Flesh (27 page)

“I could use one.”

“There’re towels and stuff in the closet here.”

He nodded as they passed a dark doorway. “Kimmy’s room. Her bed’s a little small for you.” He opened the door of a linen closet and pulled folded sheets and a pillowcase down from the shelves. Then he stepped into his room. He turned the light on. The bed was unmade. Alison guessed that he had been sleeping when the call came tonight.

He walked over to the bed. “Want to give me a hand with the sheets?” he asked.

“I’ll take care of that,” Alison told him.

“Well…”

“No problem,” she said. “It’ll give me something to do after
you’re gone.” It was a small lie. She had no intention of taking his bed, forcing him to sleep on the sofa when he returned from hunting down Roland.

Jake set the sheets and pillowcase on the end of the bed. He entered his closet. When he came out, he was holding a shotgun. “Have you ever fired one of these?” he asked.

Alison nodded. “I’ve gone duck hunting with Dad a few times. Hell,
more
than a few times.”

He handed the shotgun to her.

It was a bolt-action .12 gauge. She opened the bolt enough to see a shell in the chamber, then closed it.

“There’re three more in the clip,” Jake said.

“Okay.”

“Keep it close to you. Just don’t shoot me when I come back.”

Alison smiled.

The color suddenly drained from his face.

“What is it?”

“Maybe that wasn’t such great advice.” He sat on the end of the bed and frowned up at her. “I want you to brace the bedroom door shut before you turn in. If I try to force my way in, use the shotgun.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I don’t expect anything like that to happen, but…When you come out in the morning, keep me covered if I’m here and have me take my shirt off. Then take a good look at my back. If there’s a bulge going up my spine as if I’ve got a snake under my skin, blow me away. Try to hit the bulge. If you don’t nail the thing, it’ll probably come out as soon as I’m dead and it might come after you.”

She stared at Jake.

He meant it.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered.

“Invasion of the Body Snatchers,”
Jake said. “But it’s for real. This snake-thing was up the back of the guy who tried to run down Celia. It got into Ronald Smeltzer over at the Oakwood
Thursday night just before he blew off his wife’s head. And now I’m pretty sure it’s in Roland. It’s some kind of parasite that takes control and turns people into killers. It’s conceivable that it might get into me when I catch up with Roland. I certainly don’t intend for that to happen, but…do us both a favor and blast me if I come in with the thing. And try to kill it, too. Or at least make sure it doesn’t get close to you.”

Alison was numb.

Jake stood up. “You okay?”

She stared at him.

He stepped close to her. He put his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I had to tell you.”

The weight of the shotgun pulled her arms down.

He lifted it away from her, took her gently by one elbow, and led her down the hall to the living room. He guided her to the sofa. She sank onto it. He propped the shotgun beside her, went away, and came back.

“Maybe this will help,” he said. He placed a mug of beer with a white frothy head into her hand. He ripped open a bag of potato chips and set it on the cushion so it rested against the side of her thigh. She smelled the pleasant aromas of the beer and chips. From the odor, she knew that the chips were sour cream and onion flavor.

One of Helen’s favorites.

She looked up at Jake.

He managed a thin smile, but his eyes were sad. “Everything will be okay,” he said. Then he crouched in front of her. “Alison.”

“Huh?”

“You’re acting zoned.”

“I’ll be all right,” she heard herself say. “In a while.”

“What I just told you, it’s a secret. Right? At least until Tuesday. Then we’ll be going public with it.”

“Nobody will believe it.”

“You do.”

“I wish I didn’t.”

Jake put a hand on her knee. “Get a good night’s sleep.”

She pressed a hand on top of his. “Watch out,” she said. “Come back safe.”

The second floor hallway of the dorm was deserted. Only a few of the overhead fluorescent lights had been left on for the night, giving off a cool, desolate illumination that added to Jake’s uneasiness. Bands of light showed beneath some of the doors. Jake heard music coming from one of the rooms and the sound of a shower from the bathroom.

