He had hit Molly very suddenly.
He had not known he was going to hit her until his hand came out, not in an open-palmed slap, but the fist bunched instead into a tight hard ball. He had struck out and hit her in the eye, and then had pulled back his fist and hit her again, making her nose bleed. He saw her opening her mouth to scream, everything looked very peculiar all at once, the blood starting from her nose, he instinctively knew he could not allow any blood to stain the sheets, her mouth beginning to open in what he knew would be a piercing scream, he reached out quickly and grabbed her throat in both huge hands, squeezing. The scream died somewhere back in her throat, leaving only a small clicking gasp as his fingers closed on her neck. He lifted her off the bed at the same moment, bending her back so that the blood ran from her nose to the side of her face and over her jawbone and down her throat, over his hands he almost released her when the blood touched his hands and then down over her collarbone and her small naked breasts, but not touching the bed or the floor, he did not want bloodstains on anything. He wondered for a split instant as her eyes bulged in her head, and she struck out at him with weakening hands, the hands fluttering aimlessly like broken butterflies he wondered why he was doing this, he loved her, she was beautiful, why was he doing this, he hated her. Everything was bottled inside her head, everything was bulging into her head as he continued squeezing, blood was bursting from "her nose, her eyes were getting wider and wider, her mouth opened, a curious retching sound came from her, he thought she would vomit on his hands, he almost backed away from her and then everything seemed to stop. He realized she was no longer struggling. She hung limp at the ends of his hands. He lowered her slowly to the floor, taking care that he did not tilt her head, not wanting to get any blood on anything. He left her naked, lying on her back, and went into the bathroom to wash his hands.
He sat with her for perhaps a half hour trying to figure out what he should do.
He thought maybe he should call his mother and tell her he had killed a girl. But then he had the funniest feeling his mother would just say Come home as quick as you can, son, leave her there and come home. He didn't think that was the right thing to do.
He kept looking at the girl lying naked on the floor. She looked even uglier in death, and he wondered how he could have ever thought she was beautiful, and then for a reason he could not understand, he reached down and with his forefinger he gently and tenderly traced the outline of her profile. Then he closed her staring eyes.
I'll take her to the police, he thought.
He went to the closet for her coat, thinking he couldn't carry her into a police station naked. He took the coat from the hanger and spread it on the floor beside her, and then lifted her and put her onto the coat as though it were a blanket, without making any attempt to put her arms into the sleeves. He went around the room then, picking up her clothing, the blouse, the skirt, the padded bra, the shoes she had taken off because her feet hurt from looking for a job, the panty-girdle, and folded these and put them all on her chest in a neat flat pile, leaving out only her nylons. He closed the coat over her chest. He did not button it. He took one of the nylons and slipped it under her back and her arms and then pulled it over her breasts and knotted it tightly. He wrapped the other nylon around her thighs, just above where the coat ended, and again knotted it tightly, and then looked down at the girl.
Her nose had stopped bleeding.
He couldn't just carry her in his arms, could he? In the street that way? He wondered what time it was. He supposed it was two o'clock or a little after, no, it wouldn't be right carrying her to the police station in his arms. No.
He didn't even know where the police station was.
He guessed he ought to go get the truck.
He could put her in the back of the truck.
He looked down at her once more where she lay trussed on the floor, one nylon tightly knotted over her breasts, holding the piled clothing in place under the coat, the other knotted around her thighs, her head sticking out of the top of the coat and her legs out of the bottom. He figured she'd be all right while he went to get the truck. He put on his coat and then went outside, testing the door behind him to make sure it was locked. He could hear Fook snoring in his room down the hall. He went down the steps quietly and cautiously and then came out into the street and began walking toward the garage. It was not as cold as it had been earlier. That surprised him. It was very windy, but the temperature wasn't all that bad. He walked with a quick spring in his step, the whole thing very clear in his mind. He would get the truck and back it down that alley alongside the building, into the back yard to the basement door. He knew there was a back door to the basement because he had seen the man from the electric company going down the alley to read the meter just yesterday. He had never been down in the basement, but he knew there was a door back there.
The night attendant at the garage wanted to know who he was, and he said he was Roger Broome and that he would like his truck, the '59 Chevy. The night man wasn't too keen on letting the truck go out at close to two-thirty in the morning, but Roger showed him the registration for the truck, and the night man sort of clucked his tongue and shook his head and said, Well, okay, I guess it's all right, I sure hope it's all right.
The streets were fairly deserted at that hour.
He backed the truck down the alley, cutting the engine at the top of the drive, and letting it roll back down, and then pulling the wheel sharply at the bottom of the drive so that the truck swung in close to the back of the building. He got out and saw the basement door at once. He tried the knob, but the door was locked. He walked back to the truck and took the lug wrench from under the front seat and then went to the door and kept prying at the area near the lock until the wood was splintered and jagged, and finally the lock snapped. He went into the basement and groped his way around until he found the steps leading to the ground floor of the building. He went up the steps without turning on any lights and felt for the lock on the door, and then opened the door and came into the hallway. He propped the door open by putting his truck keys on the floor in the narrow wedge where the door joined the jamb. Then he went upstairs to his room.
The girl was where he'd left her, lying on the floor.
He went to the bed and looked at it to see if there were any bloodstains on the sheets, and then he checked the floor for bloodstains, and then he looked around to make sure he'd got all of her clothes. He dragged her over to the door and opened it a crack and looked out into the hall. He didn't know why he was being so careful about bloodstains and clothes and looking out into the hallway, especially when his plan was to drive straight to the nearest police station and go in and tell them he'd killed this girl, that was going to be hard to do.
There was no one in the hallway, the building was asleep.
He picked her up, she was as light as a feather, and carried her into the hall, bracing her with one arm while he pulled the door shut with his free hand, and then holding her in both arms and going quickly down the steps to the basement door. He opened the door and then bent down for his truck keys, bracing the girl against his knee again. He went down the steps. The basement was illuminated with thin shafts of moonlight that glanced through the small side windows high up on the cinderblock wall. His eyes were becoming accustomed to the light. He could make out the furnace, and beyond that an old refrigerator, and beyond that a bicycle with one wheel. He carried Molly out of the basement and then put her into the back of the truck. A think trickle of blood had run from her nose to her upper lip. He was about to get into the truck cab and drive to the police station when he wondered what he would tell them. He stood in the silent back yard. Above him the clotheslines stretched from pole to pole, frantically and silently moving in the wind. Boy, it sure would be hard to go in there and tell them what had happened. He stood near the rear of the truck, staring at the girl wrapped in her own coat.