He giggled again. Hell, he'd have a heart attack is what would happen. But Charlie was as dead as a carp on a riverbank, and his eyes didn't open. The killer shut the lid on the car trunk, backed out of the historical site-he had no idea of what it marked-and on to the road.
The bridge was only a half mile away. He took the gravel out to the blacktop, turned left, idled over a low hill. A car was coming toward him. He saw it move to the middle of the road as it crossed the bridge, then back to the right as it cleared it. He idled along at forty miles an hour, checking the rearview mirror, looking for lights, and watching for lights out front…
When he was sure he was clear, he hurried on down the hill to the bridge; stopped in the middle of it, popped the trunk, and walked over to the railing and looked down. Sometimes fishermen parked beside the bridge: there was just enough space for two cars. Never, as far as he knew, at night: and there was nothing this night…
He went back to the car trunk, dragged Charlie out. With the extra weight of the chain, he struggled to get him to the railing. When he got him there, he had to lift Charlie's legs first, prop them on the railing, then walk around to pick up Charlie's head.
And when he did, the feet fell off the rail. He was breathing hard and felt a little panic rising in his throat: this was impossible. He couldn't get the body high enough to prop up the head end. He finally bent it upright, got Charlie's neck hooked over the sharp edge of the rail, took a breather for five seconds, then hoisted the dead man's chest over, balanced the body, then got the feet going. The chain caught on the edge, and he spent a moment wrestling back and forth, the chain making a loud ripping noise on the metal guardrail.
And then Charlie went, falling into the darkness. A moment later, the killer heard a satisfying splash from below: Charlie's last dive was a belly flop into thirty feet of water.
He brushed his hands together, felt the stickiness. As he walked around the front of the car, he looked at them in the headlights. Jesus: he was covered with blood. Hadn't thought about that, either, Didn't have any way to clean up. He knelt in the headlights, looking as his shirt. More blood…
Man, the complications were piling up. If he was going to do all this, if he was going to do what the Gods Down the Hall demanded that he do, he was going to have to get a hell of a lot better than this.
And quick: they were hungry for the first woman. Tired of descriptions, tired of what-we-might-do.
They wanted meat. They wanted it now.
He thought about Millie Lincoln. The woman did crazy things to him, and the thought of her blood drove him into a near frenzy.
Not now; if he took Millie Lincoln, the cops would be on him for sure.
But he would take her later. He licked his lips at the thought. Millie.
MILLIE LINCOLN HAD a decent body, she thought-not Hollywood quality, but decent. Maybe she could lose a few pounds. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror that she and her roommates had pinned to the back of the front door: Okay, maybe ten pounds…
"You think my ass looks fat?" she asked Mihovil, who was sitting on a couch, reading a Dilbert cartoon book.
"I would have to see it closer…"
"Hey: does it look fat, or doesn't it?"
"Every time I see it good, I get hard," he said; "What more do you want?"
She went over and plopped on the couch next to him and said,
"Pizza."
"I think so. I am starved to death."
But he kept his nose in the book, not quite ignoring her. She crossed her legs and put them across his. He said, "Pizza," and dropped the book on the floor, and brushed his hands up and down her legs. "Mmm. You're sticky."
"Haven't shaved my legs in a week," she said.
"Don't shave your legs until I come back," he said "Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will shave your legs for you."
"Really." Sounded okay.
"I am very good with a razor. You will see."
"Mmm."
THE NEXT EVENING, the roommates were gone, and they moved into the shower.
Mihovil told her that the first great thing he'd experienced in the States was the shower in their apartment in New York. They hadn't had running water in the refugee camp, and when his family got to New York, got the small apartment in Brooklyn, it had been like heaven.
"Wasn't heaven-was the fucking Yugoslavian ghetto, but it seemed like heaven, and all this hot water from the shower. I could stand in the shower for an hour-I took a shower every morning before school and every day when I came home and every night before I went to bed. You cannot understand hot water coming from the wall until you haven't had it." When he got his residency and moved into his own apartment in downtown Mankato, he'd unscrewed the showerhead and replaced it with one he bought from a local hardware store; a showerhead that produced a torrent of water.
"My mother always said the best thing about America was a kitchen with a real stove and a real sink and everything works; I always thought the shower. And the toilet, of course."
HE GOT HER IN the shower and said, "First we soap your legs. Huh? We need some nice shaving soap."
He'd brought it with him. He shaved from an old-fashioned mug, with a shaving brush; but the thing that really turned her crank was the razor.
He produced an ancient-looking leather-covered box and from it extracted a straight razor with a mother-of-pearl grip. "From my homeland," he said. "My father gave it to me when I came old enough to shave."
The hot water was pouring down over her belly and legs, and Mihovil lathered her legs with the brush-the brush felt amazing, the brush was something she decided she couldn't live without-and then began carefully shaving her legs, carving his way upward, kneeling on the dirty old tiles, his hands soft and the blade like a piece of light cutting through the prickly leg hair…
Like any number of college students with good bodies, Millie liked to lie in the summer sun in a bikini; and a bikini required the removal of patches of pubic hair, left and right. The problem was that when you shaved, you often got nasty red bumps from ingrown hair. The idea of shaving off all her public hair had never appealed to her, because she suspected that she'd turn into one gigantic infected red bumps.
But Mihovil, shaving up her legs, simply didn't stop. He just kept going. And the brush felt so good…
Mihovil could feel her trembling as he played with the razor and then with the brush, with the razor and the brush, razor and brush…
Millie began to whimper, and she knotted her hands in his long Jesus hair, and she began to cry out…
20
WEATHER CALLED AT eight o'clock. Lucas fumbled the phone receiver and hit himself on the nose, which hurt.
"How are you?" he asked. He couldn't feel blood moving, but he could taste something in the back of his throat.
"A little tired," Weather said. It was two o'clock in the afternoon in London. "After I talked to you yesterday, we had a six-year-old girl come in. She was hurt in a car wreck. I assisted. There were only two of us on the plastic-surgery staff still around; I was about to leave when she came in. Wound up staying until midnight, and we were working again this morning at seven."
"Get her fixed?"
"Yup. Looked bad, but kids heal, if you get them fast enough."
"Her face?"
"Yes. She was in the front seat of one of those tiny cars they have here."
The girl, belted in, had been playing with a toy laptop with a plastic screen. The car she was riding in was rear-ended and jammed into the car in front of them. The air bags went, and they punched the laptop into the girl's face, Weather said. "The plastic shattered, and she had ten or fifteen cuts, three bad, up and down the right cheek and temple."
"Ah, man." Lucas could imagine it: he'd seen similar stuff when he was in uniform with the Minneapolis cops.