He stopped in front of Roland’s door. No light came through the gap at its bottom. Taking out his wallet, he spread the bill compartment and removed a thin plastic case. He slipped the lock pick and torque wrench from the case.

The burglary tools were a gift from Chuck, who had provided lessons for the price of a six-pack.

Jake had never quite planned to use them for an illegal entry. Nevertheless, he’d carried them in his wallet for the past two years, mostly to please Chuck but also telling himself they might come in handy if he ever locked himself out of his house. Lately, he’d picked the house lock several times for Kimmy because she got a kick out of it.

The recent practice paid off. In less than a minute, the lock of Roland’s door clicked and Jake eased the door open half an inch.

He put away the burglary tools.

He didn’t expect Roland to be in the room. He’d found no yellow VW in the dorm parking area and Roland had to know that Alison would tell the police where he lived. But the guy was hurting. He might go to ground anywhere, even in his own room.

Jake drew his revolver, stepped against the wall for cover, and shoved the door. It swung open and bumped to a stop. He listened and heard nothing.

Reaching around the door frame, he found the switch plate.

Light spilled into the hallway.

He lunged into the room.

Saw no one.

The room had a linoleum floor with a tan, fringed rug spread across the center. Jake saw no blood on the floor or the rug.

There was a bed along each of the long walls. One bed was made, one wasn’t. Beyond the head of each bed stood a desk with a straight-backed chair. The far wall had shelves partway up, then windows to the ceiling.

Jake swung the door shut.

He was standing between two wooden partitions which he guessed were the sides of twin closets.

If Roland was in the room, he was hiding. Under a bed or inside one of the closets.

Keeping his back to the door, Jake dropped to his hands and knees. Both of the beds had suitcases under them. That left the closets.

Jake got to his feet. He rushed forward and spun around, sweeping his revolver from one closet to the other. The sliding doors of both were open. Which left half of each closet out of sight.

Jake stepped to the one on his left, ducked, and peered in beneath the hanging clothes. Nobody there. He sidestepped to the other closet. The hangers were empty, giving him a good view through the dim enclosure.

Satisfied that the room was safe, he holstered his revolver.

If this was Roland’s closet, where were the clothes? Had Roland already been here, packed up and fled? It hardly seemed likely that someone in his condition would return for his clothes before taking off. And there was no blood.

Remembering the luggage, Jake crouched beside the nearer bed and pulled out the suitcase. It wasn’t latched. He opened it. The case was stuffed with folded clothing. The T-shirt on top was printed with a message. He lifted it, shook it open, and read, “GHOULS JUST WANTA HAVE FUN.”

Jake put down the shirt and pushed the suitcase back under the bed.

Obviously, Roland had been planning a trip.

Planning to get out of town before the heat came down on him. Planning, maybe, to travel the roads like the John Doe in the van, killing whenever the opportunity presented itself, leaving a trail of half-eaten bodies in shallow graves.

But he hadn’t come back for the suitcase.

Not yet.

He won’t be back, Jake decided. He’s blind in one eye, maybe brain damaged from Alison’s thumb, and less two fingers thanks to Rex Davidson’s bullet. He’s got a stab wound in the chest, though it sounded as if that might be superficial. At the very least, he has to be in shock and weak from blood loss. The last thing he’ll be concerned about is picking up his suitcase.

If he’s concerned about anything, at this point. If he’s not already dead.

Jake sat on the edge of the bed. On the wall across from him was a poster of the actress Heather Locklear. He stared at her slender, bare legs and his mind drifted to Alison.

Maybe leaving her alone wasn’t such a good idea.

She’s safe, he told himself.

You can’t be sure of that.

Maybe go back.

The best thing you can do for her is nail Roland. Before he dies and the damned snake-thing gets into someone else.

On a shelf below the poster stood a framed family portrait. The young man in the photograph was probably Roland’s roommate, Jason, the guy who’d disappeared with Celia.

