Gideon (29 page)

It did not take long to break into the house, perhaps four minutes to pick the lock, and not much longer than that to do what needed to be done inside.

The top twisted easily off the metal can. Then slowly, as if leaving a trail for someone to follow, the Closer walked methodically through the apartment, pouring a constant stream of gasoline. On the kitchen floor and over the kitchen counters. Into the living room, leaving a wet stream on the carpet, on top of the coffee table, over and around the couch. In the bathroom, the puddle of gasoline spread into the cracks in the tile, and in the bedroom, the bed was thoroughly doused, as were the curtains. Still pouring, the Closer tracked back to the living room, stood over the desk and the expensive computer equipment. Lifting the can to chest level, the Closer drenched the keyboard and the screen, turned the can completely upside down and let its final contents splash over the modem.

From the time of the shooting through the moment the Closer lit the match, dropped it dead center on the casing for the computer’s hard drive, went back out the front door, got into the Suburban, and drove away, exactly twelve minutes had elapsed.

* * *

For some reason Carl had expected the second viewing to be easier. But it wasn’t. If anything, Harry’s body, wedged inside the stainless-steel cubicle in the same twisted and folded position, was even more grotesque. They both stood before the open refrigerator door, a small blast of cold air enveloping them, neither one wanting to make the first move to do what needed to be done.

Finally Carl took a deep breath, reached inside, and took one of Harry’s hands in his. He had never touched a corpse before, and despite his resolve, he flinched at the contact with the cold, dead flesh. Steeling himself, he grabbed Harry’s wrist firmly, then bent down and put his right hand around Harry’s ankle. He looked over at Amanda and, with his eyes, indicated that she should do the same. He saw her swallow nervously.

“Come on. As soon as you grab him, we’ll ease him out. It’s not so bad.”

He could see her lips move almost imperceptibly as she counted to herself, getting ready: one … two … three. Then she grabbed Harry’s hand and his ankle.

He heard her exhale, one long breath, then two quick ones, almost hyperventilating, then another long, slow inhale and exhale. She looked over at him and nodded. She was okay.

Harry Wagner was a big man. In life he had moved lightly on his feet, with the grace and quickness of a dancer. In death they could only move him slowly and awkwardly. There was nothing light or graceful about him now.

They got the top half of his body out without too much of a struggle. He was leaning forward at a forty-five-degree angle, his butt pushing against the back wall of the fridge. Carl did a little maneuvering, and Harry’s right leg topples out and dangled, his shoe scraping along the kitchen floor. Carl had the sudden image of a 250-pound marionette. Another tug and Harry’s left leg was free. There he was, propped up against the edge of the refrigerator in a sitting position, his head drooping to the left.

“Okay,” Carl said. “I’m going to grab him under the arms and stand him up. Once he’s up, you just keep him propped up and I’ll get his pants off.”

She nodded grimly and he lifted. Christ, he was heavy. But so far so good. Carl spread his legs a little wider, as if preparing to do a squat. He pushed off, and Harry was upright.

“He’s going to tilt toward you,” Carl said. “All you’ve got to do is support him. All right?”

“All right.” It wasn’t the most enthusiastic of responses, but it would have to do. He let go slowly and felt Harry ease forward onto Amanda. She grunted as she felt the full force of his weight and he saw her right leg slip back a few inches. But she held him steady.

Carl reached down and undid Harry’s belt, then gingerly unbuttoned his pants and unzipped the fly. He felt the body wobble a bit, and Amanda took another step backward, staggering. Carl bent down, grabbed hold of Harry’s pants at the waist, and tugged hard.

Harry’s pants came down to midthigh, but his upper body jerked forward, and Amanda buckled under the weight. Carl still had hold of the pants, and as Amanda slipped, Harry’s legs flew up in the air, knocking Carl off balance.

The body twisted over in Amanda’s direction, she started to go down, her arms wrapped around Harry’s torso. Carl saw her eyes go wide, he lost his grip on the pants, tried frantically to grab hold of Harry’s coat, his arm, anything, but missed and went flying backward. His hip banged into the kitchen counter, and as he spun around, swearing, he heard Amanda’s voice, quiet and hollow, say “Get him off me.”

Then, louder, “Get him off me.”

