In the bedroom, he took one of Linski’s shirts from the closet and struggled into it. He was stiffening fast from the wound.
In the kitchen again, he found a box of large plastic garbage bags and brought one to the master bathroom. He dropped his bloody shirt into it. He used paper towels to wipe his blood off the sink and the mirror, and threw those in the garbage bag when he was done. Standing in the doorway, pulling on his gardening gloves, he studied the bathroom, decided that there was no trace of what he had done, turned off the light, and closed the door.
On his way downstairs, he stumbled and had to grab the railing for support. A spell of vertigo pulled a spinning darkness into the edges of his vision – but then it passed.
Judge’s second shot had missed Chase, but it had thoroughly smashed a three-foot-square ornamental mirror that had hung on the wall above the bar at the far end of the living room. All the glass had fallen out of the ornate bronze frame, and fragments were scattered over a six-foot radius. In five minutes he had picked up all the major shards, but hundreds of slivers still sparkled in the nap of the carpet and in the upholstery of nearby chairs.
He was considering this problem when Richard Linski awoke and called out.
Ben went to the chair in the kitchen. Linski’s wrists were taped to the arms, each ankle to a chair leg. He twisted and tried to break free, but stopped when he realized that he wouldn’t be able to pull loose.
Ben said, “Where is your vacuum sweeper?”
“What?” Linski was still groggy.
“Vacuum.”
“What do you want that for?”
Ben threatened to backhand him.
“In the cellarway,” Linski said.
Ben took the vacuum to the living room and swept up every piece of shattered mirror that caught his attention. Fifteen minutes later, satisfied with the job that he’d done, he put the sweeper away again, just as he had found it.
He secreted the damaged mirror frame in a corner of the garage, behind a stack of other junk.
“What are you doing?” Judge asked.
Ben didn’t answer him.
In the living room again, he replaced the television on its stand, plugged it in, switched it on. A situation comedy was playing, one of those in which the father is always an idiot and the mother is little better. The kids are cute monsters.
Afraid that his spells of dizziness were soon going to progress to disorientation, Ben righted the overturned floor lamp and examined the metal shade. It was dented, but there was no way to tell that the dent was new. He unscrewed the damaged lightbulbs; along with the larger scraps of the broken mirror, he threw them into the plastic garbage bag on top of the bloody shirt and paper towels. He used the pages of a magazine to scoop up the smaller pieces, and threw those and the magazine into the garbage bag.
Returning to the kitchen, Ben said, “Where do you keep spare lightbulbs?”
“Go to hell.”
Ben noticed that there were no red marks on the skin over Linski’s carotid arteries. The pressure had been pinpoint and too briefly applied to produce bruises.
Without Linski’s help, Ben required almost five minutes to find the spare lightbulbs in the back of a kitchen cabinet. He screwed two new 60-watt bulbs into the living-room lamp. The lamp lit when he switched it on.
In the kitchen again, he got a bucket of water, soap, ammoniated cleanser, and a carton of milk – his mother’s favorite spot remover – from the refrigerator. Back in the living room, with several rags and a sponge, he worked on the few small smears of his blood that marred the carpet. When he was done, the faint stubborn stains that remained were all but invisible in the long dark-brown nap. The room wouldn’t have to pass a full forensic investigation, anyway. As long as it appeared that nothing had happened there, the police wouldn’t take a closer look.
He put the cleaning materials away. He threw the rags into the garbage bag with the other items.