and heartbeat—and my stomach gurgling now and then.
Too long since my last meal.
I had food with me, but this was no time to pause for a snack.
I dug into the right front pocket of my shorts. First, I took out the lighter. I switched it to my left hand, then reached down again and brought out the straight razor.
I kept its blade shut.
Wanted it ready, but not that ready.
Then I tried to make myself flick the lighter.
The Bic was slippery in my hand. My thumb didn’t want to move.
Go on and do it, I thought. What’ve you got to lose? If they aren’t in the room, they won’t see it, anyway. If they are here, you’re already a dead duck and just don’t know it yet.
I struck the lighter.
So did a guy standing off to my left in the corner of the room.
I jumped. I gasped, “Yah!”
Then I realized the guy over there was a mirror-made duplicate of yours truly.
(I know, I know, I’m an idiot.)
I killed the light and stood in the darkness for a long time, waiting for someone to come and investigate my odd little yell.
Nobody came.
I ignited the lighter again. This time, the guy in the mirror didn’t scare me. In fact, I appreciated him; he doubled the brightness.
We both stood motionless and scanned the room.
It seemed to be deserted, except for us.
I started walking slowly. He and his flame followed me.
When the floor suddenly went slick under my foot, I skidded but didn’t fall.
I turned around and bent over to see what I’d stepped in. On the floor was a wet, reddish smear. This was where Thelma and Wesley had finished their fun with Erin. Thelma had come back into the room for their clothes and to blow out the lights, but she hadn’t bothered to wipe up the blood, sweat, and so on.
Now, I’d made skid marks in it.
After taking a step backward, I found a clear imprint of my sneaker’s tread pattern.
I killed the flame. I dropped the razor into my pocket. Holding the lighter in my teeth, I slipped the book bag off my back and brought it around in front of me.
Inside, I found the towel-vest that Connie had made. I held it between my knees while I put the pack on again.
Standing in the dark, I lifted one foot, wiped the bottom of its sneaker, stepped backward, wiped the other, and repeated the process. Then I got down on my knees and lit the lighter. My mirror-double and I crawled forward, mopping away our tracks. We stopped at the edge of the wet, blood-smeared area. The skids could stay; since they didn’t show tread marks, they might’ve been made by someone barefoot.
We stood up and walked backward slowly. No new tracks were being made.
In darkness again, I rolled the towel-vest and returned it to my book bag. This took a while. Also, the towel made my hands wet and sticky. I had to wipe them on my shorts.
When I lit the lighter, my double reappeared. He didn’t last long—only until we got close to the doorway and I killed the flame again.
Keeping the lighter in my left hand, I took out my razor and stepped through the doorway into the corridor.
Sleeping Dogs
Room by room, corridor by corridor, stairway by stairway, I searched the enormous house. Last summer’s long, boring tours of ante-bellum mansions along the Mississippi paid off: the general layout of this mansion was similar to many of those I’d seen. I felt as if I’d been here before. Much of the time, I sensed what was coming.
Though I held on to the lighter, I didn’t use it.
I searched in darkness, creeping along, often stopping to listen.
After a while, I put the razor back into my pocket; I needed a free hand for feeling my way.
The house seemed terribly silent.
Except for the thousand times its floors moaned and squawked under my footsteps.
I made very little sound, myself. My breathing and heartbeat seemed noisy, as did the frequent growling of my hungry stomach—but they were quiet compared to the outcries of the wood under my feet.
The flooring of the house seemed to be in cahoots with Wesley and Thelma. Sure it is, I thought. It likes those naked bodies tumbling around on it, enjoys the feel of all that bare skin, loves having its planks oiled with blood and sweat and semen. I was here to put a stop to such things. So, of course, it wanted to cry out warnings.
(You think odd thoughts at times like that. It gets you, being alone in the darkness, never knowing if you’re about to stumble and fall down, or crash into a wall, or knock over a lamp, or bump into someone who wants to slit your throat.) It would take me hours to write about every stumble and collision, fright and false alarm I had while searching the mansion—the nightmarish scenarios that fumbled through my mind—the terror I felt each time I crept around a corner or entered a new room.
The searching seemed to take hours.
I expected the sun to come up.
To be realistic about it, though, I probably spent no more than an hour sneaking through the place before I found Wesley and Thelma.
I was beginning to think that they weren’t in the house, after all. Maybe they spent their nights on the cabin cruiser. But then, as I climbed the stairs to the third and final story, I detected a quiet, grumbly sound. I stopped moving, and listened. The sound went away, but soon came again. Again, there was silence. Then came a harsh snort.
Some sort of animal snuffling around?
After listening a while longer, I realized that the sounds were probably being made by someone asleep.
Asleep and snoring.
Ever so slowly, I started climbing again. I set my feet down gently and eased my weight onto each tread. Most of them squeaked, anyway. Every time that happened, I cringed, stood still and listened until I heard the snoring again.
At last, I reached the top of the stairs.
I found myself in the middle of a hall, surrounded by walls with open doors. From where I stood, I could see into four moonlit rooms—one near each corner.
The snoring sounds, more distinct than ever, seemed to be coming from the doorway in front of me and over to the right. I stopped beside the newel post, and faced the sounds.
The doorway looked vaguely pale in the darkness.
I snuck carefully toward it.
This had to be Wesley and Thelma’s quarters.
With the entire house at their disposal, why had they chosen to sleep in such an out-of-the-way room? It seemed very strange, especially considering Wesley’s wounds. Why climb three flights of stairs when there were plenty of fine, comfortable rooms on the ground floor?
I stopped at the doorway. I peered in.
The two windows at the other side of the room were bright with moonlight.
Of course!
This is the room with the view.