Then, louder still, and faster, “Get him off.
Get him off, get him off, get him off!
”

Carl ran across the kitchen, where Harry’s lifeless body sprawled on top of Amanda’s, pinning her to the floor. He tipped Harry over and pushed as Amanda scrambled out from under him and rushed to the sink, gasping, gagging, then breathing deeply until she once again gained control. Carl went to touch her, to hug her reassuringly, but she leapt back, shivering, not yet ready to be touched by anyone, dead
or
alive.

Carl thought she was finished as far as this scheme was concerned, but the trauma seemed only to toughen her resolve. He watched, amazed, as she was already turning back to the body on the floor. “All right,” she said, half to Carl, half to herself, “let’s do it.”

They decided to leave him on the floor this time. They each untied one shoe, and there was something eerie about the act of placing them neatly together by the kitchen table. As Carl started twisting one of Harry’s socks off, he pulled gingerly so as not to hurt or tickle, then realized the absurdity and ripped it off as quickly as possible. The pants were already halfway down. Carl stood over Harry, the body between his legs, and lifted up from the small of the dead man’s back. Amanda braced herself by Harry’s feet and pulled at the pants legs. They slipped off steadily until they rested down at his ankles. Amanda searched the pockets to make sure there was nothing of interest. There wasn’t.

Harry’s shirt was a struggle; the skin on his torso was icy and hard. But Carl got it off, and then the only thing left was Harry’s underwear. Bikini briefs. Carl nodded grimly, got set, and pulled them down to Harry’s knees.

Harry Wagner lay on the cold kitchen floor, naked.

There were no packets. No diaries. No papers. No clues. There was nothing.

“Can we get out of here now?” Amanda said quietly. When he didn’t respond, just kept staring at the body, she said, “Come on, Carl, it’s over. Let’s go.”

“I can’t just leave him here like this.”

“Carl, we have to—”

“Amanda, I
knew
the guy. Let’s just get him dressed and put him back where we found him. Please.”

The underwear and pants went back on first, then the shirt, socks, and shoes. Carl even tied his shoelaces back into a neat bow. Then they dragged the body to the refrigerator, opened the door, and awkwardly managed to shove him back in.

Carl stood before the body. For a moment he felt as if he should say a few words—pay his respects, apologize, something—but then he just closed the refrigerator door, turned his back, and walked out of the house.

Outside, standing in the driveway, they both sucked in the night air as if, while inside the house, they’d been holding their breath, afraid of inhaling the stench of death that had begun to permeate their lives.

“I’m sorry I didn’t handle it better,” she said.

“You were fine. Hell, you were more than fine. I’m the one who screwed up. I was positive we’d find something. It seemed so right. So logical.”

“We
will
find something. I promise.”

He managed a quick, grateful smile. Then they got back into her car. He put the key in the ignition, but his nerves weren’t as ready as he thought. He realized he wasn’t quite ready to drive—he needed a moment to collect himself—so he put his hands on the steering wheel and they sat in the dark driveway.

“You know what was the creepiest thing?” she said. “How, after a few minutes, it didn’t seem so creepy. The fact that he was dead, I mean. I almost felt like a doctor must feel, objective and analytical. I stopped thinking about him as a human being and I could go, “Oh, he wore Armani pants, that’s interesting,” and I could look at the wound and not get grossed out, and focus on
bienvenue
and wonder what that meant—”

“What?” Carl asked. “What do you mean,
bienvenue?
”

“His tattoo.”

“Harry had a tattoo?”

“On his forearm. His right forearm. Wait, it was to my right, so it was to his left.” She tapped a spot several inches above her wrist. “It was right here.”

Carl took his hands off the steering wheel.

“Oh, no,” she groaned. “Don’t tell me. Carl—”

But he didn’t hear the rest of her sentence. He was already out of the car and moving quickly toward the house.

This time their stay inside was brief.

Carl pulled the body partway out of its storage place. This time there was no skittishness as he touched the corpse’s skin. This was all business.

Amanda rolled up Harry’s shirtsleeve just far enough to reveal the small tattoo on the inside of his left forearm. It was the word
bienvenue
written in small, neat script letters.

