Richard Laymon: Flesh

Yesterday. One charbroiled man hanging out the windshield. One woman with pieces of her brain and skull clinging to the wall and spread around in clumps on the kitchen counter. One man munching on her flesh.

Jake felt sick, remembering.

Then his sickness changed to fear as his mind did a slowmotion replay of Smeltzer going for the shotgun. The patch of skin in Smeltzer’s teeth flapped lazily, sprinkling blood, as he turned and reached. Jake thought, He’s going for it! He thought, This is it! He fired, feeling the revolver jump, feeling the blasts slap his ears, smelling the pungent smoke, watching Smeltzer jerk each time a bullet kicked into him, saw again how one slug opened his throat and how he drifted backward, hosing Jake with blood, the skin still clamped in his teeth, his body twitching after he hit the floor, the blood raining down on him.

Jake took a deep, shaky breath, and got to his feet.

I had to do it, he told himself. I’d be dead if I hadn’t dropped him.

It wasn’t an excuse; it was the truth. And he had reminded himself of that truth so many times since last night that he was tired of it.

He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Last night, the water going down the drain had been pink from Smeltzer’s blood. He’d showered until the hot water ran out. Then he had waited half an hour, and taken a second shower. This would be number three.

He stepped under the hot spray and began to soap himself and saw Smeltzer look up at him, ripping a patch of flesh from the woman’s belly. The flesh tore away and he started to turn. He’s going for it!

“Turn it off!” he snapped. “We’ve seen it, we’ve seen it a hundred times, thank you very much. What is this, the goddamn network?”

Just what it’s like, he thought. How many times had they shown the footage of Hinkley blasting away at Reagan, or the Challenger rising beautifully into the sky and blowing up? And each time they show it, you hope it’ll be different this time, you hope they rewrote the script and Hinkley waves instead of shoots, and the Challenger makes it into orbit, and you go charging into the kitchen and Smeltzer and his wife are busy mopping the floor and they look at you as if you’re nuts. But the script never changes. Each replay is identical to the last one, no matter how hard you wish it different.

They aren’t mopping. She’s on the floor with just her chin on the end of her neck, and Smeltzer is down on her. My God what is he doing!

Oh, I do not need this not one little bit. It’s my day off, how about my memory taking the day off, too? Pick up Kimmy in about an hour. That should help. A lot. Call Applegate first, though, find out when he’ll be winding up the autopsy on Smeltzer—guy must’ve been drugged out, probably angel dust, which is about the only logical explanation for what he did. Eating her, Jesus! Had to be angel dust.

But how does angel dust connect with the van? The two incidents had to be related, somehow. Didn’t they?

When he finished showering, Jake got dressed and made a cup of instant coffee. Then he dialed the morgue. “Betty? It’s Jake.”

“How you doing, fella?”

“Hanging in.”

“I heard about last night. Pretty rough, I guess.”

“I’ve had better times.”

“I’m free tonight, just in case you could use a little loving.”

“Thanks for the offer,” he said. Betty’s idea of a little loving was a lot of hard work. She was a twenty-two-year-old blonde beauty. She had been a champion gymnast in high school, and now her performances were confined to the bedroom. She was truly awesome. Jake’s several encounters with her had been real adventures, but exhausting, and afterward he had always somehow regretted the time spent with her.

He was glad, now, that he had an honest excuse for avoiding Betty. “Afraid I can’t, tonight. This is my weekend with Kimmy.”

“Just let me know.”

“I’ll be sure to. Is Steve around?”

“He’s out for the day.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wouldn’t kid you, fella. He got a call first thing this morning from Dr. Willis—the coroner over in Marlowe? Willis wanted him to take a look at some stiff they turned up.”

“We’ve got stiffs of our own.”

“Willis and Steve are old pals. And Willis has a country club in his backyard. I think there was more to it than just a professional consultation. Steve took his golf clubs.”

“Great. And tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“He told me you’d be calling. He said to tell you he’ll be in tomorrow, for sure, and do his number on your guy first thing.”

“Okay.”

“You sure about tonight? What time does your kid hit the sack?”

“I wouldn’t be much fun, anyway.”

“Sure you would. But hey, it’s up to you.”

“I’ll be in touch,” he said. “Take it easy now.”

“You, too, Jake.”

He hung up.

Fifteen minutes later, he swung his car onto the circular driveway and stopped if behind a red Porsche with the cutesy license plate, BB’S TOY.

BB’s toy would look best, Jake thought, wrapped around a tree. Then he felt guilty. After all, she was Kimmy’s mother. Kimmy loved her. Poor taste on the kid’s part, but you love the mother you get, even if she is a slut.

His chest felt tight, his mouth dry, as he stepped onto the front stoop and pressed the doorbell. From inside came the faint sound of chimes playing the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth.

Harold Standish opened the door, stepped back, raised his hands high and said, “Don’t shoot.”

Jake stared at him. The man’s routine hadn’t been amusing the first time he pulled it, over a year ago. It had become less amusing with each repetition. This morning, it gave Jake an urge to tear off Harold’s trim little mustache.

“Just pulling your leg, Jako. Come on in. The little woman’s getting the Kimmer ready for her big day.”

Jake stepped onto the marble foyer.

Harold headed for the living room, walking sideways and smiling, keeping his eyes on Jake—apparently afraid to turn his back. Jake had never spoken a sharp word to the man, had certainly never threatened or assaulted him. But Harold knew what he had done. And, quite obviously, he knew what he deserved.

What Harold did not know was that Jake had never blamed him for the situation. It might have been different if he’d seduced Barbara with good looks and charm, but Harold was a skinny guy with a receding hairline, a nose like a turkey’s beak, and all the charm of a field mouse. He was a wimp. A wimp who made big bucks filling teeth. And Barbara, not Harold, had been the seducer.

She hadn’t dumped Jake for a man. She’d dumped him for a handsome bank balance and plastic cards with dreamy credit lines. Harold was a piece of excess baggage that came along with the good stuff.

If it hadn’t been Harold, it would’ve been someone else.

Barbara was the one who deserved…

“Could I get you some coffee, a sweet roll?” Harold asked.

“No thanks.”

Harold sat on a recliner, but didn’t settle back. He stayed on the edge of the seat as if ready to rush off, and cupped his hands over his knees. “So,” he said.

Jake sat on the sofa.

“So, how are things in law enforcement business? Keeping the criminals in line?”

“We try.” Apparently, Harold hadn’t heard about last night. That was fine with Jake.

Harold nodded as if pondering the response. He gazed at the floor. He seemed nervous about the silence. Afraid Jake might take the opportunity to bring up an unpleasant topic, such as adultery? Ah, he must’ve thought of something. His eyebrows lifted and he looked at Jake. “How do you feel about the handgun initiative?”