spread the bill compartment and removed a thin plastic case. He slipped the lock pick and torque wrench from the case.
The burglary tools were a gift from Chuck, who had provided lessons for the price of a six-pack.
Jake had never quite planned to use them for an illegal entry. Nevertheless, he’d carried them in his wallet for the past two years, mostly to please Chuck but also telling himself they might come in handy if he ever locked himself out of his house. Lately, he’d picked the house lock several times for Kimmy because she got a kick out of it.
The recent practice paid off. In less than a minute, the lock of Roland’s door clicked and Jake eased the door open half an inch.
He put away the burglary tools.
He didn’t expect Roland to be in the room. He’d found no yellow VW in the dorm parking area and Roland had to know that Alison would tell the police where he lived. But the guy was hurting. He might go to ground anywhere, even in his own room.
Jake drew his revolver, stepped against the wall for cover, and shoved the door. It swung open and bumped to a stop. He listened and heard nothing.
Reaching around the door frame, he found the switch plate.
Light spilled into the hallway.
He lunged into the room.
Saw no one.
The room had a linoleum floor with a tan, fringed rug spread across the center. Jake saw no blood on the floor or the rug.
There was a bed along each of the long walls. One bed was made, one wasn’t. Beyond the head of each bed stood a desk with a straight-backed chair. The far wall had shelves partway up, then windows to the ceiling.
Jake swung the door shut.
He was standing between two wooden partitions which he guessed were the sides of twin closets.
If Roland was in the room, he was hiding. Under a bed or inside one of the closets.
Keeping his back to the door, Jake dropped to his hands and knees. Both of the beds had suitcases under them. That left the closets.
Jake got to his feet. He rushed forward and spun around, sweeping his revolver from one closet to the other. The sliding doors of both were open. Which left half of each closet out of sight.
Jake stepped to the one on his left, ducked, and peered in beneath the hanging clothes. Nobody there. He sidestepped to the other closet. The hangers were empty, giving him a good view through the dim enclosure.
Satisfied that the room was safe, he holstered his revolver.
If this was Roland’s closet, where were the clothes? Had Roland already been here, packed up and fled? It hardly seemed likely that someone in his condition would return for his clothes before taking off. And there was no blood.
Remembering the luggage, Jake crouched beside the nearer bed and pulled out the suitcase. It wasn’t latched. He opened it. The case was stuffed with folded clothing. The T-shirt on top was printed with a message. He lifted it, shook it open, and read, “GHOULS JUST WANTA HAVE FUN.”
Jake put down the shirt and pushed the suitcase back under the bed.
Obviously, Roland had been planning a trip.
Planning to get out of town before the heat came down on him. Planning, maybe, to travel the roads like the John Doe in the van, killing whenever the opportunity presented itself, leaving a trail of half-eaten bodies in shallow graves.
But he hadn’t come back for the suitcase.
Not yet.
He won’t be back, Jake decided. He’s blind in one eye, maybe brain damaged from Alison’s thumb, and less two fingers thanks to Rex Davidson’s bullet. He’s got a stab wound in the chest, though it sounded as if that might be superficial. At the very least, he has to be in shock and weak from blood loss. The last thing he’ll be concerned about is picking up his suitcase.
If he’s concerned about anything, at this point. If he’s not already dead.
Jake sat on the edge of the bed. On the wall across from him was a poster of the actress Heather Locklear. He stared at her slender, bare legs and his mind drifted to Alison.
Maybe leaving her alone wasn’t such a good idea.
She’s safe, he told himself.
You can’t be sure of that.
Maybe go back.
The best thing you can do for her is nail Roland. Before he dies and the damned snake-thing gets into someone else.
On a shelf below the poster stood a framed family portrait. The young man in the photograph was probably Roland’s roommate, Jason, the guy who’d disappeared with Celia.
Maybe Roland has a photo of himself, Jake thought. He looked over his shoulder. The wall was covered with grim pictures that looked as if they’d come from magazines. Most of the subjects weren’t familiar to Jake, but he recognized one that showed Janet Leigh in the shower scene from
Jake shook his head. The snake-thing had certainly chosen a compatible host. Coincidence?
He remembered that he was looking for a photo of Roland. Knowing what the guy looked like would help.
He stood and wandered to the end of the room. The desktop was clear except for a bottle of glue and a pair of scissors. Dropping onto the chair, Jake slid open the middle drawer and stared.
He’d found his photo of Roland.
He felt sickened by it.
Body parts floated around the leering face: numerous breasts, torsos, buttocks, vaginas, and a few arms and legs.
These were not cut from magazines. They had the thickness of snapshots.
The only part of the girl’s anatomy not cascading around Roland’s head was her face.
Maybe Celia Jamerson, Jake thought.
A drop of sweat fell onto Roland’s left eye. Jake blotted it with his sleeve, then wiped his face.
He lifted the photograph out of the drawer. Beneath it lay its frame.
So Roland hadn’t slipped it back into the frame after finishing his project. Scissors and glue were still on the desktop.
The wastebasket was midway between the two desks, close to the wall. Jake crouched over it. The bottom of its white plastic liner was littered with scraps. He upended the wastebasket, sat on the floor, and searched.
Most of the shots didn’t include the girl’s face. The photographer, obviously, had been more interested in views of her lower areas—all of which had been snipped out, usually leaving the limbs intact.
Jake found three pictures showing the girl’s face. The face in all three belonged to the same girl.
She wasn’t Celia.
She wasn’t dead. At least not at the time she posed. She smirked; she licked her lips. In one, she sucked her middle finger.
Jake slipped a view of the girl’s face into his shirt pocket. He scooped up the remaining scraps and dumped them into the wastebasket.
In the morning, he would get a search warrant. The room would be photographed and gone over, inch by inch, every item studied and catalogued, every surface closely inspected and checked for prints, the whole area vacuumed for stray bits of hair, fabric, and other particles that might incriminate Roland.
Jake took the eight by ten with him, and left.
After leaving Roland’s room, Jake cruised the streets around the campus, looking for the yellow Volkswagen
