Though his heart pounded hard, he had to smile at his performance.
Ahead of him, the driveway was empty all the way to the closed door of the garage. Just to the left of the driveway was a redwood fence. It must’ve been six feet high, but the neighbor’s house stood just beyond it. From where he stood, Toby could see the upper regions of several windows. The curtains seemed to be shut, but that was no guarantee that the neighbor wasn’t peering out near the top, keeping an eye on him.
So he moved on.
At the rear corner of the house, he said, “Ah, there you are. Sorry I’m late. Want some help with that?”
He saw no one.
The back yard had a concrete patio with a padded lounge, lawn chairs, a white-painted picnic table, and a gas barbecue grill. Some T-shirts and nightshirts, hanging from a clothesline, were being lifted and flapped by the wind.
Toby stepped behind the house.
He turned around slowly, scanning the garage, the fences and trees.
Plenty of privacy back here.
He stared at the faded green pad of the lounge.
I bet Brenda sunbathes on that.
He pictured her lying there, the back of her bikini top unfastened, her skin agleam with oil. Like Dawn, only younger and prettier. He imagined himself rubbing her back. It would be hot and slick in the sunlight.
He imagined himself pulling down the skimpy pants of her bikini. Rubbing her buttocks.
But then she turned over and she was naked, all right, but she was Sherry, not Brenda. Smiling, she said, “Hi there, dead boy.”
Toby felt his scrotum shrivel, his penis shrink.
I’m not dead yet, you rotten bitch. Too bad I killed you deader than shit so you can’t watch what I do to your precious family.
He stepped up to the back door of the house and peered through its window.
On the other side was the kitchen.
He took the rubber gloves out of his back pocket and put them on. Powdered inside, they fit easily over his hands.
He tried the knob. It wouldn’t turn. He tugged it, but the door stayed shut. So he drew the screwdriver out of his shorts. With the butt of its handle, he punched the window. Glass broke and fell inside the house, shards clinking and clattering as they struck the floor.
“I’m such a klutz,” he said. “Let me clean that up for you.”
For a while, he stood motionless and listened.
He heard a gust of wind rushing through the nearby trees, heard the whop of flapping clothes, heard the distant sounds of an airliner and a lawnmower and a door thumping shut and even a bright, faraway laugh that sounded like a girl startled with delight.
But no sounds came from inside the house.
Or from the house next door.
Toby eased the screwdriver down the side of his shorts. Then he plucked a few large pieces of glass out of the window frame and set them down silently on the concrete at his feet. When the hole seemed large enough, he inserted his arm. Careful to keep away from the jagged edges, he reached down. He leaned against the door. Shoulder inside the broken window, glass tickling the hair of his armpit, he reached lower, felt around, and found the inside doorknob.
He caught the button between his thumb and forefinger and gave it a twist.
Then he carefully withdrew his arm.
Not a scratch.
He turned the outside knob, pulled the door open and stepped into the kitchen. After shutting the door, he stood motionless and listened to the house. He heard a quiet buzzing from the kitchen clock, the hum of the refrigerator, a few creaking sounds of the sort that houses often made, especially in strong winds.
Nobody home, he thought.
Can’t be sure of that.
Though the place felt deserted, Toby knew he’d better be careful.
Play it like they’re all home.
Who knows? he thought. Maybe they are all home. Car might be in for repairs.
They’re all home, he told himself, and somebody heard me break the glass.
He stepped quietly over to the wall phone, lifted off its handset, and heard a dial tone.
Nobody was calling the police.
And nobody’s gonna.
He tapped in a random set of seven numbers, got a busy signal, and lowered the handset to the floor.
Then he took off his sneakers.
He reached into his pocket for the pistol, but changed his mind and left the weapon where it was. Why wander around with a gun in his hand? It would just upset people…
Not that anyone’s here.
Besides, he could get it out in half a second if he needed it.
And he didn’t really want to shoot anyone. That’d be too noisy. Not much fun, either. The pistol was for emergency use only.
He pulled the knife out of his pocket and opened its blade.
Holding the knife behind his back, he walked through the kitchen. The tile floor was a little slippery under his crew socks. In the dining room, the carpet felt thick and soft.
He found nobody there.
Nor in the living room.
In the living room, on a lamp table next to an armchair, he found a telephone with an answering machine. On the machine, a red light blinked.
Someone had left a message.
Another clue that nobody was home.
But not proof. Some people didn’t like to play their messages. Himself, for instance. And Sid. It used to drive Dawn crazy. She’d whine, What’s the matter with you two?
To which Sid would say, I don’t happen to give a shit who called. Wasn’t you, right? You’re here. So who gives a rat’s ass?
Or something like that.
But that wasn’t the real reason. Toby didn’t think so, anyway. Because he had his own good reasons for hating telephone messages, unexpected calls, strangers showing up at the door, and even the daily arrival of the mail.
Any of them could mean that someone had found out.
It has recently come to our attention that your parents were deceased prior to the motor vehicle accident and fire that was previously believed to be the cause…
Toby went squirmy and cold inside.
Forget it, he told himself. It never happened and it’s never gonna happen…talk about water under the bridge!
