The Faceless One (23 page)

It had been hours since he had eaten, and the thing agreed he should have sustenance. He had enough on him for gas and food, which was a blessing. He was sure the thing had no qualms about him robbing and killing innocent people. There was proof of that rotting in his trunk.

The gas tank was less than a quarter full, so he pulled up to the pumps. He realized he looked terrible and smelled worse. He had had to shit his pants at one point along the way, the thing refusing to let him stop at any restrooms. He knew that his appearance would attract attention and that might lead to encounters that would slow him down. The thing acknowledged that he could clean up, and that he would be permitted to use a restroom when needed. It was a small victory but an important one.

Stan walked into the convenience store that was part of the gas station. The station was selling Harley shirts and caps, and he took one of the shirts up to the counter. The attendant was a portly man with thinning blond hair. He scratched absently at his left hand, which featured a tattooed heart with the name
HELEN
on a scrolling banner underneath. Stan wondered if the tattoo itched or if the attendant was having second thoughts about making his feelings for Helen so visible and permanent.

“What the hell happened to you?” the attendant asked.

“Got rolled at a rest stop,” Stan lied.

“You want me to call the cops?” the man asked, wide-eyed.

Stan shook his head.

“Punks were headed for Canada. They’re long gone now.”

Man shook his head. “Fuckin’ delinquents.”

Stan nodded and handed him cash for the shirt, gas, and a road map. The attendant tried not to register his disgust at the way Stan smelled. Stan grabbed some prepackaged sandwiches, a large bag of chips, and some bottled water. The attendant rung them up and bagged his purchases.

“Okay if I use your restroom?” Stan asked. “I want to change out of this bloody shirt.”

The man nodded sympathetically and gave him the key, which was affixed to a foot-long section of one-inch pipe.

Stan took the bag to the restroom. The mirror was a piece of reflective metal, scratched and obscured by stickers and the remains of stickers, most of them promoting rock groups he had never heard of. The white residue from peeled stickers now served as a message board for blowjobs, gang affiliations, and numbers to score drugs, written in markers or ballpoint pen. He found a small area of mirror still serviceable, the patches of white around him like asymmetrical snowflakes.

He looked like shit. There was blood caked in his nostrils, and a crusty trail down his chin and neck. There was also a thin line of blood that had leaked from his now-useless ear.

He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it into the trash. He cleaned up as best he could. The soap in the restroom was that powdered pink shit, which he really hated. There were no towels, just a hand dryer. He used toilet seat covers to dry himself, the thin paper tearing and leaving thin strips like feathers on his skin.

Not feathers.

No, they were like the thin strips of paper that had been stuffed into the skin of Daniel Slater.

This thing had killed Slater. He should have figured that out before, but he wasn’t exactly running on all cylinders. He tried to keep this revelation to himself. He was fairly rational at the moment; the thing was confident he wouldn’t bolt and needed him to get back on the road as quickly and efficiently as possible.

Checking again to make sure the door was locked, he removed his pants. Shame started to creep over him as he saw his soiled underwear, but he made himself stay focused. He wanted access to his rational mind as long as possible. He peeled off the shorts, threw them into the trash, and cleaned himself up.

* * *

At the register the attendant, whose name was Barry Olson, debated calling the cops. He never liked to get into anyone’s business, and the guy had seemed okay. Still, maybe those punks were out there. Shit, maybe they were headed this way. He realized he was being paranoid. The guy had told him they were going to Canada. But what if they were following him—what if they wanted to eliminate witnesses?

He agonized over this for a few minutes and decided he would at least take down the man’s license number. If something happened to the guy, he could verify he had been there.

Olson went out to the car and noted its New York plate. Cars from New York were not a rare sight in Pennsylvania, but something about this whole situation gave him pause.

The guy was from New York. He was covered in blood and seemed to be hiding something.

The Taxidermist.

As he thought it, Olson felt himself grow cold. He kept looking at the lid of the trunk. There was the slightest odor coming from there. Something sweet and rotten, something like old meat and … 
Cloves?