Staring down at it, Carl said, “He always had his cuffs rolled up. When he was cleaning up after himself, washing the dishes, or just if my place got too hot. I’m telling you, he did not have this tattoo a week ago.”

“So maybe he got one since you saw him.”

“Clearly. The question is why.”

“
Bienvenue
,” Amanda said, mulling it over. “What does it mean?”

“It’s French,” Carl said. “It means ‘welcome.’ “

“So what does
that
mean?”

“I don’t know.” Carl gave a quick salute to the upside-down corpse, half in and half out of the refrigerator. “But Harry,” he finished, “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

* * *

The flames slithered across the bedroom floor, skating from the doorway to bedpost, engulfing the blue and white summer quilt, then leaping to the French lace curtains protecting the windows. The powerful red and blue flames devoured the white lace, spit their way into the walls and beams of the ceiling, then roaring through the entire room, peeling back paint, splintering wood, shattering glass, and turning plastic into a path of molten lava.

The bathroom was a sauna of black smoke and poisonous fumes. It did not take long for the enamel tub to char and become disfigured. As the pipes ruptured, they spewed forth water. The torrents of liquid met the crackling flames, and the hissing and steaming sounds began to scream throughout the neighborhood. It was a mundane inferno, claiming not souls but shower rods and toothbrush holders and cracked tiles.

In the living room, the couch was swallowed in one great whoosh of motion. Antique tables and desks that had survived and functioned for two hundred years were shattered like the cheapest plywood. The computer lasted mere seconds in the furious heart of the blaze. Keys melted. The screen blackened. Its insides were destroyed, bursting apart like ruptured organs.

Working its way through the kitchen now, the flames kicked out into the back alleys. Sparks flew into the night. Great spurts of color rose up toward the sky. Crackling laughter called out to anyone within hearing distance.

It was leaving the confines of its origin now. Spreading into the real world. Terrifying in its beauty. Magnificent in its pure destruction.

Spreading now. Out of control. Burning. Grabbing. Reaching out …

* * *

They didn’t speak during the ride back to Amanda’s. Both of them were racking their brains, trying to figure out the meaning of
bienvenue
. If indeed it had a meaning. But Carl was certain that it did. Harry was not the type to cavalierly go off and brand himself. Not unless there was some purpose. The French meant nothing, as far as he could tell. Welcome? What the hell was that? He didn’t have a clue. But what else could it be? The name of someone? A girlfriend? A wife? A pet name? A last name? A boat? An acronym? The possibilities were endless.

When they were three blocks from her home, Amanda suddenly sat up straighter in her seat.

“What’s that smell?” she asked.

“Something’s burning,” he said. And then: “Listen.”

They heard sirens. And fire engine horns. They seemed distant, but within seconds the noises were right on top of them.

“Oh, my God,” Amanda said slowly. And then in a long, mournful keen, “Oh … my … God …”

He followed her gaze and he could see it. Flames rising high above the houses.

Amanda flung the car door open and jumped out of the car. She began sprinting wildly down the street, her screams barely audible under the overwhelming sounds of the trucks and sirens and ambulances.

Carl ran after her, calling her name. She was really moving, and he didn’t catch up to her until they were half a block away from the fire.

“It’s my house,” she screamed. “It’s my house!” She tried to break away from him, wrenching herself free to run closer, but he grabbed her, yanked her backward. Held her tight and wouldn’t let her go.

“Amanda, no!” he said.

“It’s my house,” she said, and now she wasn’t screaming. It was more like some kind of plea. She slumped forward, rocking on the balls of her feet, and he thought he’d never seen such a sad expression on anyone’s face.

Even from this distance, the heat was overpowering. Police officers and firefighters were converging on the area. Hoses were being unleashed. Questions were being asked of the gathering onlookers.

Carl was suddenly exhausted. The idea of running again was almost incomprehensible. Maybe it was time to just give up. What could they do to him? The idea of surrender seemed blessedly peaceful. This would all be over. No more hiding. No more terror. No more death …

He saw the short, thick body winding its way through the crowd. He couldn’t see the face, just the profile in a quick glance, but Carl knew who it was. Shivers ran down his spine, and he instinctively stepped back. Then the body turned and he got a glimpse of the pockmarked face, the thick-lipped sneer, the dull, malevolent eyes.