?

Probably.

Who cares? Even if someone finds the bodies today, it’ll take a while to identify them. They won’t have a clue as to who did this until they’ve figured out who Jason and Celia are. By then, I’ll be on the road.

Roland shut the door behind him, saw Jason’s car, and went back into the restaurant. He walked quickly around the corner to the dining area, crouched and opened the toolbox. There were several screwdrivers inside. He took out the largest, and went outside again.

It took only a few minutes to remove both license plates from Jason’s car. He took them to the edge of the parking lot and sailed them into the weeds.

Then he returned to Jason’s car. He opened the trunk, looked inside, and shut it. He opened a back door and looked along the seat and floor. Fine.

He climbed in behind the steering wheel. The warmth of the car felt good. On the floor in front of the passenger seat was Celia’s purse. He opened it and found her wallet. Rather than taking time to search it, he stuffed the entire wallet into a back pocket of his jeans. He found her key chain and pocketed it. Then he inspected the rest of the purse’s contents, making sure that nothing remained to identify its owner.

He searched the car’s glove compartment. A registration slip gave Jason’s name, so he put it into his pocket.

That appeared to be it.

Unless he had missed something, Jason’s car was now stripped of everything that might lead to a quick identification of its owner or last night’s passenger.

Roland drove away from the Oakwood Inn.

Yesterday afternoon, he had parked Dana’s VW bug on a residential street and hiked the final mile or more to the restaurant. Now, he drove back to the place where he had left the car. It was still there, along a lengthy stretch of curb between two expensive-looking ranch style houses. Across the street, an Oriental man in a pith helmet was rolling a power mower down a couple of boards leading from the tail of his battered pickup truck. Otherwise, the neighborhood looked deserted.

Roland turned down a side road and parked near the far corner. He stuffed Celia’s purse under the front seat. Then he pushed down the lock buttons of all the doors and climbed out.

He strolled back to Dana’s car. It was unlocked, just as he had left it. Feeling around beneath the driver’s seat, he found Dana’s keys. The engine turned over without any trouble, and he drove it away.

You did it, he thought. You pulled it off.

He let out a deep sigh, rolled down the window, and rested his elbow on the sill. The warm air came in, caressing him.

He liked this neighborhood. Finding himself in no hurry to return to campus, he drove the peaceful streets. The homes along here must cost a pile, he thought. Inside, they were probably nicer than any he had ever known.

Not now, but someday, I’ll take care of a family and spend a few days in a really nice house like one of these. Do it over a holiday when the father won’t be expected at work and the kids don’t have any school. Really live it up.

Ahead of him, a girl stood at a corner. A real beauty, no older than four or five. Her blonde hair, blowing in the breeze, looked almost white. She wore a pink blouse and a lime green skirt that reached only halfway down to her knees. A Minnie Mouse purse hung from her shoulder by a strap.

Even though Roland had a stop sign, the girl waited without attempting to cross in front of him.

She was alone.

A hot beat coursed through Roland.

Slowing the car as he neared the stop sign, he looked all around. He saw nobody, just the girl.

No, he thought. This was crazy.

Take her back to the Oakwood.

It’s too risky.

But he was breathless and aching and he suddenly didn’t care about the risk.

He eased closer to the curb, stopped, and rolled down his window.

The girl’s eyes widened. They were very blue.

“Hi,” Roland called to her. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’ll bet your parents told you never to talk to strangers, but I’m lost. Do you know where Latham Road is?”

The girl frowned as if thinking very hard. Then she raised her right arm. In her hand was a small, dingy doll. It looked like it might be a kitten. She shook the kitten toward the east. “That way, I’m pretty sure,” she said.

“What’s your kitty’s name?” he asked.

“Clew.”

“He’s cute.”

“Clew’s a she.”