After Midnight

“What’s your hurry?” I called to her.

“This isn’t very comfortable.”

No kidding, I thought.

Even though the ground felt good under my back, I wasn’t very comfortable, either. I ached just about everywhere. I was sweaty and itchy. And I didn’t like how my cut-offs were soaked with the dead guy’s blood. I needed a bath and a bed.

“Alice?”

“Yeah?”

“Come on, okay? Please?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.” I picked up the hatchet, got to my feet, and stood over the body. It wasn’t a pretty sight, I can tell you that. You should’ve seen the butt on this guy. It would’ve ruined your appetite for a week.

Anyway, I thought about going for his knife. It had fallen out of his mouth when I chopped him. It was probably on the ground underneath him, somewhere in the region of his waist.

Only one problem about getting it.

I didn’t want to touch him.

“What’re you doing?” Judy asked.

“Nothing.”

I’d managed to keep Tony’s loafers on, so I sat down on the grass near the side of Fatso the Friendly Corpse. Drawing in my legs, I swiveled around so my feet were aimed his way. Then I leaned back, braced myself up with my arms, placed the bottoms of my shoes against his hip and buttock, and punched out.

His body lurched and shook, but didn’t go much of anyplace. So I kept ramming it with both feet, shoving it and kicking it until finally he rolled onto his side as if he wanted to take a look at this gal who was making his life so difficult.

The knife was a little lower than where I’d expected to find it. Good thing I hadn’t tried to grab it by reaching under him. I might’ve gotten a handful of something that wasn’t a knife.

Anyway, I picked it up.

The fire had dwindled quite a bit, by then. On my way over to it, I found the .22 on the ground. I couldn’t remember dropping it, but there it was. When I put the pistol into the right rear pocket of my cut-offs, I noticed that I’d lost the rock I’d tucked back there.

I kept losing stuff.

It was turning into a trend.

Near the campfire, I set down the hatchet and knife on one of the larger rocks. Then I went to the small pile of firewood and started adding pieces to the flames. Soon, a pretty good blaze was going.

I emptied my pockets to find out what I still had.

The pistol. Two red bandanas and one white handkerchief. Judy’s keys, Tony’s keys, my keys. And Tony’s wallet.

Inspiration striking me, I dropped Tony’s wallet and keys into the fire.

“What’re you doing?” Judy asked.

“A little house-cleaning.”

I put everything else back into my pockets. Down in the fire, flames wrapped the black leather wallet and key case.

So much for my fingerprints.

I realized, of course, that the keys wouldn’t burn. I’m not stupid. Maybe some of the things in Tony’s wallet would survive the fire, too. But that was fine. His stuff, being found here in the campsite with everything else, would probably make the cops think Tony was just another victim of Fatso.

I stood there, added more wood, and even turned the wallet over with a stick to make sure it was burning okay.

Then I retrieved the knife and hatchet. I dropped the hatchet into the fire, but kept the knife. After watching for a while to make sure the handle was catching fire, I started toward the tent.

But changed my mind. For one thing, I’d seen more than enough nasty stuff for one night. The remains of Fatso’s last victim, last lover, last meal—whatever—were in there. I didn’t need to see her close up and personal.

For another thing, why risk leaving evidence of myself inside or near the tent? I happen to know that people always leave stuff behind at crime scenes: a telltale hair or fingerprint; samples of their own blood, saliva, semen, etc.; maybe a hat, maybe a glove. This one serial killer in L.A. actually got caught because he lost his wallet at the scene of a crime and it had his driver’s license in it. Talk about morons!

But here’s the deal. I couldn’t possibly leave any evidence of myself in or around the tent if I stayed a safe distance away from it.

So I avoided the tent and headed for Judy.

She was all golden and gleaming in the firelight, standing there straight and rigid with her arms high, like before. The gag was gone, but she was breathing hard, anyway.

Gasping for air and staring at me.

“You saved my life,” she said. Her voice sounded rough and shaky.

“I know.”

“I’m not your enemy.”

“Who said you are?”

“Nobody. But look…I know you think I’ll tell on you, but I won’t.”

“Tell about what?”

Looking me straight in the eyes, she said, “You killed Tony.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “That was his wallet you threw in the fire, wasn’t it? His wallet and keys.”

“Who’s to say?”

“Me. You killed Tony. Then you were trying to cover it up, but you came over to my place by mistake. So then you figured you had to kill me, too. Because I’d be able to recognize you. And you still want to kill me, don’t you?”

“That’s right, Sherlock.”

“Well, don’t. Okay? You don’t have to.”

“Afraid I do.”

“No, look. Like I said, you saved my life. I’m not going to do anything that’ll hurt you or get you thrown in jail or anything.”

“It doesn’t bother you that I killed your old lover-boy?”

She didn’t answer right away.

“Come up with a good one,” I suggested.

“It bothers me,” she said. “Sure it does. We were in love. But maybe he deserved what he got.”

“And maybe he didn’t,” I said.

“Either way, he became my enemy when he attacked me. And you became my friend when you killed Milo.”

“Fatso? You know his name?”

She nodded. “Milo. That’s all I know. And I know that you saved me from him. I would’ve ended up in the tent.” She shuddered, and I actually saw her chin tremble. She said, “You’re my friend now. And forever. I won’t betray you.”

“There’s only one way I can be sure of that,” I told her.

She glanced at the knife in my hand. Then, very quickly, she said, “No, look, I’ve got a plan.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “The plan is for me not to kill you.”

“Will you listen?”

“I’ve got places to go…”