Билл Пронзини - In an Evil Time

He knelt with the towel roll, scrubbed at the drops and spatters on the tiles. The stains were mostly dry; they wouldn’t clean up fully without water. To the bathroom once more to wet a few of the paper towels. More scrubbing, and dry sheets to dry the floor afterward. Used towels into the garbage bag. Crawl around on hands and knees, looking for any stains he might have missed. Blip of himself doing it: grisly image with the bagged corpse there beside him, like a scene from a horror movie.

When he was satisfied he stood and scanned the room. No signs of violence remained. The only false note was that the floor in front of the desk seemed unnaturally bare with the carpet moved away. Do something about that later. He bent to grasp the fringed edge of the Sarouk, began to drag it and its burden into the hallway.

His cell phone went off.

In the too warm silence, the eruption of sound was startling enough to jerk his fingers loose from the rug. His heart skipped, banged, skipped; it took a few seconds to pull his breathing under control. Ring. Ring. All right, get a grip, it’s probably Cassie. And for God’s sake don’t let her hear anything in your voice. He blew out a breath, yanked the phone from his belt and clicked on.

“Hollis.”

“Jack, Eric’s home. He came in five minutes ago.”

Careful, now. Careful. “Where was he?”

“He went for a long drive, he said — the Russian River, out to the coast. To cool off.”

“You believe him?”

“I want to.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“Yes, but still... you know how he gets. Closemouthed, withdrawn. He still seems to be on edge, wrought up.”

On edge, wrought up. He crushed a man’s skull this afternoon .

“I’ll talk to him later,” Hollis said. “Main thing is, he’s home safe and nothing happened.”

“This time,” she said.

“Everything else okay? You know what I mean.”

“So far. When will you be home?”

“I... don’t know yet. I may be late.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake?”

“Nick Jackson wants me to have dinner with him.”

“Beg off, can’t you?”

“It’s more business than social, so I’d better not. There’s no good reason for me to, is there?”

“I suppose not, but—”

“I’ll be home as soon as I can,” he said, and disconnected. Before he replaced the unit he switched it all the way off. No more calls until he was finished with Rakubian. No more little shocks, no more big lies.

He caught hold of the carpet again, dragged it down the hall and through the kitchen onto the porch. Left it near the outside door, then retraced his route to make sure there were no telltale marks on the floor. Some ridges and speckles of dust was all; these he erased with more dampened paper towels.

At the front there was a formal living room, seldom used, as darkly furnished as the library. Two Oriental rugs in there, the largest of them, three by five feet, spread out before the fireplace. He moved a couple of tables, rolled the rug, rearranged the tables and two chairs so that the empty floor space didn’t seem conspicuous. Shouldn’t matter anyhow. Rakubian had permitted only a handful of visitors in the first few months of his marriage, and none at all in the last four or five. A loner — no close friends, few acquaintances. His home was his castle, the kind with a moat around it. Who’d notice anything out of place in here? Or in the library, but Hollis knew he’d never feel secure unless another carpet covered the space where Rakubian had died.

He wiped the tiles in front of the fireplace, took all the soiled paper towels to the porch, and stuffed them into the open trash bag. Carried the rolled carpet into the library and laid it down. Better, much better. It didn’t seem too small for the space, and its pattern resembled the blood-soaked one’s.

Finished. This part of it.

The rest... Don’t think about the rest yet.

He put his jacket on, zippered it to the throat. In the foyer he cracked the front door and peered out at the street. Nobody in sight. He stepped through quickly, shutting the door behind him. When he came out to the sidewalk he saw someone in the park, an overcoated man walking a dog on a leash, but the man wasn’t looking his way. Still he felt exposed, vulnerable as he turned up the street.

Eyes front, same measured pace as before: a man who belonged in this neighborhood as much as the dog-walker. The cold wind beat at him, moaning in his ears, freezing his sweat. By the time he reached the Lexus he was chilled.

Inside, he locked the .22 in the glove compartment. Panicked moment then: he couldn’t find his keys. They weren’t in either jacket pocket, what if they’d fallen out in the library? Right pants pocket, no, left pants pocket... why had he put them there, he never put his keys there. He fumbled the ignition key into the slot.

A car came down Monterey behind him; he heard it, then saw it in the rearview mirror. Passenger car, nondescript, two people inside. He turned his head as it passed, as if he were hunting for something on the seat. It continued on without slowing. He waited until it was two blocks away before he started the engine.

Downhill past Rakubian’s driveway, stop, reverse — telling himself to do this casually, not too fast or too slow, he had every right to be here. He cut the wheel too sharp on the first try, almost ran into the bushes bordering the drive. Come on, come on! Second pass was better, in more or less straight; adjust, back up slow and straight. The street in front of him remained empty. Stop a few feet from the garage... there.

He stood for a few seconds after he stepped out, checking his surroundings. Tall shrubs and trees hid the near neighbor’s property; only the roofline of the house there was visible. More trees at the rear, beyond an expanse of lawn, created a thick screen. It was as if he were standing in a pocket, with the street the only open end. Okay. But he still felt conspicuous as he went around to unlock the trunk and raise the lid.

One thing about a Lexus, it had a wide, deep trunk. He moved the tools and other items, pushing them all against the inner wall. Then he shook out and spread his Cal Poly blanket over the cleared space.

To the porch door, inside to what was left of Rakubian trussed up in the black body bags — not a man anymore, just so much trash to be taken away and disposed of. He bent to work his hands under the bundle, dipped his knees, lifted. Not as heavy as he’d expected: Rakubian hadn’t been a big man except in his own eyes. The slick feel of the bags, the deadweight, brought his gorge up again; he swallowed it down. Check the street. Clear. When he stepped outside he did it too quickly and stumbled, nearly dropped his burden. Careful! But then, in his haste and revulsion, he lowered the body too soon when he reached the open trunk; it struck the edge with a loose thumping sound and flopped in crooked, one end caught on the locking mechanism. The head... the head was still hanging out. He shoved and tugged and finally got all of the bundle inside, curled and bent like an inverted S.

Jesus!

He backed off, sweating in the cold, and turned again to the porch door. And froze. Car on the street, gliding by in the thickening fog. The driver didn’t glance his way — or did he? He couldn’t be sure.

Only a few more things to do. Get the bag containing the waste towels and statuette, pitch it into the trunk. Roll up the bloodstained rug, tie it with a piece of twine, wedge it in on top of the corpse. Close the lid, test the lock. Into the house for one last walk-through to reassure himself that he hadn’t overlooked anything and to test the dead-bolt lock on the front door. Back to the porch, use his handkerchief to wipe the inside doorknob and push-button lock. Set the lock, wipe the outer knob, pull the door shut, test it.