had been carved in flesh that was really stone and would remain upon her
visage from now until the end of time.
He followed her to the trunk. “What are you looking for now?”
At the back of the Ford, fumbling with the keys, she said, “The intruder
wouldn’t have left this here if it could be traced to him. A burglar
wouldn’t leave such an easy clue. No way. So maybe he came here in a
stolen car that couldn t be traced to him.”
Ben said, “You’re probably right. But you’re not going to find the
registration slip in the trunk. Let’s try the glove compartment.”
Slipping a key into the trunk lock, she said, “I’m not looking for the
registration slip.”
“Then what?”
Turning the key, she said, “I don’t really know.
Except…”
The lock clicked. The trunk lid popped up an inch.
She opened it all the way.
Inside, blood was puddled thinly on the floor of the trunk.
Rachael made a faint mournful sound.
Ben looked closer and saw that a woman’s blue high-heeled shoe was on
its side in one corner of the shallow compartment. In another corner
lay a woman’s eyeglasses, the bridge of which was broken, one lens
missing and the other lens cracked.
“Oh, God,” Rachael said, “he not only stole the car.
He killed the woman who was driving it. Killed her and stuffed the body
in here until he had a chance to dispose of it. And now where will it
end? Where will it end?
Who will stop him?”
Badly shocked by what they’d found, Ben was nevertheless aware that when
Rachael said “him,” she was talking about someone other than an
unidentified burglar.
Her fear was more specific than that.
Two snowflake moths swooped around the overhead fluorescent light,
batting against the cool bulbs, as if in a frustrated suicidal urge to
find the flame. Their shadows, greatly enlarged, darted back and forth
across the walls, over the Ford, across the back of the hand that
Rachael held to her face.
The metallic odor of blood rose out of the open trunk of the car. Ben
took a step backward to avoid the noxious scent.
He said, “How did you know?”
“Know what?” Rachael asked, eyes still closed, head still bowed,
coppery red-brown hair falling forward and half concealing her face.
“You knew what you might find in the trunk. How?”
“No. I didn’t know. I was half afraid I’d find..
something. Something else. But not this.”
“Then what did you expect?”
“Maybe something worse.”
“Like what?”
“Don’t ask.”
“I have asked.”
The soft bodies of the moths tapped against the firefilled tubes of
glass above. Tap-tap-tick-tap.
Rachael opened her eyes, shook her head, started walking away from the
battered Ford. “Let’s get out of here.”
He grabbed her by the arm. “We have to call the cops now. And you’ll
have to tell them whatever it is you know about what’s going on here.
So you might as well tell me first.”
“No police,” she said, either unwilling or unable to look at him.
“I was ready to go along with you on that. Until now.
“No police,” she insisted.
“But someone’s been killed!”
“There’s no body.”
“CItrist, isn’t the blood enough?”
She turned to him and finally met his eyes. Benny, please, please,
don’t argue with me. There’s no time to argue. If that poor woman’s
body were in the trunk, it might be different, and we might be able to
call the cops, because with a body they’d have something to work on and
they’d move a lot faster.
But without a body to focus on, they’ll ask a lot of questions, endless
questions, and they won’t believe the answers I could give them, so
they’ll waste a lot of time. But there’s none to waste because soon
there’re going to be people looking for me… dangerous people.”
“Who?”
“If they aren’t already looking for me. I don’t think they could’ve
learned that Eric’s body is missing, not yet, but if they have he,and
about it, they’ll be coming here. We’ve got to go.
“Who?” he demanded exasperatedly. “Who are they?
What are they alter? What do they want? For God’s sake, Rachael, let