Maybe Roland has a photo of himself, Jake thought. He looked over his shoulder. The wall was covered with grim pictures that looked as if they’d come from magazines. Most of the subjects weren’t familiar to Jake, but he recognized one that showed Janet Leigh in the shower scene from
Psycho.
Another was Freddy, the killer who wore a battered fedora and a glove with long blades on its fingers in
Nightmare on Elm Street.
There was a hideous fat guy holding a chain saw overhead. There was a group of decomposed zombies, one munching on a severed arm.

Jake shook his head. The snake-thing had certainly chosen a compatible host. Coincidence?

He remembered that he was looking for a photo of Roland. Knowing what the guy looked like would help.

He stood and wandered to the end of the room. The desktop was clear except for a bottle of glue and a pair of scissors. Dropping onto the chair, Jake slid open the middle drawer and stared.

He’d found his photo of Roland.

He felt sickened by it.

Body parts floated around the leering face: numerous breasts, torsos, buttocks, vaginas, and a few arms and legs.

These were not cut from magazines. They had the thickness of snapshots.

The only part of the girl’s anatomy not cascading around Roland’s head was her face.

Maybe Celia Jamerson, Jake thought.

A drop of sweat fell onto Roland’s left eye. Jake blotted it with his sleeve, then wiped his face.

He lifted the photograph out of the drawer. Beneath it lay its frame.

So Roland hadn’t slipped it back into the frame after finishing his project. Scissors and glue were still on the desktop.

The wastebasket was midway between the two desks, close to the wall. Jake crouched over it. The bottom of its white plastic liner was littered with scraps. He upended the wastebasket, sat on the floor, and searched.

Most of the shots didn’t include the girl’s face. The photographer, obviously, had been more interested in views of her lower areas—all of which had been snipped out, usually leaving the limbs intact.

Jake found three pictures showing the girl’s face. The face in all three belonged to the same girl.

She wasn’t Celia.

She wasn’t dead. At least not at the time she posed. She smirked; she licked her lips. In one, she sucked her middle finger.

Jake slipped a view of the girl’s face into his shirt pocket. He scooped up the remaining scraps and dumped them into the wastebasket.

In the morning, he would get a search warrant. The room would be photographed and gone over, inch by inch, every item studied and catalogued, every surface closely inspected and checked for prints, the whole area vacuumed for stray bits of hair, fabric, and other particles that might incriminate Roland.

Jake took the eight by ten with him, and left.

After leaving Roland’s room, Jake cruised the streets around the campus, looking for the yellow Volkswagen bug with the banner on its aerial, not really expecting to spot it, wanting to return home and make sure that Alison was safe but knowing that his duty was to search.

First the streets near the campus, then the Oakwood Inn.

He dreaded the thought of driving out there and entering the dark restaurant. The longer he prowled the streets, however, the more certain he became that the Oakwood was
where Roland must’ve gone. The damned creature seemed to have an affinity for the place. And that’s where it had left its eggs.

Jake knew that he was procrastinating.

He turned onto Summer Street, which bordered the campus on the north.

What I’ll do, he thought, is go home and get into my gear before heading out there. I’m not going to the Oakwood without my boots and leathers. Roland might be dead. The thing might be loose.

And that’ll give me a chance to see Alison.

He wondered if she was asleep yet.

He glanced down a side street, spotted a Volkswagen at the curb, and hit the brakes. He checked the rearview. Clear behind him. He backed up, stopped, and gazed at the car.

It was parked beneath a street lamp, but the light above it was dead, leaving it in darkness. Jake couldn’t make out the color of the VW.

But it had a banner on the aerial.

This is it.

Heart thudding, he turned. He drove straight for the car. His headlights pushed toward it, lit it.

Yellow.

Someone was in the driver’s seat.

Jake gazed through the windshield, stunned.

The man in the VW didn’t move. The left side of his face looked black in the glare of the headlights.

This had to be Roland.