He let out a laugh.
Great! What if somebody heard it?
Nobody heard it. Nobody’s home.
Maybe, maybe not.
Bounding up the stairs toward the second floor, he called out “Hello! Anybody home? This is the police! We’re evacuating the neighborhood! Fire’s on its way! Your house is right in the path!”
No response.
He rushed from room to room. They were tidy and sunlit and deserted.
He returned to the upstairs hallway.
Nobody is home.
He felt relieved. He could relax. There would be no need for urgent action to save himself or take captives. But he felt disappointed, too.
As if the home had been a beautifully wrapped box—a gift. Expecting a wonderful surprise inside, he’d opened it and found it empty.
But it won’t be staying empty, he realized. This is where they live. Sooner or later, they’ll be coming back.
And I’ll be here waiting.
He entered Brenda’s bedroom. Like the master bedroom across the hall, its front two windows had a view of the street. He stepped over to one of them and looked down.
This’ll be great, he thought. I’ll know when they show up.
From where he stood, however, he could also see into the upstairs windows of the house across the street.
Though he saw nobody, he realized that he could be seen from over there if anyone happened to look.
He took two quick backward steps.
I’ll just look out if I hear something.
“In the meantime,” he whispered.
He turned in a circle, giving the room a quick inspection: desk, bed, bookshelves, closet, dresser…
He smiled.
&n
bsp; “Ah, yes,” he said.
He folded his knife, dropped it into his pocket, then wandered over to the dresser. He opened a few drawers until he found Brenda’s bras and panties.
“Here we go.”
One at a time, he lifted the garments out. He held them open and tried to imagine Brenda wearing them. The white, flimsy bra and nothing else. The skimpy pink cotton briefs and nothing else. The black lace bra and nothing else. He caressed his face with them. He sniffed them. They all seemed freshly laundered.
Leaving the dresser, he went to the clothes hamper. He opened its top.
Yes!
Bending down, he reached inside and picked up a pair of panties.
Chapter Forty-seven
With his spatula, Pete flipped the sandwiches. Their buttered tops hit the skillet and sizzled.
“Man, they smell great,” Jeff said.
“Yeah.”
“Don’ let ’em burn.”
“I don’t plan to.” He pressed each of them down with the spatula. “Gotta wait for the cheese to melt.”
“Just don’ burn ’em.”
“I’m not gonna burn ’em.”
“You all set with the plan?” Jeff asked.
“I don’t know. It’s a pretty stupid plan.”
“It’s only stupid if it don’ work. You wanna nail the bastard, don’ you?”
“I guess so.”
“You only guess?”
“I wanta nail him.”
“My man.”
Rich yellow cheese leaked out the side of one sandwich, rolled down a narrow crust and puddled on the skillet. It bubbled and turned brown around the edges.
“Plate,” Pete said.
As Jeff reached a large plate toward him, Pete knifed his spatula under the nearest sandwich and lifted it off the skillet. In seconds, all three were safe aboard the plate. Pete turned off the burner. Then he hefted the skillet, carried it to the sink and propped it under the faucet. He turned the water on. Hitting the hot iron surface, the water sizzled and steamed. He shut the faucet off. “Let’s go,” he said.
“You’re gonna play along, right?”
“Sure. Right.”
Jeff leading the way with the plate of sandwiches, they hurried outside.
Sherry nodded to them. She still sat in her chair by the table.
The radio was still on the table where they’d left it.
“Sorry it took so long,” Pete said. He saw that she had finished her drink. “Can I get you a refill?”
“I don’t think so. Thanks.”
Jeff stepped in front of her and held out the plate. “Here y’go,” he said.
Sherry picked up one of the sandwiches. “Looks good,” she said.
Jeff eased the plate down onto the table.
“Get you something else to drink?” Pete asked. “A Pepsi or a beer or something?”
“No thanks. Sit down, you guys.”
Jeff took a sandwich, picked up his Bloody Mary, and sat in his chair.
As Pete took the last sandwich and reached for his own drink, he realized he could hear the radio. But just barely. Though someone seemed to be speaking, he couldn’t make out any words.
More than likely, neither could Sherry.
Maybe it’ll work.
He sat down and took a swallow of his Bloody Mary.
“You heard the news,” Jeff said. He sounded as if she must’ve heard it.
Chewing, Sherry shook her head.
“No?” Jeff sounded surprised. “It was on the radio. We heard it in the kitchen.”
She shook her head some more.
“They caught ’m,” Jeff explained. “Toby. The cops picked ’m up about half an hour ago.”
She stopped chewing.
“Ran a red light. The cops, they went t’pull him over, but he took off ’n then they had one a those high-speed chases till he got stuck in traffic. Then he bailed out, only he din get very far.”
Sherry looked at Pete as if seeking confirmation.
He nodded, felt rotten, and took a bite of his sandwich. The grilled bread crunched. The cheese inside was soft and hot and tangy.
“Anyway,” Jeff continued, “he was all bloody when they god’m. They found a bloody knife in his car. Next thing y’know, they busted him for the killings. The ones last night.”
