Shiver

13

Rood arrived home at eleven-twenty. He parked the Falcon at the curb, then staggered across the courtyard of his apartment complex, lugging the heavy canvas bag.

Once safely inside his apartment, he went immediately into the bathroom. He placed the bag on the counter by the sink, took out the bloody knife, and held it up to the ceiling light. He smiled as he read the words STAINLESS STEEL printed on its handle. Already he was much relieved. Stainless steel didn’t rust, thus reducing the danger of tetanus.

He stripped off his clothes. Naked, he examined himself. The wound was still bleeding slightly. In his medicine cabinet he found a package of sterile cotton balls. He used them to sop up the blood, tossing each one in the toilet as soon as it was soaked through.

When the wound had been thoroughly cleaned, he stepped under the shower, parted the skin flaps of the bloody cavity, and let icy water stream inside. He stood there, gritting his teeth against the pain, thinking of nothing, while blood and water streamed down his bare legs.

After a full five minutes, he turned off the shower and toweled himself dry. He was not bleeding anymore.

He rummaged in the medicine cabinet till he found a tube of bacitracin ointment, then spread the antiseptic around the edges of the gash, though not in the cavity itself.

Those precautions ought to minimize whatever risk of infection he faced. Now to dress and bind the wound.

He got out more of the cotton balls, placed them directly on the cut, and glued them down with Band-Aids. Next, he found an old bed sheet in his hall closet, tore it into strips, and wrapped the strips tightly around his waist, a makeshift bandage.

That ought to do it for now, although he might need to repeat the whole procedure two or three times until the wound healed. His side still ached; it would probably hurt for days. He swallowed two aspirin tablets, then tried to put the pain out of his mind.

His clothes were blood-spotted and useless. He tossed them in the garbage and selected a new outfit, retaining only his white Reeboks and his coat.

Once dressed, he carried the drawstring bag into the kitchen, removed Miss Kutzlow’s head from the jumbo Baggie in which it was sealed, and placed the head carefully in his freezer. He looked slowly from Miss Kutzlow to Miss Osborn. They made a pretty pair.

Then he considered his options.

He was reasonably certain Miss Alden was at the police station on Butler Avenue right now. Detective Delgado, after all, would be anxious to speak with her. Rood doubted she could identify him; he didn’t think she’d ever gotten a look at his face, and he’d kept his voice in a whisper the whole time.

Sooner or later she would leave the station. Perhaps, Rood thought hopefully, he could ambush her then. But no, that wouldn’t work. The detective was sure to arrange a police escort. Besides, with the news media watching for any sign of her departure, the cops would have to spirit her away unobserved. Rood could neither attack her nor follow her under such circumstances.

Well, where would she go? Back home? Impossible. For one thing, detectives and forensic technicians would be combing her apartment for the rest of the night in search of clues. For another, still more members of the news media would congregate outside her apartment building in an all-night vigil. And because the police would expect him to return to the apartment and strike again, no doubt Miss Alden would be told to avoid going home not only for tonight but for several days.

She would need a place to stay. A motel, perhaps. Or a friend’s home. A friend…

Three messages had been left unerased on the reel of tape in Miss Alden’s telephone answering machine. Three messages from the same man. A man named Jeffrey.

She might very well stay with him. And even if she didn’t, she would certainly contact him soon enough to let him know where she was. Once this man Jeffrey knew her whereabouts, Rood would find it simple enough to extract the information from him by whatever means necessary.

That left only one small problem. Rood had no idea who Jeffrey was or where he lived. He didn’t even know the man’s last name.

But he did have one piece of information. Jeffrey’s home telephone number. The man had recited it with every message he left. Rood had an excellent memory for numbers.

He dialed the seven digits. A sleepy voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Jeffrey?”

“Yes? Who is this?”

“Sorry to call you so late. I wanted to apologize for not making it to the party last weekend.”

“Party? What party? Who’s calling, please?”

“Isn’t this Jeffrey Booker?”

“My name is Pellman. Jeffrey Pellman.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I must have dialed the wrong number. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Rood cradled the phone.

Mr. Jeffrey Pellman.

Rood flipped through the residential listings in his telephone directory, hoping Mr. Pellman would not be one of those uncooperative souls with an unlisted address. He wasn’t.

According to the listing, he lived in the 2100 block of Nichols Canyon Road. Rood knew that street. It wound through the hills above Hollywood Boulevard. Not terribly far away.

He could get there in no time.