Case closed.
Kind of sweet, really.
But what about Arnold? Where was he?
I went over and looked at Bill again and came to the conclusion that his pants, pulled down like they were, were that way because someone had held his legs and tugged on him, helping the belt choke him. Some bastard had to have a lot of emptiness inside him to do something like that.
I imagined too clearly Bill hanging there, his hands free but useless to liberate him from the belt, and someone, Cobra Man or Fat Boy, holding his legs while he slowly choked to death.
I decided to turn out the light the killers had left on. I took the note, creased it a couple of times and put it in my wallet. I used a wash rag from the sink to wipe up the light switch and all the things I had touched. I put the rag back, and used my hand in my coat pocket to open the front door and go outside.
Outside, I walked around the mobile home again and found nothing. I went to the truck, got my flashlight, and made the walk another time, widening my circle. I found Arnold’s rod and reel lying on the ground. I bent down and picked it up by the grip. My hand became wet with blood. I wiped the grip in the grass, took out my handkerchief, wiped my hands clean, then used the handkerchief to pick up the rod again. I examined it. The line was extended, but the crappie hook was gone off the end. I held the flashlight to the end of the line and gave it a hard look. It had been cut.
I determined that since it had stopped raining only a short time ago, the blood was fresh, otherwise it would have been washed away. I had probably missed the last of this night’s events by only minutes.
I walked out into the lot and threaded my way between car corpses and flashed the light around. I hiked to the creek, and looked along the bank. I found some skid marks where someone had slid down the side of the bank and into the water.
I flashed the light on the other side of the bank. I could see where someone had scuffled to gain a footing. A little to the side of that scuffle, I could see huge footprints imbedded in a sure footed manner in the mud. The footprints and scuffle marks, like the blood on the rod, had obviously been put there after the rain. Again I realized how close I had been to strolling up on a debacle.
I crossed the creek and went along carefully and didn’t find any other sign in the dark. I didn’t go as far as the pond. I cruised back the way I had come and crossed over the creek, wondering if Arnold was lying dead back there in the weeds somewhere, or maybe at the bottom of the pond?
I walked out to the barn and looked in there. The wrecker had flat tires. They had thought of everything. Gone about it all as methodically as a tree surgeon. From the dog and the transportation to the torture hanging of Bill.
As I considered that torture, the reasons behind it, other than the fun Fat Boy and Cobra Man andp hemight have had, an impression as cold as the tip of a frozen ice pick jabbed into the fore of my brain.
“Sweet Judas,” I said aloud, and tore out of there, running for my truck.
20
I drove fast along the wet-slick blacktop, on out to the highway, then I drove faster, right on through town. No cops flashed their cherries at me.
After what seemed like an ice age, I came to the road that led to our subdivision, and as I did, a million images rushed into my head, all of them bad.
I assumed that Bill’s killers had asked him a few questions. Things like who he’d told about seeing Fat Boy and Cobra Man at the Doc’s house, and where did those people live?
And Bill would have talked.
When I came to our drive I killed the lights and made the turn. I drove slow. It was dark up the drive and the trees were thick and looped with shadows.
I drove halfway up the drive without going off of it or running into a tree. I pulled into one of the concrete outlets we had constructed for extra parking, and scrutinized the house.
The windows were dark. Not a trace of light. That made some sense. It was the kid’s bedtime, but still early for Bev. Then again, Bev was expecting me home, and there might be nothing more going on than her lying in our warm bed waiting for me, everything all right, nothing but pleasure to look forward to.
But I didn’t really believe that.
I tried not to think too hard about my kids or Beverly. I had to be focused. I reminded myself that whoever came into the house would have to visit with Wylie, and when Wylie didn’t know you, he wasn’t very neighborly.
I decided I wouldn’t take the shotgun. If nothing was wrong and I came into the house brandishing it, I’d scare Bev. The handgun I could carry in my pocket, and I was also aware of the kids and what stray buckshot might do.
I put the flashlight in my coat pocket and took a deep breath and got out of the truck and pulled the. 38 from my pocket. I moved swiftly, staying with the shadows as much as possible. I went around to the side of the house, my ears big as pie plates, my nerves sanded down raw and red and responsive.
No noise.
No impressions.
To go into our house through the back way, you can go up a covered ramp from the garage, or you can take the stone steps that meet the ramp from the side. Then you go through a screen door and onto a screened back porch. The back door to the house is there.
I went up the long ramp and through the screen door, and hadn’t gone but a few steps when I saw the smear. It was dark and wet looking.
I followed it with my eyes and saw something lying on the far side of the screened in porch, and I knew what it was without really looking, but I got the flashlight out of my pocket and snapped it on anyway.
Wylie shhe piookowed in its beam. His mouth was covered with blood and his gut was ripped open and his stomach swelled out of him like a helium balloon. I could smell the hot gaseous odor of his in-sides. He made a whining sound and thumped his tail once and lay still.
I went over and bent down and touched his head.
“Good boy,” I said. I could see up close that his belly had been sliced open as neatly as you might slice the length of a watermelon with a carving knife.
Wylie moved his mouth slightly as if he wanted to stick his tongue out and lick me. I rubbed his head and stood up and went away from him. There was nothing else I could do. I felt the rage grow inside me like a tumor. I tried the back door.
It was unlocked, smeared with blood. I used the light and saw that the door had been jimmied, most likely with a crowbar. Same way Arnold had snapped his way into those apartments that night.
I figured when my invaders broke their way into my house, Wylie barked. But not for long. He’d have gone straight for the throat of whoever was at that door, and whoever was there had taken Wylie out, the way they had taken Arnold’s dog out. Swift and easy. Pulled him onto the back porch and gutted him, left him to die slowly.
But if there was a bark, perhaps it had given Beverly an edge. There was an automatic. 32 on a shelf upstairs, the clip in a drawer in a box under lock and key. It had been put that way for the sake of the children, so they couldn’t get to it. It was a complicated process designed for their safety, but perhaps, had she heard the bark, realized what was happening, she could have gotten to it.
I cut the light and put it in my pocket and switched the. 38 to my left hand and wiped the sweat off my right palm onto my pants, switched the gun back and wiped my left hand the same way. The revolver felt as heavy and clumsy as a Christmas ham.
I slipped through the washroom and stepped on Wylie’s porcupine. It squeaked.
I froze. Listened.
No movement.
God, had they come and gone?
And if they had, what had they done?
