Halfway up, it lit the red of a gasoline can lying on its side. He climbed to the can. Its caps were still in place. A three-foot length of rope had been passed through its handle and knotted, forming a sling. Liquid sloshed inside the can as he set it upright. He holstered his pistol and unscrewed one of the caps. He dropped it into his shirt pocket and sniffed the opening. Gasoline, all right. As he reached into his pocket for the cap, he heard breathing above him. Then a sound of parched laughter.
His beam climbed the stairs, lit a bare leg running blood, a hip, a mauled breast, a face. Hair hung down the face. Blood trickled from its chin. A flap of forehead skin hung down, hiding one eye.
More laughter came, as if trickling from her open mouth along with blood.
“Mary?” Jud called quietly up the stairs. “Mrs. Ziegler?”
She came forward in a strange, gliding way, her arms swinging loosely, her legs barely seeming to move.
Jud lowered his flashlight enough to see that her feet were two inches off the floor.
“Oh God,” he muttered, and started to reach for his pistol.
The body flew down at him.
He dropped to a crouch, bracing himself. The body struck him, rolled over his back with soft liquid sounds, and fell away. It thudded, hitting the stairs below him.
Then something else hit his back.
He shot his elbow into soft flesh and heard an explosion of breath. Gagging at the sour stench, he drove his elbow backward once more and twisted his body. Something sharp raked his shoulder, tearing his parka and skin as the heavy weight left his back. In pain, he dropped his automatic.
He clawed at the stairs, trying to find it. He found the gas can instead. He grabbed it. From below came grunting, snarling sounds.
Swinging the can, he splattered gasoline into the darkness. A pale shape appeared, hunched and climbing. He heard gas spatter it. Its arms flailed, and it shrieked. It knocked the can from Jud’s hands. He backed up the stairs, reaching into his shirt pocket. Behind the cigar box was a book of matches.
Claws tore his thigh.
He ripped a match free, still climbing backward. He scratched it across the abrasive strip and saw a blue splutter.
The match didn’t light.
But the thing was in midair, vaulting the bannister.
It grunted, hitting the floor far below. Then it scampered away toward the kitchen.
Jud searched the stairs until he found his flashlight and gun. Then he sat down, somewhere above the ravaged body of Mary Ziegler, and listened to the house.
CHAPTER TEN
Roy ached. Especially his shoulders and back. He felt as if he’d been driving forever. Only seven hours, though. He shouldn’t feel this bad, not after only seven hours.
He reached into the bag beside him and felt the heat of the Big Macs. He started to pick one up. Then he set it down again. He could wait. He’d be stopping for the night, soon. That would be the time to eat.
As he drove across the Golden Gate, he glanced to the right at Alcatraz. Too dark. He couldn’t see much except the signal light. Just as well. What did he want to see a fucking prison for, anyway?
It’s not a prison, he reminded himself.
Sure it is. Once a prison, always a prison. It could never be anything else.
If he stayed on 101 another ten minutes, he’d be able to see San Quentin. Shit, as if he hadn’t seen enough of that scumhole.
He didn’t want to think about it.
He went ahead and took out a Big Mac. He unwrapped it. He ate slowly, watching the freeway signs. As he swallowed the last bite, he flicked on the turn signal and steered the Pontiac Grand Prix up the Mill Valley exit.
Smooth. He liked the way it handled. Bob Mars Bar had good taste in cars.
Mill Valley hadn’t changed much. It still had the feel of a small, country town. The Tamalpias Theater marquee was dark. The old bus depot looked the same as always. He wondered if it still had all those paperbacks. Over to the left, the old buildings had been replaced by a huge, wooden structure. The place was changing, but slowly.
A big dog, part Lab, wandered into the intersection. Roy stepped on the gas and swerved to hit it, but the damn thing leaped out of range.
At the end of town, he turned onto a road to Mount Tamalpais, Muir Woods, and Stinson Beach. It meandered into the wooded hills. For a while, he passed scattered, dark houses. Then they were gone. He drove deeper into the woods, sometimes slowing almost to a stop as he took the tight curves.
When he came to a dirt turn-out, he pulled onto it and stopped. He shut off the headlights. Darkness wrapped the car. The dome light came on when he opened the door. He opened the back door and pulled a red Kelty backpack off the seat. After taking a flashlight from one of its side pockets, he shouldered the pack. He shut the car doors and stepped to the edge of the woods.
The ground sloped gradually upward. Bushes caught at his jeans as he climbed. Soon after leaving the road, he tripped over a low strand of barbed wire. A barb punctured his pants, scratching his shin. He jerked his pants leg free and continued upward.
At the top of the slope, he searched through the evergreens. They seemed closely packed. He was about to give up his search when the beam of his flashlight swept through a space that seemed fairly open. He stepped toward it and grinned.
The clearing, about twenty feet around, had a good flat area for his sleeping bag. A circle of rocks remained where someone else had made a campfire. Inside the circle were half a dozen charred cans. Kneeling, Roy touched one of them. Cold.
He scanned the area with his flashlight. All around the clearing, the forest seemed dark and silent.
This would do fine.
He lowered the backpack and opened it. On top was a plastic ground cloth. He spread it out. Then he took out a blue stuff bag, slipped the drawstring loose, and pulled out Bob’s mummy bag. He put it on top of the ground cloth.
Should’ve brought one of those rubber pads, he thought. If only he’d thought of it.
He wandered into the trees, gathering firewood. He picked up handsful of kindling, and brought them to the circle of rocks. Then he gathered armloads of dead limbs until he had formed a high pile. He tossed the burned cans into the trees.
With toilet paper from the pack, he started the fire. He fed it twigs. It grew, crackling and spitting. Its flames warmed his hands and cast fluttering light through the clearing. He added larger twigs. As the wood caught, he added more.
“Now, there’s a healthy fire,” he muttered.
Three good fires in one day. He was getting a lot of practice.
He stood over the fire, watching its flames leap and curl, feeling its heat on the front of his body. Then he stepped back, out of its heat. He picked up the flashlight.
Once in a while, as he worked his way back through the thick woods, he looked over his shoulder. He could see the fire for a long time, its brightness shimmering on leaves over the clearing. By the time he reached the slope overlooking his car, no trace of the fire was visible.
He climbed down slowly, carefully, to the car. From the front seat, he took the sack from McDonald’s. Then he stepped back to the trunk. He unlocked it. The lid swung up.
Joni squinted when the light beam hit her eyes. She was lying on her side, covered by a plaid comforter.
“Hungry?” Roy asked.
“No,” she said in a pouty voice.
The other times he’d opened the trunk, once every hour after leaving Santa Monica, she’d neither spoken nor moved. In fact, she hadn’t said a word since last night in the bathroom.