Flesh (3 page)

“In a way, it’s a relief,” Ron said.

“You’ll be singing out of the other side of your face, my dear, when we have to get up at five o’clock in the morning.” Peggy sipped her vodka gimlet, being careful not to spill. She was at a bad angle for drinking, but it felt good to be leaning back against the sofa cushion, her legs stretched out and feet propped on the coffee table.

“I don’t think we’ll need to get up quite
that
early,” Ron said.

“Think again. They’re coming in at ten with the appliances, and the kitchen floor has to be stripped and waxed before they arrive.”

“That won’t take five hours, will it?”

“You don’t think so?”

“I’m sure you know best.”

Peggy nodded. An icy drop fell from the bottom of her glass onto her bare belly below the cutoff edge of her jersey. She flinched a bit, then rubbed the glass against her shorts. It made a dark smear on the red fabric. She took another drink.

“We should’ve done the kitchen after lunch,” Ron said.

“My dear, we’d planned to do it after supper—having no idea, of course, that the long arm of the law, so to speak, would reach out and fuck us over.”

“He was just trying to help.”

“I can live without that kind of help, thank you very much.”

“We didn’t have to leave.”

“You couldn’t wait to get out of there and you know it.”

“I still think it was the wise thing to do. Why should we put ourselves in a possibly hazardous situation when it can be avoided?”

“Why, indeed?” she muttered.

“I really don’t appreciate your attitude,” Ron said.

“Too bad.” She started to take a drink.

“Damn it, Peggy!”

Her hand jumped. The chill liquid sloshed, spilling down the sides of her chin. “Shit!” She sat up. It trickled down her neck. With her left hand, she lifted her jersey and blotted herself dry. “You didn’t have to yell.” Her throat felt thick and her eyes burned. “Now I’m all sticky. Jeez, Ron.”

“I’m sorry.”

She tugged the cutoff jersey down to cover her breasts, took a drink, then set her glass on a coaster. “Excuse me.”

In the bathroom, she wiped her chin and neck with a damp washcloth. Ron appeared in the medicine cabinet mirror. His hands caressed her belly. “I am sorry,” he said again.

“Me, too,” Peggy said in a small voice. “I’ve been such a bitch. It’s just that I wanted to get it over with tonight.”

He lifted the jersey. His hands covered her breasts.

“I was worried about you,” he said. “That’s all.”

“I know.”

“If you want to stay here, I’ll go back tonight and get a start on the floor.”

“By yourself?”

“I could take the gun,” Ron told her.

“I’ve got a better idea. Take the gun, and we’ll both go.”

Jake Corey, sitting with his back to the trunk of a eucalyptus tree, scanned the fields with the binoculars he’d brought from home.

It was dusk. A breeze had come up and it felt good, a real improvement over the afternoon heat that had punished him during the long trek after he’d left his patrol car.

He must’ve hiked two miles or more, searching, crisscrossing his way through the weeds before coming to the high ground to settle down and watch.

“Don’t waste your time,” Chuck had said at the shift’s end.

“I haven’t got anything better to do.”

“Bullsquat. You oughta go out and get yourself some action, it’d do you good.”

Jake was in no mood for the kind of action Chuck meant. If he didn’t do this, he would spend the night alone in his small rented house, reading, maybe catching some TV, hitting the sack early. And he’d still feel guilty for letting the crash survivor slip away from him.

This way, at least, he was doing something about it.

The guy could be miles gone by now.

On the other hand, he might be nearby. The fields were far from flat. He could’ve found himself a depression and stayed low, resting and waiting. Biding his time until he felt it was safe to start moving.

That was the scenerio Jake counted on.

That was why he waited, well concealed among the high weeds with the tree to his back, scanning the area through binoculars.

Especially the area near the deserted restaurant.

That’s where you would head, he thought.

You’re hurt. You’ve been lying low in the weeds for hours. You’re hungry and parched. You’re starting to want a glass of water more than just about anything in the world.

Well, there’s the creek. You could get your drink there.

You’d still head for the restaurant.