He looked around. The station was empty, little traveling being done this late at night.

The more he stared at the trunk, the more he felt compelled to open it. With hardly a thought, he went around to the driver’s side of the car, opened the door, stooped down, and pulled up on the release lever. There was a slight pop that was almost subliminal, and he walked back to the trunk. The lid rose slowly and silently, as if it were the prop in the show of a famous magician. Olson could almost hear the drumroll, see the pretty girl in feathers and spangles gesturing at the opening trunk.

The body in the trunk had started to decompose, and the stench hit Olson like a punch to the gut. He gagged, his panicked mind trying to determine whether he should run or call the cops or coldcock the motherfucker in his restroom.

The length of pipe that kept people from driving off with the restroom key came down across the back of his head, and Olson went down, slamming his forehead into the heavy bumper of the Riviera. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

Stan closed the trunk and started to retrieve his bag of groceries. He planned to drive quickly away before any people arrived. But the thing in his head had taken an interest in the attendant and it wanted something entertaining done with the man. It seemed to think for a moment, then told Stan what should be done. Detective Stan slipped away as Fearful Stan tearfully complied with the thing’s bidding.

* * *

Olson woke up to find himself bound with duct tape to the hoist inside the garage. He squirmed, trying to get loose. The bloody man stepped in front of him. He was cleaned up, but for some reason had not put on his new shirt. He looked different to Olson. He looked scared, maniacal. He was holding something Olson could not see. Olson heard a hissing that seemed familiar.

“Are you The Taxidermist?” Olson asked, his voice low and on the verge of tears.

The bloody man held up an acetylene torch, the blue flame like a knife of fire.

“I am now,” he said, and went to work.

The memorial for Daniel Slater was held at the home of Charles Pollard, the chairman of the NYU Anthropology Department. Pollard’s family was “old money.” They had family members who had settled the Hudson River Valley with Peter Stuyvesant in the 1600s. Pollard’s family had made millions in various trading ventures, including some dubious dealings with both the Indians and the British.

Pollard, who had distinguished himself early on for studies of
Homo habilis
in Tanzania in the eighties, had eschewed the family manor in the Hudson River Valley. He had built a very modern home in the Hamptons, a stone-and-glass structure that had been featured in
Architectural Digest
and several recent films.

Pollard had made the offer before Steven and his family had left California. He had told Steven that Daniel was well liked at the university and many wanted to pay their respects. Steven and Liz agreed since Liz’s family couldn’t afford to fly to the memorial, and Steven had no other family to speak of. This made the death of Daniel all the more painful and Steven vowed they would spend more time with Liz’s folks in Colorado. Bobby should know his grandparents while they were still alive.

In the end, they thanked Pollard for his generous offer.

Steven, Liz, and Bobby had gotten a ride to the service from Jake Sparks, a professor of cultural anthropology and comparative religion. Jake had been on several digs with Daniel when they were undergrads at UCLA. They had gone their separate ways, and had been delighted to be reunited years later on the NYU faculty.

Sparks was a large man, well over six feet and 220 pounds. His thick blond hair and beard made him look like some Viking warrior, and his hearty laugh and ruddy good looks were consistent with Leif Erickson—or maybe Thor. Sparks kept in shape by playing racquetball and still going out in the field whenever he got a chance. His papers were good for the department’s reputation, so they gave him a lot of leeway.

Steven felt like a little kid next to Sparks and was momentarily jealous, sure that Sparks would catch Liz’s eye. The man was so good-natured, however, that Steven soon found himself thinking of the big guy as a friend.

As they drove the two hours to Pollard’s home, Sparks told them amusing stories about
their early days as budding anthropologists, including their finding a skull they were convinced was an offshoot of
zinjanthropist
in Cleveland, which turned out to be the talented sculpting of a teenager trying to break into special-effects makeup. Sparks had apologized that some of the stories would be repeated at the memorial. Steven and Liz didn’t mind. Sparks was friendly and animated, a natural storyteller.

