Man of Wax by Robert Swartwood Page B

being that way. My daughter, my own flesh and blood, was now dead, and I couldn’t bring myself to break down. Instead tears were all I could give her, and that sad simple fact was enough to make me want to rip my hair out.

    •     •     •

    E VENTUALLY I GOT myself under control. The trunk was still open, its contents free for anybody to see, and the last thing I needed now was a concerned citizen catching a glimpse inside and calling the police. If that were the case, Simon or whoever it was that did this might as well have thrown Jen in there too.  
    I wiped at my eyes, at my mouth, then stood and turned back around. I approached the trunk slowly, not wanting to look back inside but knowing I had no choice. One step, two steps, three steps, and I was standing right where I was minutes earlier, the Dodge’s key hovering just inches above the lock.  
    I took a breath, braced myself, and peered again into the trunk.  
    This time it wasn’t my daughter that lay in there amongst all the blood. My mind was able to contemplate that in the matter of only seconds. Before, I’d just glanced, and my mind had already known it was Casey, so Casey was what I saw. Now, after accepting that the body was my daughter’s, my mind wasn’t working in the same way. Instead it was working properly, and it told me, Sorry, Ben, guess I was wrong on this one .  
    Yes, I thought, standing there and staring into the trunk, I guess you were.  
    It wasn’t my daughter’s body lying in there at all. It wasn’t even a real body. The only light there belonged to the dim bulb hanging just within the trunk, but staring long enough made me see that what lay inside was maybe four feet long from head to toe. And plastic.  
    “Oh my God,” I breathed, and took a very long, deep breath.  
    It was a mannequin. Nothing more than an oversized doll. The pink fake flesh stood out among the blood ... which, I started to think, wasn’t really even blood at all.  
    I started to reach forward, to touch the stuff I’d first thought was blood but couldn’t be blood because it looked like some of it was still wet, and that couldn’t possibly be so if I’d been driving this car for almost eight hours already, and the car had been in the parking lot for God knows how long before that.  
    But before my hand could lower itself any further—it was about twelve inches or so from being swallowed by the trunk—headlights splashed the back of the car and trunk, headlights so bright that it made me realize they didn’t belong to the traffic out on the highway.  
    And along with the headlights, other lights as well. Flashing blue and red lights, a kaleidoscope of patriotic colors that filled the night.

    •     •     •

    W ITHOUT THINKING I lifted my hand and grabbed the top of the trunk and slammed it shut. I turned around, raising my other hand to my face to shield my eyes from the blinding glare of all the lights. An unmarked police car was parked just twenty yards away, the cop inside already opening his door.  
    Oh shit , I thought, and continued it in a kind of mantra: oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit .  
    I remembered Simon’s first rule, no talking to the police or the FBI or even the boy scouts, was I seeing a pattern?  
    The cop stepped out and shut his door. He glanced out at the traffic and started walking toward me. I couldn’t really see his face, which was nothing more than a circle of darkness, but from the size of him he looked to be about six-foot. He walked slowly but steadily, his one hand on his belt—what at first I thought was his gun but realized a second later was his nightstick—his other hand holding a flashlight. Its beam was shining right at me.  
    “Evening,” he said, his low voice coming to me above the rush of traffic and insects and the dog, which continued to bark nonstop. “You realize there’s not much of a shoulder here, don’t you?”  
    “Yeah, I do,” I said, nodding,