I fell back, my knees banging the dumper, the red afterimage of the lighter's flame pulsing before my eyes. I froze in a crouch. Dear Jesus. Then I blundered away, charging back down the gap between the wall and the dumper. Weeds grabbed my legs. The wall grazed my cheek. The dumper pressed in and something sticking out from the wall jabbed at my thigh. With a gasp of relief, I squeezed through. I staggered ahead, then stepped on something — the top of a trash can— and my ankle turned under me. Falling to one knee, I reached down and touched the cold ground and steadied myself. And then I remembered those men with the laundry bags and understood what they'd contained; and with all the ease of a child, I was sick.
For a moment, I closed my eyes against the horror.
I opened them slowly. Vomit steamed around my feet.
It didn't happen to you. It's all right.
Catching my breath, I found an old end of Kleenex and wiped my mouth. Pulled myself upright. My ankle was throbbing, my knee ached, there was a stinging scrape along the side of my face. I swore under my breath. It's all right. Take it easy. I peered around the corner of the garage. Night uncoiled down the street. Windows glowed like cats' eyes and I could hear the buzz of a streetlamp. But I couldn't see anyone, so I forced my legs to move. Across the asphalt apron of the garage. Then the sidewalk. Left. It's all right. Don't run. The corner. Left one more time…
I made it to the car and got in; and then I couldn't stop myself, and locked all the doors, as if that headless corpse might follow me here. As I stared into the darkness, my reflection mistily drifted over the window. Lights were on in the houses but no one was out in the street. In the distance, I could hear the low-gear grunt of a truck. The wind, coming up stronger, bumped at the car… I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Five minutes, I thought, maybe less: I'd come that close to seeing a murder, maybe being murdered myself. In delayed response, my heart began to race in my chest and I felt faint. With shaking hands, I fumbled a cigarette up to my mouth. I tried to start thinking. Who was he? Who had killed him? Why? Who, except you, knew he was going to be there? But then I got hold of myself and shut down my mind — there was no point asking questions no one could answer. There was no time for theory, no time for abstractions. Are you in danger? It was the only question that counted. And the answer was no, not now, not here. Proof: whoever had killed him hadn't waited, which must mean that they hadn't known I'd be coming. Or maybe they didn't care. Something personal, something you wouldn't want a policeman to hear… Maybe that had all been a lie; maybe it had nothing to do with me at all. So what do I do? Should I—? No. No big decisions. Just get the hell out of here. Right now you couldn't think your way out of a wet paper bag.
With relief, and a vicious twist of the key, I started the car. Truth: I didn't want to think, or question, or know. I only wanted to get away from this spot. But, like a careful drunk, I made myself do it slowly. I turned away from the curb. Straightened out. Lightly put my foot down… and maybe that's why I saw it. As I came up to the next corner, I stopped the car dead.
I twisted back in my seat.
Behind me, stretching along the curb, were the half dozen cars that had been parked in front of me. They were all rusted, dented heaps, held together by body compound and inertia. Except for one, that is: a late-model Pontiac as bright and shiny as the one I was driving. I thought for a second, then clunked the car into reverse, the engine whining shrilly as I backed down the street. I stopped. Quickly opening the door, I walked back to the other car. I leaned forward, cupping my hands, and peered in the driver's-side window. It was a standard-issue two-door sedan: autotransmission, plush velour seats, the dash neatly wiped — I didn't have to see the Hertz litter bag to know it was rented. I tried the doors, but they were locked. It was obvious, though. He'd done just as I had: Parked here, then approached the garage circumspectly… though not circumspectly enough.
For some reason, this little discovery steadied me, and by the time I was back in my own car, I felt more under control. Doubling back to the Chrysler Freeway, I followed the rush-hour traffic north but got off before Flint. Then I just drove around for a while. Bit by bit, my nerve came back. And as I drove along a cluttered neon boulevard of car lots and muffler shops, I realized I was hungry. I pulled into a McDonald's and used their washroom to clean up a little; but restoring myself to respectability killed my appetite for their kind of food, and I drove further down the street to a shopping center. What I found there wasn't much better — something called The Chances R, a bar with a Western motif: saloon doors, waitresses in cowboy hats, wagon wheels hanging from the ceiling with lights in the hub. I took a stool and ordered a bourbon — cheap and disgusting enough to jolt you out of anything. But the steak sandwich wasn't too bad. By then, my mind was more or less back on the rails, and with coffee and cigarettes I tried to work out where I stood. Point one: there was no reason to panic. The man who had called me, assuming he was the man in the dumper, had known I was involved in all this, but whoever had killed him probably didn't; or didn't care if I was. Otherwise, they would have hung around and killed me as well. Point two: I didn't want to go to the police, at least for the moment. Something personal, something you wouldn't want a policeman to hear… That was part of it. And maybe — after my panicky flight from the garage — I wanted to recoup self-esteem, at least in my own eyes. I'd come this far on my own; I could go a bit further. Which was why, when I'd finished eating, I walked through the plaza until I found a hardware store that was still open and bought a five-pound sledge.
It was after seven now. Back on the freeway, heading south, traffic was thin. I was only ten minutes getting down to Ham-tramck, though it took another twenty to find Grayson Street again. Nothing had changed. Passing the garage, I saw it was as dark and calm as I had left it. But there was no reason why it shouldn't be. They might not find that body for months— they might never find it.
I turned down a side street and parked about three cars ahead of the Pontiac.
Headlights off, motor running. I leaned back to switch off the interior light, then eased open the door. The cold wind struck my eyes. That acrid, chemical smell burned in my nose. I shut the door carefully, leaving it open a crack, then walked back down the street. I was heading toward Grayson and now a car passed there, its lights sweeping the corner. I stopped, undecided; almost went back; but as it passed further on, I went forward again. Standing by the Pontiac, I swiveled around. It was parked right in front of a house where the lights were on, but the place next door was dark. I drew back the sledge and swung as hard as I could. At the first blow, the window only gave slightly in its frame and didn't even crack, but the second starred it like a piece of old ice and the third pushed a big chunk inside the car. With my hand, I pushed more bits and pieces away, then reached in and opened the glove compartment. And found what I wanted: the rental form. I pulled it out and walked smartly back to my car. No one had seen me. Two minutes later, I was back on the freeway.