Maybe he was in the house.
"Irene!"
The house was silent.
Tritia 'sheart was pumping crazily, pounding with an amplified fear rhythm she could feel in her stomach and throat and could hear in her head. She should get out of here now, fast, and drive straight to the police station and bring someone back. The last thing she should do was explore on her own. But her feet carried her forward into the kitchen. The floor was littered with pots and pans and broken china, and she stepped gingerly over the smashed pieces of shattered glass. On the counter, she could see a loaf of homemade bread covered with splotches of green mold. In the window, Irene's plants had grown wildly before succumbing to the brown dryness of a waterless death. The room was filled with the mingled odors of spices, herbs, and decay.
"Irene!" she called.
No answer.
She continued through the doorway into the living room, took in at a glance the ripped upholstery of the antique furniture, the overturned television, the debris on the Oriental carpet, and realized that Irene was not here.
She recalled the parcels in the den, and she thought she knew in which room she would find her friend. She felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Irene!" she called.
No answer.
Now was the time for her to leave, or at least to pick up the phone and call the police, but she continued to move deeper into the house. She would check the other rooms first. If Irene was not in any of them, if it was clear that she was in the den, then she would call the police.
Tritia walked down the hallway. She glanced into the bedroom. The pillows had been ripped open, feathers were everywhere, but there was no sign of her friend. She saw her own reflection in the cracked mirrored door of the busted armoire. She had not realized how truly frightened she was until she saw the anxious expression on her pale face.
She moved down the hall to the bathroom.
Where the tiled floor was covered with ripped brown packaging paper, untied string, opened boxes.
Where Irene was lying in the tub, wrists slit.
Tritia stared at her friend. She had obviously been here for some time.
The skin on her body was white and waterlogged, her sightlessly staring eyes glazed over with dried cataracts. The blood had settled, separating from the lighter water, and the bottom portion of her body was hidden beneath a heavy red liquid blanket. Around her floated the individual pieces of her husband's body.
Arms. Legs. Hands. Head. The pieces were white and bloodless, pruned with water, and they bobbed in the bath, crowding for space.
Floating between Irene's outstretched legs was a small severed, castrated penis.
Tritia wanted to look away but could not. Her gaze was fixed on the bloody bathtub.
She did not realize she was screaming until her throat began to hurt.
42
Doug made lunch, hot dogs, and as he spread mustard over the buns, he glanced worriedly out the window at Tritia . She was working in her garden, trying once again to get it into some semblance of order. He was concerned about her. After her initial shock at finding Irene's body, she had quickly returned to normal. Two days later, she was her usual self. She was not disturbed, not frightened, not withdrawn, not anything. That wasn't right, he knew. That wasn't natural. He himself was still coming to grips withHobie's death, and he had not even seen his friend's body. Tritia had discovered Irene in the tub, wrists slashed, surrounded by body parts, and she was acting as though nothing unusual had happened, as though nothing was wrong. He had not talked about it with her, had not brought up the subject of Irene at all for fear of disturbing her unnecessarily. He had assumed that when she was ready to discuss it, she would do so. But so far she had not been inclined to bring it up, which was definitely out of character for her.
He watched her through the window, pulling weeds, wondering if this was some sort of elaborate denial, if one day, unexpectedly, she was just going to snap and all of her pent-up emotions would explode.
Maybe he would broach the subject with her, bring it up gently.
As usual, the mailman had gotten off scot-free. The police had questioned him, but he had pulled the old the-Postal-Service-is-not-responsible-for-the content-of-the-mail-it-delivers crap, and as usual, there was not a damn thing anyone could do about it. There was nothing linking him specifically to the mail sent to Irene, nothing anyone could prove.
The mailman promised that he would institute a thorough Postal Service inquiry to discover the source of the body-part packages.
A thorough Postal Service inquiry . . .
Shit.
The hot dogs were boiling, and Doug told Billy to run outside and get his mother, it was time for lunch.
"Wait," Billy said. "It's almost time for a commercial."
"You've seen that show a thousand times. Go get her now."
"Wait a sec."
Doug sighed, shaking his head. He opened the window, letting in a breath of warm summer air. "Time to eat," he called.
She looked up at him, squinting, and waved. "Be right there."
He watched her put down the trowel, brush off her hands and knees, and jog toward the porch. They should have gotten out of here. They should have left Willis a long time ago, when everything first started, before it all got too deep. Now it was too late. They were stuck. The gas stations in town had run out of gas, and no new fuel was scheduled to be delivered because none of the stations, not even the name franchises, had paid their bills.
The checks had gotten lost in the mail.
Doug turned off the stove, took out the hot dogs, and used a fork to pick them up, putting them in the buns. The gas shortage was only temporary, he knew.
Phone calls were being made, problems explained, deals negotiated, but for at least the next three or four days no one could leave Willis unless they already had a full tank of gas. The Bronco was only half full.
He couldn't help feeling that everything was coming to a head, that three, or four days was all the mailman needed to accomplish whatever it was he had set out to do.
Tritia came in sweating, wiping her forehead. "Whew! It's hot out there today. I hope we get some rain this afternoon to cool it off. Anybody hear the weather?"
Doug shook his head. Billy, watching _Dick Van Dyke_, did not even hear the question.
Tritia washed her hands and face in the bathroom. She gratefully accepted the plate of hot dogs, though her face clouded over for a second when he handed her a glass of iced tea. She took her food onto the porch and Doug followed her outside, bringing his own lunch. They sat next to each other at the table.
Tritia took a bite of her hot dog. "What are your plans for this afternoon?" she asked.
He frowned. "Plans? I don't --"
"Good. I want you to dig up thatmanzanita by the side of the house. I
want to expand my garden."
"Look --" he began.
"You have something more important to do, Mr. Teacher?"
He looked at her, and the worry must have shown in his eyes because she looked away, refusing to meet his gaze. "No," he said softly. "I don't have anything else to do. I'll help you with your garden."
"Thank you." She took another bite of her hot dog.
Inside, the phone rang, its tones clear and pure in the still noon air.
Doug stood up, pushing back his chair. "I'll get it," he called. He hurried inside and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
A woman's voice jumped out at him. "Help me! Dear Jesus God, help! Oh, God! I'm here by myself!"
Goose bumps arose on Doug's arms. "Who is this?" he asked.
" Tritia ? Help me!"
"This isn't Tritia , this is --"
"Oh God oh Jesus I hear him now!"
"What is it?"
" Tritia !" the woman screamed.
"Trish!" Doug yelled. "Get in here fast!"