No, he wasn’t a stranger, he was the ice-cream man. The kids saw him today, and they’d see him tomorrow, he’d make sure of that. He’d be on his route for the next week at least, unless there was a cold snap. He knew how cops thought, and if he disappeared, they might look for him. No way was he going to break his pattern. Eventually the cops would question him—not tomorrow, but probably the day after that. He’d tell them he had seen the little girl, that she’d bought a cone from him. He’d cover his tracks there, since the other kids would probably remember that she’d been at the truck. But he’d shrug helplessly, and say that she hadn’t been on the street when he drove off. He’d keep strictly to the truth, just not all the truth.
Now Molly was all his, and no one would take her away from him until he was done with her.
He drove home, stopping to sell cones when kids flagged him down, taking his time. It wouldn’t do to break his pattern. He took out the box that held Molly and brought it upstairs, then made two more trips, for the leftover frozen treats, all in boxes just like the one that held Molly. The neighbors were used to this; it was another part of his routine. He was the invisible man; old Jim always brings in the leftovers and puts ’em in his freezer overnight, it’s cheaper than running the truck-freezer overnight.
He knew what they said about him. That Jim was a good guy—kept to himself mostly, but when it was really hot or he had too much left over to fit in his freezer, he’d pass out freebies. A free ice-cream bar was appreciated in this neighborhood, where there wasn’t a lot of money to spare for treats. Yeah, Jim was real quiet, but okay, never gave any trouble to anybody.
If the cops went so far as to look into his background, they wouldn’t find anything. He ran a freelance ice-cream route in the summer and took odd jobs in the winter; there was no record of his ever getting into trouble.
Of course there was no record. He was smart. Nobody had ever caught him, not when he set fires as a kid, not when he prowled the back alleys looking for stray dogs and cats, and not later, when he went on to the targets he really wanted. He was careful. When he first started on kids, he picked the ones nobody would miss. And he kept up with the literature; he knew everything the cops would look for.
Jim’s apartment was a corner-unit, under the roof. There was nobody above him, the old man under him was stone-deaf, the guy on one side was a stoner on the night-shift, and the couple on the other side kept their music blasting so loud it was a wonder that they weren’t deaf. Nobody would ever hear a thing.
Meanwhile, Jim waited, as darkness fell outside, for Molly to sleep off her ether and her bump; it wasn’t any fun for him when his trophies were out of it. Jim liked them awake; he liked to see their eyes when they realized that no one was coming to rescue them.
He changed into a pair of old jeans and a tee-shirt in the living-room, hanging his white uniform in the closet, then looked in on her again.
She still had a hold on that teddy bear. It was a really unusual toy; it was one of the many things that had marked her when he’d first looked for targets. Jim was really glad she’d kept such a tight grip on it; it was so different that there was little doubt it would have been spotted as hers if she’d dropped it. The plush was a thick, black fur, extremely realistic; in fact, he wasn’t entirely certain that it was fake fur. There was no sign of the wear that kids usually put on that kind of beloved plaything. The mouth was half-open, lined with red felt, with white felt teeth and a red felt tongue. Instead of a ribbon bow, this bear had a real leather collar with an odd tag hanging from it; pottery or glass, maybe, or enameled metal, it certainly wasn’t plastic. There was a faint, raised pattern on the back, and the word “Tedi” on the front in a childishly printed scrawl. The eyes were oddest of all—whoever had made this toy must have used the same eyes that taxidermists used; they looked real, alive.
It was going to prove a little bit of problem dealing with that bear, after. He was so careful not to leave any fiber or hair evidence; he always washed them when he was through with them, dressing them in fancy party clothing he took straight out of the packages, then wrapping them in plastic once they were dressed, to keep from contaminating them. Once he was through with her and dressed her in that frilly blue party-dress he’d bought, he’d cut up her old clothing into tiny pieces and flush them down the john, a few at a time, to keep from clogging the line. That could be fatal.
He’d do the part with the knife in the bathtub, of course, so there wouldn’t be any bloodstains. He knew exactly how to get blood-evidence scrubbed out of the bathroom, what chemicals to use and everything. They’d have to swab out the pipes to find anything.
But the bear was a problem. He’d have to figure out a smart way to get rid of it, because it was bound to collect all kinds of evidence.
Maybe give it to a kid? Maybe not; there was a chance the kid would remember him. By now it had probably collected fibers. . . .
He had it; the Salvation Army box, the one on Colby, all the way across town. They’d let that thing get stuffed full before they ever emptied it, and by then the bear would have collected so much fiber and hair they’d never get it all sorted out. Then he could take her to MacArthur Park; it was far enough away from the collection box. He’d leave her there like he always did, propped up on a bench like an oversized doll, a bench off in an out-of-the-way spot. He’d used MacArthur Park before, but not recently, and at this time of year it might be days before anyone found her.
But the bear—better get it away from her now, before it collected something more than hair. For one thing, it would be harder to handle her if she kept clinging to it. Something about those eyes bothered him, too, and he wasn’t in a mood to be bothered.
He cracked the door open, slipped inside, pried the bear out of her loose grip. He threw it into the bathroom, but Molly didn’t stir; he was vaguely disappointed. He’d hoped she show some sign of coming around when he took the toy.
Well, he had all night, all weekend, as long as she lasted. He’d have to make the most of this one; she was the last of the season.
Might as well get the stuff out.
He went into the kitchenette and dragged out the plastic step-stool. Standing it in the closet in the living-room, he opened up the hatch into the crawl-space. It wasn’t tall enough for him to see what was up there, but what he wanted was right by the hatch anyway. He felt across the fiberglass battings; the paper over the insulation crackled under his fingers. He groped until his hand encountered the cardboard box he’d stored up there. Getting both hands around it, straining on tiptoe to do so, he lowered it carfully down through the hatch. He had to bring it through the opening catty-cornered to make it fit. It wasn’t heavy, but it was an awkward shape.
He carried it to the center of the living-room and placed it on the carpet, kneeling beside it with his stomach tight with anticipation. Slowly, with movements ritualized over time, he undid the twine holding it closed, just so. He coiled up the twine and laid it to the side, exactly five inches from the side of the box. He reached for the lid.
But as he started to open it, he thought he heard a faint sound, as if something moved in the bedroom. Was Molly finally awake?