“Oh, no, you don’t,” Jake said, forcing her away before she could twist the wet finger in his ear. She giggled and tried to hold on, but he freed himself and put her down.
Not in front of Harold, he thought.
Then he wondered, with a tug of pain, if she ever gave Wet Willies to Harold.
“Let’s get the show on the road,” he said.
He reached down his hand. Kimmy took a firm grip on his forefinger and led the way.
“You two have a good time,” Harold said as they approached him. He gave the overnight bag to Jake. His smile looked strained. “You’ll have her back tomorrow?”
Jake nodded.
They left. It was good to get out of the house. He smiled down at Kimmy.
Her smile was gone. “Don’t I get to stay by you tomorrow?”
“Not this time. Tomorrow’s Mommy’s birthday.”
“I know that.” She gave him an annoyed look. She did not approve, at all, of being told what she already knew. Clearly demeaning.
“Well, you want to be there for her party, don’t you?”
“I s’pose.”
“It’ll be fun.”
He opened the passenger door for Kimmy, and lifted her onto the safety seat. While he strapped her in, she tucked Clew into the top of her bib overalls so the tiny gray head poked out like a kangaroo in its mother’s pouch.
Then she stuck her forefinger into her mouth.
“Oh, no, you don’t!”
“Yes, I do!”
Jake grabbed her wrist, but let himself be overpowered. The wet fingertip pushed into his ear and twisted. “Eaah! You got me!” Before she could get him again, he ducked out of the car.
He hurried around and climbed in behind the steering wheel. Kimmy was ready to bestow another Wet Willy. She strained to reach him, but it was no good.
“Saved by the car seat,” he said.
“C’mere.”
“Not a chance. Think I’m dumb?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding.
“Wiseacre.” He pulled into the street. “So, what would you like to do today?”
“Go to the moojies.”
“The moojies it is. Anything special you want to see?”
She made an eager face with her eyes wide and her brows high. “Peter Pan.”
“We saw Peter Pan last week.”
“I really want to see Peter Pan again.”
“Sure, why not. Maybe this time the crock will gobble up Captain Hook…”
Gobble up.
Ronald Smeltzer.
Could’ve gone all day without thinking about that.
“Can we eat at McDonalds?”
“No.”
“Daddy!” She shook her fist at him, grinning over the tiny knuckles.
“Well, if you insist.”
“Daddy, can I talk to you?”
“Sure. Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?”
She braced an elbow on the padded armrest of her seat, and leaned toward him. She looked serious. “There isn’t any such thing as crocodiles, is there?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, because it’s just a moojie.”
“That doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
“Dracula and werewoofs and the mummy aren’t really real, you said so, so crocodiles aren’t really real, are they?”
“Gotcha worried, has it?”
“This is not funny.”
“Crocks are real, but I wouldn’t worry about them.”
“I do not want to get eaten.”
Jake felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. “Well, you’ll just have to keep your eyes open. If you see a crock waddling your way, toss it a Twinkie and run. It’d much rather eat Twinkies than you.”
“I’m not so sure.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
With a fresh cup of coffee, Dana Norris returned to her table in a corner of the student union. She read the poem again, wrinkled her nose, and sighed.
Why couldn’t this guy write stuff that made sense?
“Salutations.”
She looked up and found Roland standing in front of her table.
Roland the Retard.
He wasn’t actually retarded—brainy, in fact, but nobody would guess that by looking at him.
His black, slicked down hair was parted in the middle like Alfalfa of the old Our Gang films. The style, he liked to explain, was his tribute to Zacherle, who used to host a latenight horror show on television.
Today, he was wearing a bright plaid sport jacket and one of his assorted gore-shirts. The skin colored T-shirt featured a slash wound down its midsection and a bright array of blood and guts spilling out.
“May I join you?” he asked.
“I’m trying to study.”
Nodding, he pulled out an orange, molded-plastic chair and sat across the table from her.
Dana looked down at her book. “What the hell is a force in a green fuse?”
“Sounds like a slimy wick to me.”
“You’re a big help.”
Roland leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Did you hear what happened out at the Oakwood Inn?”
“Why don’t you go away and get yourself something to eat. You look like—”
“A cadaver?” he suggested.
“Exactly.”
“Thank you.” He grinned. His big, crooked teeth looked like a plastic set you might buy at a gag shop the day before Halloween.
Dana didn’t know how Jason could stand to room with this guy, much less be friends with him.
“So,” he said, “I guess you didn’t hear.”
“Hear what?”
“About the massacre.”
“Ah. A massacre. That explains, the gleam in your eyes.”
“It happened right outside town. There’s that old restaurant, the Oakwood Inn. This couple came up from LA planning to open it again. The place had been closed for years—apparently shut down after several of the patrons turned toes up when they ate there. Food poisoning.” Roland wiggled his thin black eyebrows. He looked absolutely delighted. “So last night they were in the place fixing it up and the husband went totally berserk and blew off his wife’s head with a shotgun. Then a cop showed up and blew away the husband.”
“Just your cup of tea,” Dana said.
“Outrageous, huh?”
“Too bad you couldn’t have been there to enjoy it.”
“Yeah, well, those are the breaks. I drove out there this morning, but the cops have it all blocked off.” He shrugged. “The stiffs were probably gone by then, anyway.”
“More than likely.”
“I sure would’ve like to get a look inside, though. I mean, maybe it hadn’t been cleaned up yet. Can you feature the mess it must’ve made, a gal catching a twelve gauge in the face? Pieces of her brain and skull sticking to the walls…”
“You’re revolting.”
“Anyway, I thought I’d go back later. Maybe the cops’ll be gone by then. Do you mind if I borrow your Polaroid?”
Dana stared at him. She felt a rush of heat to her face. “What makes you think I’ve got a Polaroid?”
“I just know. How about it?”
“That shit. He showed you the pictures, didn’t he.”
“Sure. We’re roomies.”
Her mouth was dry. She lifted her coffee mug with a shaky hand and took a drink. She should’ve known that Jason wouldn’t keep his word. Who else had he shown them to? Everyone in the dorm? She’d wanted to burn the things, but Jason had promised he would hide them, never show them to another soul.
She could just see Roland the Retard drooling over them.
“How about it?” he asked. “Can I borrow the camera?”
“I’m gonna kill that shithead.”
Roland giggled. “If you do, let me watch.”
On second thought, Roland probably hadn’t drooled—probably he hadn’t even found the photos particularly interesting, since they showed no entrails or severed limbs. Unless he supplied all that with his sick imagination, which seemed more than likely.