he had regained his self-confidence, he had lost so much else.
Everything had changed.
Forever.
He knew that he didn’t even yet grasp just how dreadfully their lives
had been altered. In the hours remaining before dawn, as he tried to
think what steps they must take to protect themselves, and as he dared
to consider the few possible origins of The Other that logic dictated,
their situation inevitably would seem increasingly difficult and their
options narrower than he could yet envision or admit.
For one thing, he suspected that they would never be able to go home
again.
He wakes half an hour before dawn, healed and rested.
He returns to the front seat, switches on the interior light, and
examines his forehead and left eye in the rearview mirror. The bullet
furrow in his brow has knit without leaving any scar that he can detect.
His eye is no longer damaged–or even bloodshot.
However, half his face is crusted with dried blood and the grisly
biological waste products of the accelerated healing process. A portion
of his countenance looks like something out of The Abominable Dr.
Phibes or Darkman.
Rummaging in the glove compartment, he finds a small packet of Kleenex.
Under the tissues is a travel-size box of Handi Wipes, moistened
towelettes sealed in foil packets. They have a lemony scent.
Very nice. He uses the Kleenex and towelettes to scrub the muck off his
face, and he smooths out his sleep-matted hair with his hands.
He won’t frighten anyone now, but he is still not presentable enough to
be inconspicuous, which is what he desires to be. Though the bulky
raincoat, buttoned to the neck, covers his bullet-torn shirt, the shirt
reeks of blood and the variety of foods that he spilled on it during his
feeding frenzy in McDonald’s rainswept parking lot last evening, in the
now-abandoned Honda, before he’d ever met the unlucky owner of the
Buick. His pants aren’t pristine, either.
On the off chance he’ll find something useful, he takes the keys from
the ignition, gets out of the car, goes around to the back, and opens
the trunk. From the dark interior, lit only partially by an errant beam
from the nearby tree-shrouded security lamp, the dead man stares at him
with wide-eyed astonishment, as if surprised to see him again.
The two plastic shopping bags lie atop the body. He empties the
contents of both on the corpse. The owner of the Buick had been
shopping for a variety of items. The thing that looks most useful at
the moment is a bulky crew-neck sweater.
Clutching the sweater in his left hand, he gently closes the trunk lid
with his right to make as little noise as possible.
People will be getting up soon, but sleep still grips most if not all of
the apartment residents. He locks the trunk and pockets the keys.
, The sky is dark, but the stars have faded. Dawn is no more than ,
fifteen minutes away.
Such a large garden-apartment complex must have at least two or three
community laundry rooms, and he sets out in search of one.
In a minute he finds a signpost that directs him to the recreation
building, pool, rental office, and nearest laundry room.
, The walkways connecting the buildings wind through large and
attractively landscaped courtyards under spreading laurels and quaint
iron carriage lamps with verdigris patina. The development is well
planned and attractive. He would not mind living here himself. Of
course his own house, in Mission Viejo, is even more appealing, and he
is sure the girls and Paige are so attached to it that they will never
want to leave.
The laundry-room door is locked, but it doesn’t pose a great obstacle.
Management has installed a cheap lockset, a latch-bolt not a dead-bolt.
Having anticipated the need, he has a credit card from the cadaver’s
wallet, which he slips between the faceplate and the striker plate. He
slides it upward, encounters the latch-bolt, applies pressure, and pops
the lock.
Inside, he finds six coin-operated washing machines, four gas dryers, a
vending machine filled with small boxes of detergents and fabric
softeners, a large table on which clean clothes can be folded, and a