“How’d they know it was him?” Sherry asked.
“He musta said something,” Jeff said. Shrugging, he looked at Pete.
“I’m not sure they told how.”
“Fuckin’ reporters,” Jeff muttered.
“Cops don’t always tell ’em everything,” Pete said.
“But they busted his ass, all right,” Jeff said.
Pete nodded.
“And you’re sure it was Toby?” Sherry asked.
“Thas what they said,” Jeff told her.
“Toby Bones?”
It worked!
Pete’s heart slammed.
“Bones?” Jeff asked. “I thought they said Jones.”
“Bones,” Sherry said. “With a B.”
“Ah. Well, that was him. They god’m, all right.”
“My God,” Sherry murmured. Tears shimmered in her eyes. Her chin began to shake. As tears spilled down her cheeks, she lowered her hands. Wrists resting on her thighs, she held the glass and sandwich between her legs as she wept.
How could we do this to her? She’ll hate us!
Not if she doesn’t find out, Pete told himself.
How’s she not gonna find out? I must’ve been nuts to go along with this!
After a while, Sherry calmed down. She sniffed a few times. With the back of her sandwich hand, she gently wiped the tears from her face. Then she exhaled loudly. “I can’t believe it,” she said.
You shouldn’t.
“It’s all over?”
“All over,” Jeff told her.
“God.” She sniffed again. “That’s…great.”
“You’ll problee hafta testify ’n shit,” Jeff threw in.
“Yeah. Sure will. God.”
“Would you like another drink now?” Pete asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
Pete stood up. Leaning toward the table, he set down his glass and sandwich.
“Turn it up, okay?” Sherry said.
“Sure.” He raised the radio’s volume.
A commercial for Taco Bell.
He took Sherry’s glass and hurried into the house. In the kitchen, he quickly made her a fresh Bloody Mary. Then he pulled out a drawer near the wall phone and hauled out the telephone directory.
He flipped through its pages.
Did she say Bones? Weird name, Toby Bones.
Spelled like body bones?
Goddamn dirty rotten trick.
Hard to believe it really worked.
Pete wondered if the booze had helped loosen her tongue.
Probably.
He stopped turning pages when he came to the heading BOLOTNICK-BOORN. The first column ended with Bonaz. Half the next column showed listings of people named Bond.
He looked for James Bond and found two.
Which is double-oh seven? he wondered.
Quit fooling around.
He continued down the column. After a couple of Bondys, he found the Bone Density Center. This was followed by several people named Bone, no “s.” Then a Bonel, then a Boner.
Shit! There’s a Boner in here!
First name Randy.
Pete laughed.
Oh, man, how can somebody have a name like that? Randy Boner? How’d he survive grade school?
Still grinning, Pete shook his head looked at the name under Boner.
Bones BD. Then came Bones George, then Bones James & Sally, Bones Jill, Bones Norman, Bones Sidney and finally Bones Thomas.
After Bones Thomas came Bonette Darren.
Just to make sure he hadn’t overlooked Toby, Pete studied the listings again.
He hadn’t missed it.
Bones Toby wasn??
?t there.
He counted. There were seven different numbers for people named Bones.
Toby probably lives with his parents. Or parent. Or a relative of some sort.
Only way we’re gonna find him, Pete realized, is to start calling the numbers.
Seven. Not bad.
But he couldn’t do it now, not with Sherry waiting for her drink.
Have to go by Jeff’s plan and wait for her to conk out.
He tucked a paper napkin into the phone directory to mark his place, then shut the book and returned it to the drawer.
Before heading outside with Sherry’s Bloody Mary, he added another generous splash of vodka.
Chapter Forty-eight
Where the hell is everyone?
Take it easy, Toby thought. Just relax. They might not get back for hours.
What if they’re gone the whole weekend?
He roamed Brenda’s room, scowling.
I can’t wait forever. When the cops find Sherry’s body, they’ll come over. They could show up any minute.
They won’t, he told himself. Even when they do find her—and that might not be for days or even weeks—they won’t know who she is. She hasn’t exactly got her driver’s license on her. And she doesn’t exactly look like herself, either. More like how she’d look if she went a few rounds with Mike Tyson.
Thinking of Tyson, Toby remembered Sherry’s fingertips.
He’d intended to chew them off, but the AIDS had changed his mind about that.
He’d done his nibbling on Sherry before finding out she was infected. He’d bit her and fucked her and sucked her and swallowed some of her blood…
But that doesn’t mean I caught it!
Maybe he’d been lucky.
Anyway, he’d figured why take the extra risk of biting off her fingertips?
I should’ve chopped ’em off with a knife and put ’em down the garbage disposal.
Should’ve, but didn’t. Didn’t even think of it.
Doesn’t matter, he thought. There’s no way in hell anybody’s gonna identify her body today. After today, who cares? Let ’em. I’ll have Brenda, the rest of the world can take a flying fuck.
He stepped closer to one of the windows.
Down on the street, a car rushed by.
Maybe they went to the movies. A Saturday matinee.
He sat on an edge of Brenda’s bed and looked around.
I gotta find something to do. Can’t just sit here.