She fueled his anger with such talk. 'Drugs?' he asked.
'Medication?' Oddly enough, he hadn't considered such a thing.
'It's a fine suggestion, dear. Very well, I agree. You talk to the caterers; I'll investigate the drugs. Don't wait up,' he said.
He left his house feeling very good indeed. in control. He had work to do.
He had a grave to dig.
Sharon Shaffer sat in the middle of her kennel pen, clutching the recovered needle like a worry bead. She kept staring at the stain on the cement where the heart had been for the few seconds before Felix consumed it. She had been forced to stop conditioning herself to the effects of the shock collar when her neck had swelled up to the point where it nearly cut off her air. For a moment, about an hour earlier, when she had first realized what was happening, she had actually debated going on with it-suffocating herself by swelling her neck beyond the tolerance of the collar. Committing suicide. But she had put that consideration behind her by reminding herself of her life on the streets, by studying the old scars on both her wrists: She had been through the worst and had lived to see another day. She looked around her. This too shall pass, she thought, warming the needle, awaiting her chance to use it on The Keeper.
She said a series of prayers, some for herself, some for those she loved. She looked at that stain again and said a prayer for the man who had belonged to that heart.
Felix wandered the aisle and occasionally used the waterer in the kennel cage next to her. The dog was hungry and tense. How would she deal with him even if she managed to blind The Keeper and make her break? He wore a collar. One of the remote devices would control that collar, though she wasn't sure where The Keeper kept it. She was considering all of this when the heater kicked on and warmed her. it roared loudly, blowing a strong wind into the building. As always, a few of the dogs, one in particular, barked at it. This only served to make Felix more restless. His pacing increased.
She thought it strange that she hardly heard the barking any longer. It had become a part of her, like the drip of the nourishing I.V. and the pain in her side that worsened by the hour. She was sicker than even he knew. 'Practice makes perfect,' echoed through her mind like a disturbed mantra. More than once she found herself with her hands pressing firmly on her chest-hiding her heart. She knew what he had planned for her. The only question remaining was whether or not she could stop him.
The ground shook. The dogs who weren't barking came to their feet and began to pace. They knew the sound of his car engine, even at an incredible distance.
Shuddering from fear, she turned to face the door, and like the others in this building, waited for it to open.
Tegg was running late, delayed by his wife and her plans for tomorrow night's party. He wanted to get started with this well before dark, and that meant he would have to hurry. Deep in the trees there was a ninety- minute dusk leading up to sunset when the grayness of the air blended images, making it difficult to see. He intended to capitalize on that time period.
He intended to dig a grave. There were other ways to dispose of a body. He might have dismembered Washington, sealed the various pieces in the red contaminated waste bags and left them for Maybeck or one of the other chuck wagons to incinerate. But that would have required transporting the five or six bags back to the clinic, off-loading them, storing them in the walk-in-all elements that afforded too much risk. He might have built a large bonfire and incinerated it himself. in fact, he had given a great deal of thought to this possibility, but had decided against it on the off chance that such a large fire might attract the attention of someone beyond Tegg's control- overflying aircraft, another hiker-again, too much risk.
In the end, he had decided to repeat himself. The banks of the Tolt had kept Anna Ferragot cozy these last four years, the soil there dug easily-though not without effort-and what was good for one was certainly good for another.
He backed the Isuzu up to the cabin's cellar door and spent fifteen minutes struggling with Michael Washington's rigid cadaver, finally depositing him in the back, where he covered him with a blanket. He was losing light; given the time restraints, it wouldn't be nearly as deep a grave as it had been four years ago-two feet; three at the most. Wearing a handkerchief across his mouth and nose, he set off, all windows down, as fast as he dared to drive.
Three roads, six turns and two logging roads later, he was driving alongside the south bank of the North Fork of the Tolt River, trying to remember where it was that the road fell away toward the river steeply enough that he could launch the cadaver in order to get it near the bank. Right along here somewhere
Suddenly he noticed the enormous number of tracks in this road-a deep-woods logging road that only saw a minor amount of traffic, even in the peak of October's hunting season. It struck him as strangely curious. Then just as quickly he realized he had reached the perfect spot. The tire tracks widened here, spreading all over the road, and it took another second or two for him to realize that there had been dozens of vehicles parked here, and by the look of those tracks, quite recently.
Then he saw the bright orange tape stretched between several consecutive trees, with the boldly printed warning: KING COUNTY POLICE DEPT.-DO NOT CROSS Instinctively, he slammed on the brakes. The Trooper's wheels locked and the back end skidded out of control. His heart pounded ferociously in his chest. The vehicle drifted toward the edge of the road, toward the trees and the steep incline. He could just imagine himself getting the car stuck right here, a dead man in the back. Once again, his reactions were well behind his thoughts. He released the brakes, over-corrected the wheel, applied some gas, and lost the tail end once again. it slid so far to the left that it smacked into, and bounced off of, one of the trees, actually breaking the police tape from this tree. He saw the tape flapping like a flag in the rearview mirror. His only saving grace was that there was no one here. They had packed up and left. He did manage one quick glimpse of the area below, just enough to confirm his fears- the entire area was excavated, including one massive hole, the location of which he recognized.
All this brought back memories, rushing as quickly as the dangerous waters of the river below. This grave was The Secret that Maybeck had held over him these last four years. Tegg could recall the day with an alarming vividness.
Anna, unaware of her mistake, had neglected to latch one of the dog pens. Unlike Pamela, who had all the right instincts, Anna could never get close to the dogs, could never 'speak their language,' could not control them by tone of voice and attitude. She had been attacked from the back, while Tegg was out of earshot. And by the time he did hear, it was too late. Or was it? he remembered thinking at the time. The most important part of her had survived. Could he waste that?
After the harvest, he had to dispose of what was left of her or face unanswerable questions. He had driven out here with her body, selecting a burial site that assured him what he thought was complete privacy and, being near the water, promised a quick and thorough decay. What he had mistakenly overlooked on that day was the construction of a highvoltage power line nearly a mile away. A young man named Donald Maybeck had been atop one of those tall towers, performing labor for Norwest Light and Power, looking out over this most secluded of spots.
A streetwise Maybeck, sensing easy money, quickly drove to this site rather than to the police, and confronted Tegg, offering to remain silent for a price. That uneasy partnership had continued to this very day.
And now, The Secret had been dug up by the police! Maybeck's doing? Had he cut a deal with the police?
For the next few minutes Tegg drove fast, putting as much distance between himself and that site as he could manage, as if hoping to drive away from his past. Later, he didn't remember the driving or the turns he had made, just that gaping hole in the riverbank. He refused to backtrack; he didn't know the area well enough and he got himself lost several times trying to find an alternative route. There were so many thoughts banging around his brain, so many internal voices arguing that he couldn't hear himself think, couldn't sort them out. Every thought an explosion. Every conceivable explanation terrifying.
Somewhere along the way he had rolled all the windows up, leaving himself enveloped in the nauseating smell of the decaying body. He pulled off the road, hurried into the bushes, and vomited. From the odor or from nerves? He couldn't remember vomiting in the last twenty years. What was happening to him? He didn't know himself anymore.
And what about that thing in the back? he asked himself.
Maybe a bonfire was the answer after all.