For Bobby, it was all one big adventure. The death of his uncle wasn’t real to him; it was an abstraction he couldn’t really grasp. For him, it was all about car trips and having pancakes at Denny’s. Sparks had given him an arrowhead, and Bobby was now lecturing Bonomo on the Native American bears that made up Bonomo’s ancestry. Steven wished his brother could hear his nephew adopting the learned stance of an anthropologist. He was part Darwin, part Steve Irwin, part Daniel Slater. The timbre of Daniel’s voice as filtered through a five-year-old’s attempt at an Australian accent was charming and surreal.

Before they had left the Marriott, Steven had contacted the law firm of Breckforth, Gunderson, and Mayfield. As he thought, the firm was in disarray. They were attempting to make arrangements for their dead partners as well as divvy up the caseload. A clerk named Dodgson had told Steven they would most likely have to fly him out for a reading of the will later in the month. He apologized for the inconvenience. Steven had told him it was understandable, given the circumstances. He had wanted to ask the young man about the nature of their deaths, but this seemed insensitive and improper.

He had called Stan Roberts’s number and been told the detective had not yet come in. He had the distinct impression something was going on, but the detective who answered the phone simply said he would have Roberts get back to him later. Steven wondered if they had found his brother’s killer.

He had learned that his brother’s apartment was still an active crime scene, everything there possible evidence. With both the lawyers and the police unable to meet with him, he and Liz had little to do but attend the memorial and return home. He didn’t like the idea of returning to New York again, but there seemed no way around it.

He started agonizing over the cost of a return to trip to New York, then remembered he was going to be rich.

His brother had never lorded his fortune over him. He and Liz had done all right at first, needing to borrow money only for the home in La Crescenta. Daniel had offered them more money when Liz had gotten pregnant, but Steven had told him no. He liked that Daniel had accepted this and not tried to force the money on him.

Now he and Liz were looking at several million dollars. It would have taken him and Liz … hell, they never would have amassed such a fortune even if they skipped niceties like food, clothing, mortgage and car payments.

Millions. Bobby’s education was now assured. They had been putting some money in a college fund since Liz had gotten pregnant, hoping to cover some of the costs by the time Bobby was eighteen. He guessed they could use that money to fix up the house.

What was he thinking? They could buy a new house if they wanted. They could travel; they could purchase rare books or good art.

Steven wasn’t the type to blow all of the money on trips to Vegas or Monte Carlo. He and Liz didn’t want to live like Pollard, in some mansion upstate. Of course, his inheritance didn’t put you in Pollard’s neighborhood; it merely gave you a glimpse over the fence.

He supposed they should find a reputable firm for financial advice, do some investing. Perhaps Daniel’s accountant or one of the attorneys could recommend a firm in California.

Bobby tugged on his sleeve to point out a young girl riding a horse down a bridle path. He climbed up onto his father’s lap.

“Daddy, that girl has a pony!”

Bobby had seen plenty of people riding horses around their neighborhood but was apparently impressed that this girl was young and alone.

“Uh-huh. That’s a palomino.”

“What’s that?

“That’s a pretty horse with blond hair like you and Mommy.”

Bobby looked at him, trying to see if he was serious.

“How does the horse get blond hair, Daddy?”

“Oh, I imagine she uses Lady Clairol for ponies.”

Liz looked at him and smiled. Bobby made a little “o” with his mouth and shook his head.

“You’re fibbing, Daddy!” he declared, giggling.

“No, really. The horse goes to a special horse beauty parlor, and trained monkeys dye her mane, then she sits under a big hair dryer like Mommy does sometimes.”

Bobby turned to Liz.

“Is that true, Mommy?”

“I think your daddy is pulling your leg, honey.”

Bobby sat up straight.

“What does that mean?” he asked, trying to decide if the term was literal.

“It means somebody’s joking, sport,” Steven said.

“I knew you were joking, Daddy. They don’t have chairs big enough for horses.”

“Sure they do. Haven’t you ever seen the chair your aunt Kimmy uses?” Aunt Kimmy was from Iowa and weighed over two hundred pounds.