Flesh

her into a rest room, thrown her dress into a waste bin, put her into jeans and a boy’s shirt, cut her hair short, and put a ball cap on her head.

The guy pushing the girl on the swing…

Is her father, Jake thought.

Maybe, maybe not.

She was about Kimmy’s size, with pale skin and hair that looked almost white.

The man pushed her higher and higher. When she flew forward, her hair streamed behind her. When she swung back, it blew across her face.

Watching the man and girl, desperately hoping, Jake slowly cruised to the next street. He turned left. He was closer now, and she still might be Kimmy.

Don’t kid yourself, he thought.

At the next street, he turned left again. The swing set was ahead, just beyond the sidewalk and behind a chain link fence. Jake could only see the back of the girl.

Please.

He drove past the swings. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the girl surge forward, down and up. As the hair blew away from her face, Jake’s hopes fell apart.

He sped away.

Okay, it wasn’t Kimmy. But I’ll find her. I will. Or one of us will. Including Harold and Barney, eight men were searching for her.

One of us…

Where are you, honey? Where?

Jake was at least a mile from the house. Surely, she wouldn’t have wandered this far. But he had been up and down every street and alley, working his way outward in an ever widening circle.

A long time has gone by. She certainly could have come this far.

He turned down an alley that ran through the center of the block. Near the far end of the alley, a red Pinto pulled over to the side. A lanky man in a plaid shirt climbed out. His hand went to his face, and he tugged on his long nose.

The man was far away and out of uniform, but the nosepull gave him away. Mike Felson.

Of course, Jake thought. I’m in Mike’s search sector.

Mike didn’t seem to spot the cruiser.

He walked toward the closed door of a garage and past the garage and lifted the lid of a trash barrel. He peered into the barrel. He put the lid down, stepped to the next trash can, and took off its lid.

Jake groaned. Hugging his belly, he pushed his forehead hard against the upper rim of the steering wheel. He couldn’t stop groaning. He raised his head a few inches and pounded it down on the wheel. Then he did it again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Roland snapped his checkbook shut. At the start of the semester, his parents had given him $350.00 in addition to the cost of tuition, room and board. Whatever was left after buying textbooks could be used for incidentals such as entertainment, extra food, clothing (knives and handcuffs, he thought, grinning), and so on. He had $142.55 left in the account.

In the morning, he would withdraw it from the bank and use it for escape money.

It didn’t seem like a whole lot.

Roland got up from the chair, stepped over to Jason’s desk, and sat down. He found Jason’s checkbook in the top drawer. He flipped through the check stubs until he found the last total Jason had entered, then worked his way forward, subtracting the approximate amounts of the several checks Jason had written since then. It looked as if Jason had close to $400.00 left in the account.

A goodly sum.

Roland would have to practice Jason’s signature…

You dumb shit, you flushed his driver’s license down the toilet at the Oakwood. Remember? Not only that, you didn’t even take whatever cash he had in his wallet.

He wondered if Celia had any money in her purse.

He had left her purse in Jason’s car.

Go back and get it?

No, too risky.

Bending down, he pulled open the bottom drawer of Jason’s desk. He lifted the Penthouse and Hustler magazines, removed the envelope containing the snapshots of Dana (why not take those along as a souvenir?) and searched under a few more magazines until he found Jason’s stash. The money was folded in half and fastened into a packet with rubber bands.

Roland took it out. Though its thickness was encouraging, he discovered that most of the bills were ones. Still, the total came to $87.00.

He carried the money and envelope over to his desk, and stuffed the cash into his wallet.

On the corner of his desk stood a framed eight by ten photograph of himself. He’d had it blown up from the negative of a picture taken at Halloween. It was a great shot, showing him wrapped in a vampire cape that he’d rented for the occasion. His plastic fangs were bared. His mouth and chin were smeared with blood.

Roland patted the envelope of Polaroids and grinned as an idea came to him.

He slipped his photo out of its frame. He removed the Polaroids of Dana from the envelope. Then he took scissors and glue from his drawer.

He snipped Dana apart.

A fine, fine way, he thought, to while away the time.

He glued pieces of her to the vampire photo. Soon, his leering face was surrounded by floating body parts.

A work of art, he thought when he was done.

I ought to name it.

Call it “Private Dreams.”

He grinned, enjoying the pun.

As he picked up the scraps, someone knocked on his door.

Roland’s heart kicked.

Quickly, he slipped the photo into his desk drawer. “Who is it?” he asked.

“Alison Sanders. I’m Celia Jamerson’s roommate.”

“Just a second,” he called. His pulse beat fast. Celia’s roommate. One of the girls who’d been with her at the mall? What if this is the great-looking one who’d been wearing the jumpsuit?

Quickly, he grabbed his jeans and put them on. Crouching, he closed the suitcase on the floor and pushed it under his bed. He rushed to the closet, took out a sport shirt and slipped into it. With trembling fingers, he fastened a couple of the buttons before opening the door.

It was the jumpsuit girl and she looked even better than Roland remembered. She must’ve been out in the sun since then, for her face had a glow that made the white of her eyes and teeth striking. Even in the shadows of the corridor, her hair shone like gold. She wore a powder blue blouse with short sleeves. It was buttoned close to her throat. At her shoulders, the straps of a bra were faintly visible through the fabric. Pockets covered each breast. The blouse was neatly tucked into the waist of billowy white shorts with rolled cuffs midway down her thighs. She wore knee socks that matched her blue blouse, and bright white athletic shoes. In one hand, she held the strap of a leather purse. The purse swayed, brushing the side of her calf.

“Why don’t you take a picture,” she said. “It lasts longer.”