Clearfield, Pennsylvania, which was the next stand, Conrad would follow
later in the day in his thirty-four-foot Travelmaster. At last, aching
in every muscle, he trudged back to his motor home– which was parked
among more than two hundred similar vehicles, trailers, and mobile
homes–in the back lot, at the west end of the fairgrounds.
The nearer he drew to the Travelmaster, the slower he moved. He
dawdled. He took time to appreciate the night. It was quiet,
serene.
The breezes had blown away to another part of the . county, and the
air was preternaturally still.
I Dawn was near, although no light yet touched the eastern horizon.
Earlier, there had been a moon, it had set behind the mountains not
long ago. Now there were only scudding, slightly phosphorescent
clouds, silver-black against the darker, blue-black sky. He stood at
the door of his motor home and took several deep breaths of the crisp,
refreshing air, not eager to go inside, afraid of what he might find in
there.
At last he could delay no longer. He steeled himself for the worst,
opened the door, climbed into the Travelmaster, and switched on the
lights.
There wasn’t anyone in the cockpit. The kitchen was deserted, and so
was the forward sleeping area.
Conrad walked to the rear of the main compartment and paused,
trembling, then hesitantly slid open the door to the master bedroom.
He snapped on the light.
The bed was still neatly made, precisely as he’d left it yesterday
morning.
There wasn’t a dead woman sprawled on the mattress, which was what he
had expected to find.
He sighed with relief.
A week had passed since he had found the last woman. He would shortly
find another. He was certain of that, grimly certain. The urge to
rape and kill and mutilate came at weekly intervals now, far more
frequently than had once been the case. But apparently it had not
happened tonight. Feeling marginally better, he went into the small
bathroom to take a quick, hot shower before going to bed–and the sink
in there was streaked with blood. The towels were darkly stained,
sodden, lying in a pile on the floor.
It had happened.
In the soap dish, a cake of Ivory sat in a slimy puddle, it was
red-brown with blood.
For nearly a minute Conrad stood just inside the doorway, staring
apprehensively at the shower stall. The curtain was drawn. He knew he
had to whisk it aside and see if anything waited behind it, but he
dreaded making that move.
He closed his eyes and leaned against the doorjamb, weary, pausing
until he could regain sufficient strength to do what must be done.
Twice before, he had found something waiting for him in the shower
stall.
Something that had been ripped and crushed, broken and chewed on.
Something that had once been a living human being but wasn’t anymore.
He heard the shower curtain rattling back on its metal rod:
snickety-snickety-snick.
His eyes snapped open.
The curtain was still closed, hanging limply, unstirred. He had only
imagined the sound.
He let out his breath in a whoosh!
Get on with it, he told himself angrily.
He licked his lips nervously, pushed away from the jamb, and went to
the shower stall. He gripped the curtain with one hand and quickly
jerked it aside.
The stall was empty.
At least this time the body had been disposed of. That was something
to be thankful for. Handling the disgusting remains was a chore that
Conrad hated.
0f course he would have to learn what had been done with the latest
corpse. If it hadn’t been taken far enough away from the fairgrounds
to deflect police suspicion from the carnival, he would have to go out
soon and move it.
He turned away from the shower stall and began to clean up the bloody
bathroom.
Fifteen minutes later, badly in need of a drink, he fetched a glass, a
tray of ice cubes, and a bottle of Johnny Walker from the kitchen. He
carried those items into the master bedroom compartment, sat on the
bed, and poured two or three ounces of Scotch for himself. He sat