Bill sealed up the bag very thoroughly and waved his hand in front of his face before breathing in. It was wonderful stuff — fast acting, quickly metabolized out of the system and only occasionally responsible for heart failure and strokes in people and animals who had breathed a little too much of it.
He slipped the plastic bag inside another one, sealed it, and set the thin package into the shopping bag. The shopping bag was black, large and strong, featuring thick twine handles and the name of a department store in gold script. His book and bedsheet were already in it. New latex gloves, too. He added the Slim Jim. It extended a few inches from one end so Bill used the sheet to cover the top of it, disguising it as a mysterious purchase, or perhaps something to return. The sweet, ethereal smell of the gas lingered as he went back to the driver’s seat.
His last piece of working gear was the micro .32 derringer that he now took from the glove box and slipped into his coat pocket.
Bill always brought reading material for his short bus rides. In this case, Fodor’s Los Angeles, to suggest he was just visiting. He sat near the front of the bus, on the right side, glancing out the window only occasionally and otherwise engrossed in the book. In fact he was picturing Ronnie: her shapely legs, dark curly hair and high, intelligent forehead. Tall and young. Wouldn’t it be something if she’d worn her hair up today?
He disembarked at the north side of the Main Place, then walked around the parking lot to where Ronnie’s car was still waiting on the south side.
The light wasn’t particularly good where Ronnie had parked: perfect. He walked past her car and noted it was a Chevrolet. He looked around, saw no one nearby, then went back to the car, set the bag down and acted like he was getting out his keys. Instead he bent down and got the Slim Jim, leaned up close to the old sedan and slid the tool down between the window glass and the door. He kept his head up, his eyes alert. It was a matter of feel at this point, and Bill had plenty of that. He’d practiced on hundreds and hundreds of cars so that this part of his job would go smoothly. And it did. On his third pass with the Jim he caught the lock arm and he pulled it up. He heard the tinny report of the lock opening and saw the little black plastic rod stand up inside the glass like a soldier at attention. Then he opened the door, set his bag on the passenger’s seat, sat down and slammed the door shut.
A moment later he was in the backseat on the driver’s side, slumped down and head back like a dozing airline passenger, keeping his eyes on the mall exit.
The black shopping bag with the Fodor’s and Slim Jim were tucked behind the passenger’s seat. The gas bag was on his lap. It was important to have that in a convenient place when you needed it, because if you opened it too soon they might smell something funny and whirl around and ruin the whole capture.
That hadn’t happened, yet. The closest was Irene Hulet — his third — who had sneezed one second before he was going to clamp his hand over her mouth and apply the chloroform cloth. That had left him with the cloth already out, spreading its deadly fumes into the closed car.
Luckily, the sneeze had left her without breath for a few nice seconds, as sneezes often do. So by the time she was ready to breathe again, Bill had his left hand tight against her mouth and his right cupping the cloth over her nose. About seven seconds. The reason it worked so well was that people inhaled abruptly and deeply when they were surprised and frightened, then needed to do it again quickly when they got mostly gas. That, plenty of CHCL3, and a little muscle. It helped if the headrests were solid rather than adjustable, so you could clamp your forearms around each side for purchase as you pulled back.
Bill slid down a little further for comfort, but kept his eyes open. His heart was beating hard and fast. He wanted to hurt someone badly while he felt good. Real good. He was angry, and getting angrier the longer he waited. He could almost smell the anger inside him, like a bad wire smoldering deep within its bundle. He worked his hands into the gloves.
Then he saw Ronnie come through the door.
He melted down into the floor space behind the driver’s seat, unlocking the outside gas bag and positioning his thumbs and index fingers on the lips of the inside one. The closing of the car door would be his cue to open it.
He heard her keys in the lock, then the door opening. Her purse clunked to the passenger’s seat. When he felt her weight settle and heard the door slam he rose behind the seat and clenched his open left hand over her mouth. A split second later his right snugged the damp rag over her nose and Bill pulled back, hard, like a rower going for speed.
“Evenin’, honey.”
Ronnie was a strong one. One. Two. She felt like a big wild animal. Three. Four. But Bill was stronger. This part of it was like a cowboy trying to stay on a bucking bronco. Five, while her feet kicked the pedals and her knees banged the underside of the dash. Six. She dropped the keys. Seven.
Then it was over. He felt her head go loose on her neck and he wrenched her down and to the right, out of sight. He slid up onto the seat, resealing the cloth and tossing it into his shopping bag. Bracing his feet on the front seat he pulled Ronnie toward him like a spider gathering in a huge moth. Head and shoulders. Butt. Legs and feet. One shoe had fallen off somewhere.
She whimpered. The sweet smell of the chloroform lingered in the car.
He was breathing hard as he got her laid out across the back and squeezed himself into the front of the car. He pulled the sheet out and covered her, tucking it just under her chin like she was asleep. The keys had landed right in the middle of the floor mat, as if she’d placed them there just for him.
Three minutes later he was slipping the big Chevy in between the towering earth movers, up next to his van. The fury was at bay now and he could feel the deeply meaningful sensation of affection stirring again down there. He looked out at the moon, then back at the unconscious woman.
He imagined cruising into his garage and having the door shut automatically behind him, then getting things set up. Preparation was sacred. He imagined the candlelit garage with Ronnie on the table and the Porti-Boy pulsing rhythmically as the fluid ran in. He could feel his hands massaging the fluid deep into her thirsty tissues, bringing her body to life again, to a rosy glow that began its bloom at the jugular in her clavicle and spread down, throughout her system and finally back to her angelic face. She would bloom beneath his touch like a flower. He could see her eyelids flutter as they awoke to the fluid of eternity. And he could see himself restored, too, gradually, as he worked the spirit back into Ronnie’s tired body. Yes, slowly it would come to him — the feeling worth any price, the feeling that was the spark of his dreams and the flame of his humanity. He would caress her with the expensive scented oils, perfume and dress her in the silk and satin lingerie, dry and style her hair while he grew powerful in his desires. He imagined carrying her upstairs to bed, whispering in her ear. And then he’d really find out how much she wanted him. It was the best thing this short, sad life had to offer, for both of them.
Twenty-One
Hess stood beside Merci near the CAT D6 and looked at the tire tracks left by the vehicle that had carried Veronica “Ronnie” Stevens’s body into the night.
Kneeling and pointing with his pen, he commented on the tracks of the mismatched tires. They were some of the best tire prints he’d seen at a crime scene because of the soil here in the construction yard — oily, damp and loosely packed.
Hess had been awakened by Merci’s call at 6 A.M. He was a little groggy then, but unfettered by chemotherapy, radiation and the stout scotches he’d drunk before bed. Now his mind felt sharp and clear, though his fingers were oddly heavy, like saps at the ends of his hands.