It’d been a couple days since Steel had hooked me up with something he called a Ruger Bull Nose or some shit like that. Dude showed me how to fix those silencers I’d been makin’ onto the barrel of that gun, gave me all these little tips just like he was Suzy fuckin’ Homemaker explaining how to use peanut butter to get gum out of hair. Afterward, he says, take a hacksaw, cut the barrel into several pieces and just drop ‘em down into the sewers in different parts of the city. No ballistics, apparently, makes the burden of guilt harder to prove or something? You guys would know more about that than me. Probably that GSR crap he was talkin’, as well.
Anyhow, I had the whole setup in a duffel bag on the back floorboard of my car, along with everything else I thought I’d need. For a couple of days I was practically camped out on Clarice fuckin’ Hudson’s doorstep, man. I mean, I got to know her townhouse fuckin’ intimately.
I knew how the paint was flakin’ away up near the gutters, that the six on her house number was just a little off kilter, that there was a raccoon who came around about three o’clock every morning and disappeared into the little row of hedges beneath her window. I knew the spots in her yard where the grass was dead and brittle and kind of a sickly green. If I were an artist, I could sit here and draw you a picture that would be as good as a photograph.
But did I see the star of this little drama that entire time? Fuck no, man. Not so much as the rustle of a curtain or her head peekin’ out the door to check the mail. When night would come around, the windows would stay dark and it really began to feel like I was stakin’ out an abandoned house. I mean, I’ve seen crypts with more action than that place.
I start thinkin’ that maybe the bitch has split town, ya know? Especially since I’ve been by Dollar Bonanza a time or two and haven’t seen her there either. It’s like the blip that was Clarice fuckin’ Hudson has just disappeared off the radar. Which—if she was still around somewhere—would actually make my job a bit easier, ya know? People woulda been used to not seeing her. Hard to tell how much time coulda passed before anyone really started gettin’ worried enough to file a report. But if she’d taken a powder, that was a different story all together. For all I knew, she coulda been spreading her contagion in Detroit or L.A. or any of a thousand places.
Then I get the bright idea to call up Dollar Bonanza, see? I ask for the manager and tell him how I’m Ms. Hudson’s brother, right? I say I’ve been tryin’ to get in touch with my beloved sis but her phone must be out or something, and could he give her a message for me? Dude get’s all hot under the collar and starts sayin’ something about how she called off sick a few days back and never bothered to come back in. Three no calls, no shows at Dollar Bonanza are apparently taken as a voluntary resignation. He’s sayin’ how if I do get hold of her to tell her not to bother callin’ up Mr. Cartwright with some sob story about how bad she needs this job and all. Then the rude son of a bitch just hangs up on me. The fuckin’ customer service in that place in that place, I swear.
Anyhow, I decide I’m going to give it one more night, right? And then if I still don’t see hide nor hair of this infected whore, I’m cuttin’ outta there and starting this whole process over with the next likely candidate. I know that probably sounds cold, man, but by this point, your lab boys wouldn’t have been able to find any traces of compassion in me with an electron microscope.
Ever since she’d displayed that sixth sign, she’d stopped being a person to me, see? She wasn’t anything more than a meaty bag of germs. There were no more doubts, no more nagging little voices whispering what if you’re wrong? All that mattered now was doin’ everything I could to protect Ocean.
I’m sitting there in my car, listening to a report on NPR about an influx of patients in hospitals, when finally I see something. Nothing more than a shadow passin’ by one of the upstairs windows really. Just a quick patch of darkness flitting by, but it was enough to get my heart a thumpin’ and to make me forget the sweat on my back and how my ass was tingling from sittin’ in that damn car for so long.
She was in there, hidin’ out. She probably was sick, man. Too sick to call her boss, too sick to go out for groceries, just layin’ in bed and not even having the strength to turn the lights on at night. I wanted so badly to just march in there and put her out of her misery, ya know? To just end all that suffering for her, but it was still dusk at this point. Kids were playin’ basketball in the street, old folks were chatting over privacy fences, and business men with loosened ties were pullin’ into driveways. I stayed low and went over the plan again and again in my mind, mentally rehearsing every detail while I waited for those street lights to flicker on.
I swear to God, I’ve been to the furthest reaches of space and time… I’ve seen the past, present, and future sprawled out like an infinitely long and flat road. But nothing, and I mean nothing, compared to the slow centuries of sittin’ in my piece of shit car while I waited for it to get dark. The clock on the dash would say seven-thirty and I’d fidget for what I was sure had to have been forty-five minutes, if not an hour… but when I looked at that clock? Seven-thirty-six, man.
Of course, eventually it did get dark. All the little kiddies scampered off inside, porch lights came on, people poked secret codes into the little keypads of burglar alarms. This little suburb was going to bed.
I grabbed my duffel bag outta the back and pulled a white Tyvek suit out. Just slipped it right over my regular clothes, zipped it up the front and made sure that the elastic cuffs were nice and snug over my wrists and ankles. I left the hood off for the time being and slipped these plastic gloves over my hands, the kind lunch ladies use when they’re dishin’ out the slop, ya know? Then I take my little bag and get out of the car as if wearin’ this get up was as natural as a t-shirt and jeans.
See, Steel says the secret to not looking suspicious is to pretend that you have every right in the world to be doin’ what you’re doin’. It’s only if you look all furtive and sneaky that people start to perk up and take notice, so I walk right across the street, pretending that I’m a plumber, brought out on an after hours call to unclog a toilet or some shit. I waltz right up the little sidewalk I’d come to know so well, act like I’m ringin’ the doorbell… wait a few seconds and go through the whole damn charade again.
I’ve got a pry bar in my duffel I can use to jimmy the door if I have to, but I decide to just try the knob first, ya know? And God musta been smilin’ down on me because that sucker opened right up for me. Too fuckin’ easy, man.
I step into this dark little foyer and close the door behind me. I’m just standin’ there for a bit, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom. Before long, I start makin’ out the silhouettes of a couche and chairs, the stove and fridge over in the kitchen area. After that, the details began to resolve themselves as if the interior of that house were slowly emerging into existence. I could see pictures of smiling faces hangin’ on the walls, what looked like trophies of some sort on top of a bookshelf with more knickknacks than books. A set of stairs leading to the upper floor, that kind of shit.
The entire time, I could hear the rush and gurgle of water and a sound that was almost likes waves lapping against a riverbank after a barge has gone by. I start to notice how there’s this big brown spot on the ceiling, over by the kitchen. I can see droplets of water getting pregnant in the middle of that stain and every few seconds one of them plummets down and hits the carpet with a little squish.