You’re not just thirsty, you’re hungry, too. And this is, after all, a restaurant. You’re not from around here, you’ve got no idea it’s been closed for years. You only know that it isn’t open tonight. So it’s closed on Thursdays. You’re in luck. Get inside, you can have a feast. Take enough when you leave so you’ll be fixed up for days.

Jake’s position on the high ground gave him a good view
of the restaurant. At least of its front and south walls. The other side and rear could be approached by an army, and he’d never know. Not from here.

Maybe the guy’s already inside.

Jake wished he had checked the place out before settling down for his vigil. At this point, he was reluctant to leave his cover.

Wait for dark.

That wouldn’t be long, now. Color was already fading from the landscape, the bright greens and yellows dimming, turning shades of gray.

Dark in a few more minutes.

Like waiting at a drive-in for the movie to start.

Jake was in his Mustang. With Barbara. His window was rolled down, the speaker hooked over its edge. Almost dark. Almost time for the movie. Kids were on the swings and teeter-totter of the play area under the screen.

Barbara. In a white knit shirt, white shorts, socks, and tennis shoes. Fresh and beautiful. Her skin dusky next to all that white.

A walk to the refreshment stand. It was always popcorn and soda during the first feature, then back at intermission for an ice cream sandwich or red vines. Usually red vines.

A lot of fooling around went on with the red vines. You could whip with them. Or tickle. Or tease. You could each take one end of the same vine in your mouth and chew your way toward the middle.

Until you met Barbara’s mouth. Her cherry-flavored mouth.

The sound of a car engine snapped Jake back into the present, and he felt as if he’d awakened from a sweet dream.

Headlights appeared on the road to the restaurant.

The car approached. As it passed below him, Jake saw that it was a station wagon.

Terrific.

So much for his warning.

And so much for his plan to check the place out.

He watched the red taillights rise and fall with the dips in the road. When the brake lights came on, he raised the binoculars. A door opened. The car’s interior light came on.

Smeltzer and Smeltzer. The dynamic duo.

Ron opened the rear door. He pulled out a double-barreled shotgun.

The door shut. Jake lowered his binoculars and watched the couple climb the stairs. They spent a few moments on the porch, Ron at the door. Then they both went in. Moments later, light appeared in the bay windows.

So what gives? Jake wondered. Why’d they come back?

Forgot something? If that’s the case, they’ll be out in a minute. Unless they get jumped.

Jake realized he was holding his breath, listening for a shotgun blast. Or a scream.

He got to his feet. He started down the slope to the road. Still listening. He heard his own heartbeat, the foliage crunching under his boots, the normal constant sounds of crickets and birds.

Maybe the guy doesn’t jump them, Jake thought. Maybe he hides. He would’ve heard the approach of the car. An old restaurant like that, it must have plenty of good hiding places.

If he’s in there at all.

He might just as easily be in the trees beyond the restaurant. Or two or three miles away. He could be anywhere. Hell, he could be lying in the weeds, dead from his injuries.

Or he might be crouched in a dark corner of the Oakwood Inn, watching for a good chance to pounce.

From a high spot on the road, Jake could see the station wagon and restaurant. But not the Smeltzers.

They didn’t forget a damn thing, those idiots. They came back to work.

Not a big surprise.

Jake picked up his pace.

The woman, that afternoon, had obviously been reluctant to leave. Ron was the sensible one. But weak. The little
wife must’ve pursuaded him that they shouldn’t let a little thing like a possible killer in the vicinity stand between them and their chores. Scared? Take the shotgun. You stand guard while I sweep up the dust bunnies.

“Smart move, folks,” Jake muttered.

He hoped they were smart enough, at least, to check the doors and windows carefully. Assuming they had locked up before leaving (and they’d certainly taken long enough, Jake remembered), then the guy probably couldn’t have entered without breaking something.

Unless he was already inside before they secured the place. Hiding.

What if they know?

The thought astonished Jake. He stopped walking and stared at the restaurant. And toyed with the idea.

They weren’t hostages—that didn’t fit at all. But what if they were cooperating with the guy for some reason?

