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His back was cut in a series of diagonal slices that went right through to his shoulder blades and his ribs. He actually felt the blade sliding against the bone. He flailed around with his bleeding hands, trying to stop his invisible assailant from cutting him anymore, but there was nobody there, and all he succeeded in doing was decorating the shower cubicle in a ghastly scarlet parody of an action painting.
"Jean," he whispered.
With a soft pop, the point of a blade broke his skin just above his pubic hair. There was a moment's hesitation, and then the blade itself was pushed in deep through the layers of subcutaneous fat and into his stomach muscles. He cried out, "No-no-no-no-no!" because the blade was so cold and the pain was too much for him to bear. He tried to climb to his feet, his bloody hands sliding frantically against the tiles, and he almost succeeded. But then he slipped and fell down onto his knees again, and as he did so the blade cut his belly wide open all the way to his breastbone, where it stuck for a second before it was pulled out.
His intestines slithered out of his stomach cavity and piled up into a sloppy heap in the overflowing shower tray. He looked down at them, all yellowish and glistening and streaked with blood, and wondered if he should try to gather them up and stow them back in. He had seen a marine try to do it in Dong Ha. But his large intestine was sliced in half, and maybe it wasn't worth it.
He leaned one shoulder against the side of the shower. The best thing to do was sleep for a while, and then try. All that jogging around the block had made him feel so tired. That goddamn Dr. Gassman would be the death of him. He closed his eyes for a while, while the warm shower water poured into his face and filled his opened-up belly with a hollow gurgling noise. It reminded him of summer rain, gurgling down the gutters.
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CHAPTER EIGHT
A different nurse was on duty when Decker and Hicks arrived at the hospital to question Jerry Maitland—a severe fortyish woman with a World War Two helmet of iron-gray hair. "I don't want my patient agitated," she warned them. "He's in a very depressed state, and we wouldn't like to exacerbate his condition, would we?"
Decker laid his hand on her shoulder and smiled. "Do you like Mexican food?" he asked her.
Jerry was sitting up watching the news channel with an untouched lunch tray in front of him, pale chicken salad with watery tomatoes and lime-green Jell-O. Decker sat on the end of the bed and helped himself to one of Jerry's saltines. "How's it going, Jerry?" he said, snapping the cracker in half. "I brought my partner, Sergeant Hicks, to see you."
Jerry glanced at them both but said nothing. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen and it was obvious that he had been crying.
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"Had any more thoughts about the knife, Jerry?" Decker asked,
"I told you. There was no knife."
"Okay . . . how about this? Did you ever see a guy with a beard skulking around your neighborhood?"
"A beard?"
"That's it. Tall guy, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and one of those coats with a cape over the shoulders? Ever see anybody who looked like that?"
Jerry shook his head.
"Show him the picture, Hicks," Decker said. Hicks produced a folded-up copy of Sandra's drawing and held it up in front of Jerry's face.
"Not the kind of guy you'd forget in a hurry, huh?" Decker asked him.
"That's the front of our house," Jerry said, perplexed.
"That's right. And the person who drew this picture says that she saw this guy coming out of your front door round about the time that your wife was killed."
"I never saw him before in my life."
"He couldn't have been hiding in your house without you knowing it?"
"How could he? I mean, look at him. Besides that, Alison was killed right in front of my eyes and there was nobody there."
"You're totally sure about that?" Hicks asked. "You couldn't have suffered a blackout or nothing like that?"
"I was losing a lot of blood and I was feeling pretty faint. But I'm sure I didn't lose consciousness. I saw Alison fall down, but I swear to God there was nobody there."
"You realize you're not exactly helping your own defense?"
"I don't need a defense. I know that I was the only other person in the house but I didn't do it. It was like she was attacked by somebody invisible."
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Hicks took out his notebook. "You interested in military memorabilia at all, Mr. Maitland?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know . . . guns, knives, battle flags, that kind of stuff." Jerry shook his head.
"You've never owned, like, a sword, or a bayonet?"
"No, of course not. But this man in this picture . . . he's carrying some kind of a sword, isn't he?"
"That's right," Decker said. "It's a bayonet, as a matter of fact, and our medical examiner is of the opinion that your Alison was killed by a very similar weapon."
Jerry stared at him. "So it's possible that he might have done it? Even though I didn't see him?"
"That's what we're trying to establish. The only problem is, there were more than forty people in the immediate vicinity of your house when this guy was walking out of the front door, and only one of them saw him."
"Maybe they just didn't notice him."
"Dressed like that? In broad daylight?"
"I guess so," Jerry admitted. "But it doesn't make any sense at all, does it?"
Decker stood up. "You're right. It doesn't. So we're still left with the circumstantial evidence that you killed Alison. You realize that if you admit it, the DA will go much easier on you."
"Especially if you remember what you did with the weapon," Hicks put in.
Jerry shook his head even more emphatically. "I can't admit it, because I didn't do it. I never owned a bayonet and I never touched a hair of Alison's head."
"Okay," Decker said. "The doctors say that you'll be fit enough to go in front of the judge on Tuesday. In the meantime, you know how to get in touch with me if you have a sudden revelation."
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"You're going to look for this man, though?"
"Oh, sure. We have to. Elimination of suspects, no matter how unlikely."
Jerry frowned at the drawing again. "He reminds me of somebody. I can't think who."
"You think you might have seen him before?"
"I don't know . . . there's just something familiar about him. I can't think what it is."
"Well, if it comes to mind . . ."
"Sure," Jerry said.
They left the room. "What do you think?" Decker asked Hicks.
"I think he did it. I'm sure he did it."
"What about the So-Scary Man?"
"Didn't exist. Come on, Lieutenant, Sandra's mentally challenged. I know she draws good, but a good drawing isn't evidence, is it?"
"Yeah, you're right," Decker agreed. "It's just that—why the hell did he do it?"
As they walked past the nurses' station, the helmet-haired nurse called out, "Lieutenant!"
"Yes? Oh, I'm sorry, nurse. We're through with Mr. Maitland for now."
"Oh, that's all right. I just wanted you to know that I do like Mexican food. In fact, I like it very much."
Decker looked at Hicks in desperation but all Hicks could do was grin.
"What's your name?" Decker asked her.
"Marion."
"Okay, Marion. Next time I call by, I'll bring you my recipe for cheese empanadas."
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CHAPTER NINE
They were driving back to headquarters when Decker's cell phone played Beethoven.
"Martin."
"Decker? It's Rudisill. The captain wants you over at 2024 Laburnum Street, just off Nine Mile Road. Like, you know, instantly."