there before it did. No sense acting suspicious. And he had to work tonight anyhow.
He saw the woman move past the bay window.
He thought, They’re absolutely all alone in this.
They thought so, anyway.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The man’s hands were blue and white, the fingers like fat gray sausages floating bobbing in the shallow water, and Billy Whitsin could see the leg lying along the smooth, pebbly bank twisted under him, the foot turned straight up into the air at an angle that was impossible unless you were a rag doll or made of pipe cleaners like the stickmen little kids made in school or something, and somehow his head was wrong. Shaped wrong.
It was hard to see the head. It was lying in a pool of muddy water and there were crayfish after it, seven or eight crayfish—smooth brown armored backs glinting in the early morning sun. Billy had never seen so many in one place at one time. Big guys.
It was pretty amazing.
One thing he could see was that there were no eyes. In one of the places where an eye ought to be a long thin stringy almost transparent thing waved in the water like a strand of mucus.
Billy was a pretty good observer. Plus he was a very good citizen. He hadn’t made Eagle Scout for nothing. Even though his mother kept expressing the concern that they were turning him into a little Nazi. He wasn’t some little Nazi. He just respected order. His dad knew that. His dad was supportive. His dad had given him this two-pronged frog spear he had here and a .22 rifle for his thirteenth birthday. He was a good observer and a goodcitizen and he knew enough to look closely so he could describe what he was seeing to the police but not to touch a thing, because they’d want to see it exactly as he’d found it.
He crouched down close to the man.
The stink didn’t bother him. He had smelled dead things before and they all smelled the same.
Unless you had a skunk.
The man’s blue nylon backpack was off one shoulder dangling into slightly faster-running water but the chest strap had wound itself around his neck, the pack wasn’t going anywhere. He had on muddy white Reeboks, dark blue or possibly black slacks, a dark blue jacket and a checked blue-and-white shirt that was straining at the buttons because the man was so bloated. He could see a pasty slit of belly flesh. The man’s fly was open, the zipper three-quarters down.
He wondered if there were crayfish in there too. Or up his pants legs.
He wouldn’t be surprised.
It was too bad he couldn’t really see the face so he could describe the man’s features to the authorities because he knew they’d want to know that, but short of lifting the head up out of the muddy water there was nothing he could do about it.
He knew he was not supposed to touch the head or any other part of him so he didn’t. Period.
The man was white, Caucasian, and his hair was dark. That much he could tell them.
That, and that he had no eyes.
He carefully noted his exact location—the big rock downstream in the middle, the grouping of tall pines tothe left and the thin leaning birches to the right. The water ran narrow here, and fast.
He put down the frog spear and took out his compass. The man’s sausage-case right-hand index finger pointed due east across the stream. If he walked west for about a mile he’d come out to River Road. It was the fastest, most efficient way.
He dug his scout knife out of his pocket, picked up his frog-spear and started blazing trees.
He had done it dozens of times.
Nothing to it.
Halfway through the woods he found himself humming the theme from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Marchstep. Pacing himself. Humming the tune in short staccato bursts. He also found himself smiling. He hadn’t thought about that dumb show or that song in a long time.
Not since he was a kid.
He cut deep into the flesh of a white birch tree and moved on.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wayne dreamed of carnage.
In his dream he had crested a hill and looked down over a bare
He saw the woman move past the bay window.
He thought, They’re absolutely all alone in this.
They thought so, anyway.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The man’s hands were blue and white, the fingers like fat gray sausages floating bobbing in the shallow water, and Billy Whitsin could see the leg lying along the smooth, pebbly bank twisted under him, the foot turned straight up into the air at an angle that was impossible unless you were a rag doll or made of pipe cleaners like the stickmen little kids made in school or something, and somehow his head was wrong. Shaped wrong.
It was hard to see the head. It was lying in a pool of muddy water and there were crayfish after it, seven or eight crayfish—smooth brown armored backs glinting in the early morning sun. Billy had never seen so many in one place at one time. Big guys.
It was pretty amazing.
One thing he could see was that there were no eyes. In one of the places where an eye ought to be a long thin stringy almost transparent thing waved in the water like a strand of mucus.
Billy was a pretty good observer. Plus he was a very good citizen. He hadn’t made Eagle Scout for nothing. Even though his mother kept expressing the concern that they were turning him into a little Nazi. He wasn’t some little Nazi. He just respected order. His dad knew that. His dad was supportive. His dad had given him this two-pronged frog spear he had here and a .22 rifle for his thirteenth birthday. He was a good observer and a goodcitizen and he knew enough to look closely so he could describe what he was seeing to the police but not to touch a thing, because they’d want to see it exactly as he’d found it.
He crouched down close to the man.
The stink didn’t bother him. He had smelled dead things before and they all smelled the same.
Unless you had a skunk.
The man’s blue nylon backpack was off one shoulder dangling into slightly faster-running water but the chest strap had wound itself around his neck, the pack wasn’t going anywhere. He had on muddy white Reeboks, dark blue or possibly black slacks, a dark blue jacket and a checked blue-and-white shirt that was straining at the buttons because the man was so bloated. He could see a pasty slit of belly flesh. The man’s fly was open, the zipper three-quarters down.
He wondered if there were crayfish in there too. Or up his pants legs.
He wouldn’t be surprised.
It was too bad he couldn’t really see the face so he could describe the man’s features to the authorities because he knew they’d want to know that, but short of lifting the head up out of the muddy water there was nothing he could do about it.
He knew he was not supposed to touch the head or any other part of him so he didn’t. Period.
The man was white, Caucasian, and his hair was dark. That much he could tell them.
That, and that he had no eyes.
He carefully noted his exact location—the big rock downstream in the middle, the grouping of tall pines tothe left and the thin leaning birches to the right. The water ran narrow here, and fast.
He put down the frog spear and took out his compass. The man’s sausage-case right-hand index finger pointed due east across the stream. If he walked west for about a mile he’d come out to River Road. It was the fastest, most efficient way.
He dug his scout knife out of his pocket, picked up his frog-spear and started blazing trees.
He had done it dozens of times.
Nothing to it.
Halfway through the woods he found himself humming the theme from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Marchstep. Pacing himself. Humming the tune in short staccato bursts. He also found himself smiling. He hadn’t thought about that dumb show or that song in a long time.
Not since he was a kid.
He cut deep into the flesh of a white birch tree and moved on.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wayne dreamed of carnage.
In his dream he had crested a hill and looked down over a bare
Similar Books
