bathroom, dropped the blood-sodden bandage on top of his clothes heap, and put a new bandage on his leg. In the mirror, he checked his shoulder bandage. Some blood showed through, but it looked dry. Maybe later he could get Larry or Donna to change it.
He washed up. After he dressed in clean clothes, his suitcase was nearly empty. He tossed its few remaining contents onto the bed, and took the suitcase into the bathroom. There, he piled his torn, bloody clothes into it. He dropped the old bandage in and latched the suitcase. Then he carried it outside.
The morning was quiet, as if nothing were awake yet except a few birds. He glanced at Cabin 9. Donna would be in there, probably asleep. It was a beautiful morning, and he wanted her to be with him. But he wouldn’t try to wake her.
He put the suitcase into the trunk of his car and quietly shut the trunk. Then he returned to his cabin. With a washcloth and bar of soap, he carefully scrubbed up every visible trace of blood in the bathroom. The white towels looked okay. So did the other washcloth. The one in his hand was pink with blood.
He peered into the bathroom wastebasket. Its plastic lining held bits of tape and gauze, bandage wrappings, bloody toilet paper. He dropped the dirty washcloth into it and removed the lining.
He carried his first-aid kit and the garbage bag out to his car. Nobody around. He put them in the trunk.
Then, done with the clean-up, he sat on the cabin step and lit a cigar. It tasted fine, the flavor of its smoke blending with the scent of fresh, piny air.
He leaned back, propping his elbows on the stair above him, and grinned. In spite of his wounds, he felt exceptionally fine.
When he was done with the cigar, he drove down Front Street. The town was quiet. He slowed to give a shaggy brown dog time to amble out of his way. A blue-and-white police car was parked in front of Sarah’s Diner. The only moving car he saw was a Porsche that approached slowly, as if struggling to stay within a reasonable proximity to the town’s thirty-mile-per-hour speed limit.
To his left, Beast House looked barren. To his right, nothing stirred on the property of the house without windows. He slowed when he could see the outcropping of rocks on the hillside behind Beast House. He would have to get up there soon and retrieve his equipment.
But not now.
Beyond town, he made a U-turn and came back. He passed the two houses. On the next block, he parked in front of a closed barber shop. He walked to the Beast House ticket booth.
On its walls, newspaper clippings were framed in glass. Some told of the murders. Other focused on the tours. He read several of the articles. He wanted to read them all, but that would have taken too long: He didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself.
He gazed up at the clock face above the ticket window. Then he checked his watch. The first tour wouldn’t start for nearly three hours, at ten o’clock.
Stuffing his hands into his front trouser pockets, he strolled farther down the sidewalk. He paused to look at the weathered Victorian house, then started up again, trying his best to look like a tourist with time on his hands and a preference for morning walks.
When he passed the bend, he stepped into the trees and made his way back.
Several yards from the fence, he found an opening that gave him a view of the front of Beast House, but offered good concealment.
Crouching, he began to wait. 3.
Just after nine-thirty, a camper van parked on Front Street. A man climbed out, checked the ticket booth, and returned to the van. Out came a woman and three children. Soon a young couple arrived in a VW.
Jud made his way to the road, and walked up to the ticket booth. It was still deserted.
So was the house, unless someone had entered before Jud began his surveillance: Nobody had gone in the front while he’d been watching.
As Jud waited near the ticket booth, more people arrived. He watched the windowless house across the street. Its door was shut. The green pickup truck was still parked in front of the garage.
Finally, ten minutes before the tour was to start, Jud saw Maggie and Wick leave the house. Braced against Wick, she carried her cane but didn’t use it. It took them a long time to reach Front Street. They waited for a station wagon to pass, then they crossed.
Wick helped her up the curb, and let go of her arm. She leaned heavily on her cane. “Welcome to Beast House,” she called out, her voice low but clear. “My name’s Maggie Kutch, and I own it. You may purchase your tickets from my assistant.” She swung her cane toward the ticket booth. Wick was unlocking its door. “The tickets run four dollars per adult, only two dollars per child under twelve for the experience of a lifetime.”
The people had listened, quiet and motionless. When Maggie stopped talking, those who were not in line already headed for the ticket booth.
Maggie unlocked the turnstile and pushed through it.
“Back for seconds, eh?” Wick asked when Jud reached the ticket window.
“I can’t seem to stay away.” He slid a five-dollar bill under the glass.
“Guess your lady friend didn’t show up.”
“Who’s that?”
“Your lady friend. The gal that cavorted in the street there, showing off her titties.” Wick gave him the ticket and change.
“I wonder where she is,” Jud said.
“More ’n likely in the loony bin.” Wick chuckled, showing his crooked brown teeth.
Jud went through the turnstile. When the entire group was gathered on the walkway, Maggie began to speak.
“I started showing my house to visitors away back in ’31, right after the beast struck down my husband and three darling children. You may be asking yourselves why a woman’d want to take people through her house, when it was the scene of such personal tragedy. Well, the answer’s easy: m-o-n-e-y.”
A few of the people laughed uneasily.
Maggie limped up the walkway to the foot of the porch stairs. She pointed her cane upward at the balcony. “Here’s where they lynched Gus Goucher.”
Jud listened carefully to the story of Gus Goucher, checking each detail against his theory that the man had, indeed, been guilty. Nothing she said contradicted his view. He followed Maggie up the porch steps. She told of the old door being shot open by Officer Jenson. She pointed out the monkey-paw knocker. Then she unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The pungent odor of gasoline filled Jud’s nostrils.
“I must ask your forgiveness for the smell,” Maggie said, entering. “My son spilled gas yesterday. It won’t be so bad, once we’re away from the stairs.”
Jud stepped inside.
“You can see how it stained the carpeting there.”
He maneuvered around others in the group until he had a clear view of the stairway. Nothing. Where Mary’s body should have been, there was only a dark stain. All the blood had been nicely scrubbed before someone doused the carpet with gasoline.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN 1.
Sunlight on his face woke Roy. He lifted his head off his rolled jeans, and propped himself up with his elbows. The campfire was out. A sparrow, near the campfire remains, was plucking bread from a clump that Joni had probably spit out. The backpack stood upright, closed and safe.
In daylight, the clearing didn’t seem nearly as secluded as it had in the dark. The trees surrounding it were farther apart, the spaces between them offering a wider view than he’d thought. Worse, a hillside overlooked the area.
