After taking a step backward, I found a clear imprint of my sneaker's tread pattern.
I killed the flame. I dropped the razor into my pocket. Holding the lighter in my teeth, I slipped the book bag off my back and brought it around in front of me.
Inside, I found the towel-vest that Connie had made. I held it between my knees while I put the pack on again.
Standing in the dark, I lifted one foot, wiped the bottom of its sneaker, stepped backward, wiped the other, and repeated the process. Then I got down on my knees and lit the lighter. My mirror-double and I crawled forward, mopping away our tracks. We stopped at the edge of the wet, blood-smeared area. The skids could stay; since they didn't show tread marks, they mightVe been made by someone barefoot.
We stood up and walked backward slowly. No new tracks were being made.
In darkness again, I rolled the towel-vest and returned it to my book bag. This took a while. Also, the towel made my hands wet and sticky. I had to wipe them on my shorts.
When I lit the lighter, my double reappeared. He didn't last long -- only until we got close to the doorway and I killed the flame again.
Keeping the lighter in my left hand, I took out my razor and stepped through the doorway into the corridor.
Sleeping Dogs
Room by room, corridor by corridor, stairway by stairway, I searched the enormous house. Last summer's long, boring tours of ante-bellum mansions along the Mississippi paid off: the general layout of this mansion was similar to many of those I'd seen. I felt as if I'd been here before. Much of the time, I sensed what was coming.
Though I held on to the lighter, I didn't use it.
I searched in darkness, creeping along, often stopping to listen.
After a while, I put the razor back into my pocket; I needed a free hand for feeling my way.
The house seemed terribly silent.
Except for the thousand times its floors moaned and squawked under my footsteps.
I made very little sound, myself. My breathing and heartbeat seemed noisy, as did the frequent growling of my hungry stomach -- but they were quiet compared to the outcries of the wood under my feet.
The flooring of the house seemed to be in cahoots with Wesley and Thelma. Sure it is, I thought. It likes those naked bodies tumbling around on it, enjoys the feel of all that bare skin, loves having its planks oiled with blood and sweat and semen. I was here to put a stop to such things. So, of course, it wanted to cry out warnings.
(You think odd thoughts at times like that. It gets you, being alone in the darkness, never knowing if you're about to stumble and fall down, or crash into a wall, or knock over a lamp, or bump into someone who wants to slit your throat.) It would take me hours to write about every stumble and collision, fright and false alarm I had while searching the mansion -- the nightmarish scenarios that fumbled through my mind -- the terror I felt each time I crept around a corner or entered a new room.
The searching seemed to take hours.
I expected the sun to come up.
To be realistic about it, though, I probably spent no more than an hour sneaking through the place before I found Wesley and Thelma.
I was beginning to think that they weren't in the house, after all. Maybe they spent their nights on the cabin cruiser. But then, as I climbed the stairs to the third and final story, I detected a quiet, grumbly sound. I stopped moving, and listened. The sound went away, but soon came again. Again, there was silence. Then came a harsh snort.
Some sort of animal snuffling around?
After listening a while longer, I realized that the sounds were probably being made by someone asleep.
Asleep and snoring.
Ever so slowly, I started climbing again. I set my feet down gently and eased my weight onto each tread. Most of them squeaked, anyway. Every time that happened, I cringed, stood still and listened until I heard the snoring again.
At last, I reached the top of the stairs.
I found myself in the middle of a hall, surrounded by walls with open doors. From where I stood, I could see into four moonlit rooms -- one near each corner.
The snoring sounds, more distinct than ever, seemed to be coming from the doorway in front of me and over to the right. I stopped beside the newel post, and faced the sounds.
The doorway looked vaguely pale in the darkness.
I snuck carefully toward it.
This had to be Wesley and Thelma's quarters.
With the entire house at their disposal, why had they chosen to sleep in such an out-of-the-way room? It seemed very strange, especially considering Wesley's wounds. Why climb three flights of stairs when there were plenty of fine, comfortable rooms on the ground floor?
I stopped at the doorway. I peered in.
The two windows at the other side of the room were bright with moonlight.
Of course!
This is the room with the view.
From this height, they could probably look down through gaps in the foliage and see the cages.
Watch the women.
From here, they probably could've seen the glow of my cigarette lighter.
But only if they'd been looking.
The way things sounded, they hadn't been looking. If they'd seen my light, they sure wouldn't have gone ahead and turned in for the night.
Along with the snoring, a sound of deep, slow breathing came from inside the room.
Both of them were in there, both asleep.
Apparently.
In a way, I was glad I'd finally found them. The mystery of their whereabouts, at least, was solved.
But part of me wished I hadn't found them.
What the hell was I supposed to do, now?
I could think of only two possible courses of action.
1. Get the hell out of the house.
2. Enter their room.
To be honest, I ached to get out of there. If I stayed, bad stuff was bound to happen.
I thought about getting out and setting fire to the house. It would be a fairly safe, effective way to kill Wesley and Thelma.
Not a half-bad idea.
Trapped this high up, their chances of escape would amount to zilch.
There was only one drawback.
(Seems like there's always a drawback.)
Wesley had probably taken the cage keys into the room with him. If I burnt down the house, what would happen to the keys? For starters, I might not be able to find them in the rubble. For enders, what if they melted in the heat? I'm no expert on the melting temperature of gorilla cage keys. After going down with the blazing house, they might be reduced to puddles -- or at least distorted enough to be useless.
In which case, how would I get the cages open?
If that's the only drawback, I thought, then what you've gotta do is sneak into the room and find the keys. Take the keys, then get the hell out of the house and set it on fire.
It seemed like a very good idea.
It had only one drawback: to get my hands on the keys, I would have to enter the room and look around.
And how could I hope to find them in the dark?
Into my head came a voice that sounded like Kimberly. It said, "Quit thinking about all this shit. Just do it."
She was right.
Or I was right, since the voice wasn't really Kimberly's, but mine.
I didn't want to do it.
But I'd found Wesley and Thelma. They were sleeping. Asleep, they were helpless. They were in my power. This might be the best chance I would ever get. If I chickened out, I would hate myself forever.
If I blew it, the women would be the ones to pay.
Before entering the room, I slipped the razor out of my pocket. I thumbed open its blade.
By then, I was doing that schizo thing again: standing outside of myself, a critical and worried observer.
You must be outa your ever-lovin' mind, I thought.
I stepped over the threshold.
The floor squawked.
One of the sleepers snorted. (Wesley, I think.) The other continued to take those long, easy breaths.
They're dead to the world, I told myself.
Unless they're faking it.
And then I thought, What you oughta do is slit their throats right now.