Flesh

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Roland parked Dana’s Volkswagen at the curb halfway down the block and climbed out. He walked past two houses. In the glow of the streetlight, he checked the address he had copied from the student directory: 364 B Apple Lane.

He was on Apple Lane. The porch light of the house across from him revealed the numbers 364 on the front door.

The B on the address undoubtedly meant that Alison had an apartment on the property, either in a different section of the house or in a furnished garage out back.

Light shone through windows on the ground floor and upstairs. Whoever lives in the main part of the house, Roland thought, must be home. I’d better keep it in mind.

A walkway led straight to the front door, but flagstones curved away to the right.

Roland cut diagonally across the lawn. Stepping onto a flagstone at the corner of the house, he saw a wooden stairway to the second story. A door at the top of the stairs was lighted by a single bulb. A railing up there was decorated with potted plants. Girls would have plants like that, he thought.

Near the bottom of the stairs, a mailbox was mounted on the house wall. Roland stopped beside it. The address on the box was 364 B.

Slowly, he began to climb the stairs.

Hearing voices, he stopped and turned around. The sound came from an open window. Though the window overlooked the stairway, it was far to the side so he couldn’t see in. He listened for a few moments. The voices had a flat quality—and background music. They came from a television.

So Helen is here, just like Alison said.

Watching the tube.

Alone?

She might have a boyfriend visiting.

Possible. I’ll have to be careful, Roland thought.

At the top of the stairs, he removed a plastic bag from the front pocket of his jeans. It was a sturdy translucent wastebasket liner he had taken from his dorm room while planning tonight’s activities. Confident that the noise from the television would prevent Helen from hearing such quiet sounds, he unfolded the bag and puffed into it. The bag expanded with his breath.

He took out the keys he had taken from Celia’s purse, chose the one that appeared most likely to be the door key, and slipped it silently into the lock. He bit the edge of the bag to free his other hand. Then, using both hands, he slowly turned the key and knob. He eased the door open.

The sound from the television increased. He smelled a pleasant odor. Popcorn.

From where he stood with his face pressed to the gap, he could see only a corner of the living room. No one was there.

He swung the door a little wider and sidestepped through the opening.

He saw the top of her head above the sofa back. Her hair was in curlers.

The furniture arrangement made it easy. If the sofa had been placed flush against the wall, he wouldn’t be able to sneak up behind her. But the sofa had a wide space behind it, apparently so people could cross the room without passing in front of anyone who might be sitting there.

Roland considered shutting the door. He decided not to risk making a sound that might disturb her, and left it standing open a few inches.

He took the bag in both hands. Holding it open, he began to walk slowly over the carpet. A slight breeze stirred the bag.

This’ll be a cinch, he thought.

Unless there’s a guy lying on the sofa with his head in her lap.

Then he was close enough to see that nobody else was there. On the cushion beside Helen rested a big white bowl of popcorn. She reached into it and scooped out a handful of popcorn. She was wearing a red bathrobe. Her legs were stretched out, feet resting on top of a low table in front of the sofa. The robe hung open, revealing thick white legs.

Too bad she’s such a pig, Roland thought. This would be much more pleasant if she looked more like Celia or Alison.

No thrill in this.

He raised the bag.

Something thumped off to the side.

He looked. The door had blown shut.

Helen looked, too, her head turning enough to see the door, then turning more and tilting back. Her eyes bugged out when she saw Roland. Half-chewed popcorn spewed from her mouth, some splattering the inside of the plastic bag as he swung it down over her head.

She lunged forward. Roland flung an arm across her face to hold the bag in place. Hugging her head, he was dragged over the back of the sofa. She reached back and tore at his hair. Pain erupted from his scalp.

Helen’s shoulder slammed the top of the coffee table. Roland’s side hit the surface, knocking her drink out of the way. She squirmed and kicked. Her wild struggle scooted Roland along the table. Its other end flew up. He dropped to the floor, Helen smashing down on top of him.

Pinned beneath her writhing body, Roland clutched the bag tight to her face. With his other hand, he jerked open the snap of his knife case.

No! No blood!

He threw his free hand across Helen. Her robe had come open. He grabbed a breast and twisted it. She squealed into the plastic over her mouth. Letting go, he pounded a fist down hard into her belly. Again. Her body flinched rigid with each blow. Then she seemed to quake. He heard heaving noises. The bag pulsed warm and mushy against his hand and he realized she was vomiting. He fought an urge to pull his hand away. He pressed the bag even more tightly to her mouth. Convulsions wracked Helen’s body. She twisted and bucked on top of him, finally throwing herself off.

He rolled with her, but lost his grip on the bag. Vomit slopped out onto the carpet. Her hand slipped in the mess when she tried to push herself up. Roland scrambled onto her back. She was choking and gasping beneath him. But breathing, at least enough to stay alive. As he straddled her and reached for the bag, she tugged it off her head.

Roland wrapped his fingers around her slick neck and tried to strangle her. As he squeezed her throat, Helen pushed herself up. She got to her hands and knees. Whimpering, she began to crawl. Roland rode her. His fingers weakened. He felt a tremor of fear.

Letting go, he scrambled off Helen’s back. He staggered a few steps, got his balance, then rushed at her and kicked the toe of his shoe up into her belly with such force that she toppled onto her side. She hugged her belly and sucked breath. She had lost her glasses. Her face was scarlet where it wasn’t smeared with vomit.

Roland danced back and forth, looking for the best target. He wondered for a moment what one of those mammoth breasts might do if he punted it. That wouldn’t be lethal, though, and he needed to finish this business. She had already proven herself almost too much for him.

He aimed a kick at her throat.

It missed, but knocked her jaw crooked and threw Helen onto her back.

Roland jumped, bringing his knees up high and shooting his feet down, stomping her crossed arms and belly with all his weight. Breath exploded out of her and she half sat up. Roland bounded off her.

Whirling around, he kicked the side of her head.

Her arms flopped onto the floor.

He kicked her head again for good measure.

Then he retrieved the plastic bag. He sat on the soft cushions of her breasts, pulled the filthy bag down over her head, and held it shut around her neck.

As he sat there, he hoped Alison would be spending a long time at her boyfriend’s apartment. It would take a long time to clean all this up.

The pig had made a real mess.