Jake opened his door. He crouched behind it, pulled his revolver, and took aim. “Step out of the car!” he yelled.

Roland didn’t move.

Jake repeated the command.

Roland remained motionless. He was dead, unconscious, or faking.

Jake stepped away from the door. Keeping his handgun pointed at Roland, he walked slowly forward. He tried to
watch Roland through the windshield, but found his gaze drawn downward to the pavement.

He wished he had his boots on. His ankles felt bare in spite of the socks.

He remembered the machete in the trunk of his car. Halting, he considered going back for it.

The front bumper of the VW was no more than two yards in front of him. He stared at the darkness beneath it.

Glanced at Roland.

The right eye was open. It seemed to be watching him.

This guy is dead.

The fucking snake might be
anywhere.

Like under the car, just waiting for me to get close enough.

The skin prickled on the nape of Jake’s neck.

He backed away, sidestepped at the rear of his car, and dug into his pocket for the keys. He found the trunk key. He fumbled it into the lock and twisted it. The trunk popped open, blocking his view. He snatched out the machete and rushed clear.

Roland hadn’t moved.

Jake saw nothing squirming toward him on the pavement.

With the machete in his right hand, the revolver in his left, he hopped onto the curb and approached the passenger side of the VW. When he could see that the windows were rolled up, he dashed to the middle of the street. The windows on the driver’s side were shut too.

Whether Roland was alive or dead, the snake-thing was still in the car. Probably. Either inside Roland, or writhing around loose, trapped.

Jake stepped close to the driver’s window and peered in. He glimpsed the gaping hole where Roland’s left eye should have been and quickly looked away from it.

Roland was reclined in the seat, the front of his shirt bloody, his head tipped back slightly against the headrest. His position prevented Jake from checking the back of his neck.

The head beams left the lower areas of the car’s interior
in darkness. If the creature was on a seat or the floor, Jake couldn’t see it.

There was only one way to find out whether it was still up Roland’s spine: open the door, shove him forward, and look.

No way.

Not a chance.

Jake holstered his pistol. Watching Roland, he walked backward to his car, slid in, and took a pack of matches from the glove compartment. He got out. He back-stepped to the trunk and picked up the can of gasoline.

He poured gas onto the curb beside the VW, onto the pavement behind the car and near its driver’s side, then past the front to the curb again, completing the circle. Then he splashed the car, dousing it with the pungent liquid and running trails out to the surrounding gas. Finally, he crouched and flung gas into the space beneath the undercarriage.

He stopped when the can felt nearly empty. He wanted to save some gasoline, just in case.

He capped the can. Hurrying into the road, he stepped over the wet path of the circle. He set the can down behind him, squatted, struck a match, and touched it to the stained pavement.

A low, bluish flame with flutters of yellow and orange stretched out in both directions. It met intersecting paths and rolled toward the car.

Jake picked up the can and backed away. By the time he reached the far side of the street with it, the car was a blazing pyre. He could feel its heat warming his clothes and face. The fire lit the night, shimmering on the leaves of nearby trees, glowing on the walls and windows of the apartment house beyond it, shining on the hood and windshield of his own car.

A car parked behind the VW seemed to be safely out of range.

He wondered if he should move his own car.

Or himself.

Hissing, popping sounds came from the fire. Then a sharp crack made Jake flinch. He heard glass crash on the pavement.

“Christ,” he muttered.

He rushed forward until the wall of fire stopped him. Shielding his eyes, he squinted through the flames at the wide, wedge-shaped gap in the driver’s window.

Nothing came out.

As he watched, flames enveloped Roland. They crawled up from below, sweeping up his face and igniting his hair. Jake gagged as the face blackened and bubbled. Then dense smoke covered the horror.

Jake heard distant shouts of “Fire!”

He heard more windows burst.

Then he was rushing around the car, brandishing his machete, peering through the blaze at one broken window after another. Smoke poured from the openings. But nothing else came out.