What reason?

Money? Maybe the guy’s loaded and bribed them to help out.

Ron’s story about going for ice always did sound fishy.

And they spent an awfully long time inside when they were supposed to be locking up. Maybe discussing the situation with their new friend.

They leave with me. Come back after dark. With a shotgun.

A shotgun for their pal.

Jake started walking again, frowning as he gazed at the restaurant.

What do I know about the Smeltzers? he asked himself. Next to nothing.

Hell, the van might’ve been on its way
here
when somebody got the bright idea of running down Celia Jamerson.

You’re stretching it, aren’t you?

Just covering the bases. Taking a good look at every angle. That’s how you avoid surprises.

Do you really believe they’ve thrown in with the guy?

The wife, maybe. Yeah, I could believe that. But Ron?

Maybe Ron’s a terrific actor.

Jake doubted it.

They had to both be in on it, or neither of them. So it was neither. Probably.

As Jake neared the restaurant, he decided that, in all likelihood, the two had simply decided to ignore the risk, bring a gun along for protection, and spend a while finishing up their chores. But he couldn’t ignore the other possibilities, remote as they might be.

Better safe than dead.

He chose not to knock on the door.

Instead, he silently climbed the porch stairs and peeked through one of the bay windows to the right of the entrance. He saw no one. The area beyond the window would be the cocktail lounge. A long, dark wood bar with a brass foot rail ran the length of the room. It had no stools, but there were a couple of folding chairs and a card table in front of it, about halfway down. The card table held a small collection of bottles and cocktail glasses.

There’s some evidence for you, Jake thought. They
had
been planning to drink here. Ron must’ve been telling the truth about going for ice.

Jake crept to the other side of the door. Through the window there, he had a full view of the main dining room. Without any tables or chairs, it looked huge. The dark paneled wall to the left had half a dozen windows. Sconces were hung in the spaces between the windows, between the windows at the rear, and along the wall to the right. The wrought iron sconces each held three imitation candles—white stalks with glowing bulbs at the top. Apparently, they didn’t provide enough illumination for the Smeltzers. One table lamp rested on the floor, casting a pool of light across the glossy hardwood.

Next to the lamp stood a vacuum cleaner. A broom was propped against a stepladder. There was an open toolbox on
the floor, and an assortment of rags and cans and bottles of substances to be used for cleaning and polishing.

Jake figured that the wall on the right must close off the kitchen area. About halfway down it, light spilled out from bat-wing doors.

Jake climbed down from the porch. He made his way around to the right side of the building and approached one of the glowing windows toward the rear.

Quiet music came from inside, so he realized that the window was probably open. He crept toward it cautiously.

The window was open, all right.

It was high off the ground, its sill level with Jake’s shoulders. Bracing himself with a hand against the rough wood wall, he peered in at a corner. He smelled the window screen and a faint odor of ammonia.

Ron, in a far corner of the kitchen, was bent over a bucket, levering dirty water out of a sponge mop with a long handle. He wore jeans and no shirt. His shirt was draped over the counter close to the radio.

Jake spotted the shotgun. It stood upright, barrels propped against the wall in a nook probably intended for a stove or refrigerator.

He couldn’t see the wife.

Ducking low, he made his way along the side of the building. He stepped around the corner and peered through a rear window.

The wife was at the other end of the kitchen, down on her knees, scrubbing the floor. She still wore her red shorts. But nothing else. Her back was arched. She held herself up with one hand and scrubbed with the other. Her breasts shook as she worked.

Jake suddenly felt like a voyeur.

He stepped away from the window, leaned back against the wall, and stared out at the dark field and nearby woods.

So much, he thought, for checking out the Smeltzers.

It was pretty obvious they weren’t harboring his fugitive.

Whether or not they were safe—that was anyone’s guess. But they had chosen to assume the risk, and they’d at least taken the precaution of bringing a firearm. Jake had done his duty; he’d warned them, even snuck around here to check on them. He couldn’t see himself knocking on the door to warn them again—especially not after spying the half-naked woman.