“Always,” Spicer said.
The Machiavellian complexity of the plan delighted Oslett the way Wile
E. Coyote’s elaborate schemes in Road Runner cartoons had thrilled him
as a child–except that, in this case, the coyotes were the inevitable
winners. He glanced at Karl Clocker, expecting him to be likewise
enthralled.
The Trekker was cleaning under his fingernails with the blade of a
penknife. His expression was somber. From every indication, his mind
was at least four parsecs and two dimensions from Mammoth Lakes,
California.
From the briefcase, Spicer produced a Ziploc plastic bag that contained
a folded sheet of paper. “This is a suicide note. Forged.
But so well done, any graphologist would be convinced it was written in
Stillwater’s own hand.”
“What’s it say?” Oslett asked.
Quoting from memory, Spicer said,”
“There’s a worm. Burrowing inside.
All of us contaminated. Enslaved. Parasites within.
Can’t live this way. Can’t live.”
“That’s from the Maryland case?” Oslett asked.
“Word for word.”
“The guy was creepy.”
“Won’t argue with you on that.”
“We leave it by the body?”
“Yeah. Handle it only with gloves. And press Stillwater’s fingers all
over it after you’ve killed him. The paper’s got a hard, smooth finish.
Should take prints well.”
Spicer reached into the briefcase once more and withdrew an other Ziploc
bag containing a black pen.
“Pentel Rolling Writer,” Spicer said. “Taken from a box of them in a
drawer of Stillwater’s desk.”
“This is what the suicide note was written with?”
“Yeah. Leave it somewhere in the vicinity of his body, with the cap
off” Smiling, Oslett reviewed the array of items on the table. “This is
really going to be fun.”
While they waited for an alert from the surveillance team that was
staking out the elder Stillwater’s house, Oslett risked a walk to a ski
shop in a cluster of stores and restaurants across the street from the
motel. The air seemed to have grown more bitter in the short time they
had been in the room, and the sky looked bruised.
The merchandise in the shop was first-rate. He was quickly able to
outfit himself in well-made thermal underwear imported from Sweden and a
black Hard Corps Gore-Tex/Thermolite storm suit. The suit had a
reflective silver lining, foldaway hood, anatomically shaped knees,
ballistic nylon scuff guards, insulated snowcuffs with rubber ired
strippers, and enough pockets to satisfy a magician. Over this he wore
a purple U.S. Freestyle Team vest with Thermoloft insulation, reflective
lining, elasticized gussets, and reinforced shoulders.
He bought gloves too–Italian leather and nylon, almost as flexible as a
second skin. He considered buying high-quality goggles but decided to
settle for a good pair of sunglasses, since he wasn’t actually intending
to hit the slopes. His awesome ski boots looked like something a robot
Terminator would wear to kick his way through concrete block walls.
He felt incredibly tough.
As it was necessary to try on every item of clothing, he used the
opportunity to change out of the clothes in which he’d entered the shop.
The clerk obligingly folded the garments into a shopping bag, which
Oslett carried with him when he set out on the return walk to the motel
in his new gear.
By the minute, he was more optimistic about their prospects.
Nothing lifted the spirits like a shopping spree.
When he returned to the room, though he had been gone half an hour,
there had been no news.
Spicer was sitting in an armchair, still wearing sunglasses, watching a
talk show. A heavyset black woman with big hair was interviewing four
male cross-dressers who had attempted to enlist, as women, in the United
States Marine Corps, and had been rejected, though they seemed to
believe the President intended to intervene on their behalf.
Clocker, of course, was sitting at the table by the window, in the fall
of silvery pre-storm light, reading Hucklebery Kirk and the Oozing
Whores of Alpha Centauri, or whatever the damn book was called. His
only concession to the Sierra weather had been to change from a
harlequin-pattern sweater-vest into a fully sleeved cashmere sweater in
a stomach-curdling shade of orange.
Oslett carried the black briefcase into one of the two bedrooms that