Waltz of Shadows

5

I sat there stunned for a moment, then picked up the photo album and opened it. I took a real hard look at the photos on the last page. They meant more to me than before. These were the people Bill had been telling me about. He had avoided revealing that bit of i Vn, dist pagenformation until he finished his story, to give added impact, and it worked.

I concentrated on the photos and picked out who was who from Bill’s descriptions.

The Doctor’s wife, on the left hand side of the page, wore a bikini that showed a lot of nice sun-browned skin. She was standing on the deck of a sail boat. Behind her, the sea glistened bright and blue. In the photo she might have been forty, but she wore it well, maybe a little too well. I guessed the Doc had helped her out some around the mouth and eyes, and had probably put some missiles in her titties.

It was a nice photograph and it hadn’t been taken with any snapshot camera. It was likely stolen from her own collection. The photo next to it was a Polaroid. It wasn’t as flattering. She was naked on a bed with her legs spread wider than was comfortable and her panties were around her right ankle. There were ropes fastened to her ankles and wrists, and the ropes ran out of sight of the camera. They were doubtlessly tied to the rails beneath the mattress. There was something bright stuffed in her mouth, and there was a tidy little bullet hole, looking as if it had been painted there, in the center of her forehead, and beneath her head was a blood stained pillow.

Beneath her photo, on the left, was a shot of a good looking young man-Dave, I presumed from Bill’s story-and beneath that, a photo of another nice looking young fella. Bob, of course. Neither looked happy.

On the right hand side were pictures that I surmised had been taken shortly thereafter of the same two. One was a down shot of Dave with has face against the floor, turned slightly to the side so that I could see his tongue hanging out and his teeth biting through it. His eyes bulged. His ass was pasty white, except for where blood was splashed on it from the knife in his rectum. He had a leg lifted, the sole of his bare foot pointing up. The other foot still wore a shoe.

The right hand side photo of Bob showed him with his genitals in his mouth, blood splashed beneath his nose like a red mustache.

The last four photographs, also taken with the Polaroid were: Left-a pale, dark-haired looker of a girl. Right-a dark-haired mess of a girl. Those two would be Carrie.

Beneath those: Left-an astonishing blond beauty alive and not happy. Right-same beauty, only dead, with an expression that indicated she knew it would end up this way, and so what?

I closed the book and sat and thought.

“Look,” I said, “first thing is you need to relax some. Take a shower.”

“A shower? That’s your advice? Take a fucking shower? We’re talking about murders here. Murders I’m pinned for, and you want me to take a shower. I don’t want a shower.”

“You stink.”

“I don’t care if I stink. A shower isn’t going to solve my problems, Uncle Hank.”

“No, but you got to perk up a little. Make it a hot one so it’ll relax your muscles. Run it hard against the back of your neck and your lower spine.”

“A shower. That’s great. Take a shower. Want me to wash my hair?”‹ [myt a h/p›

“Why not? Doing it with bar soap won’t hurt you. While you’re doing that, I’ll get you a hamburger. You’re bound to be hungrier than you think. I get back we’ll talk some more.”

· · ·

I drove over to a Quickie-Mart and bought a large two-liter bottle of Coke, a razor and blades, a toothbrush and toothpaste.

By the time I came out of the store, the sky had lost its blueness and turned grey and cold as a tin roof. The air was nippier, and I could smell a hint of rain.

I drove through the drive-thru of a hamburger joint and ordered a large hamburger and fries. That just about depleted the money Beverly had allowed in my wallet.

I raced back to the motel and hammered on the door and Bill let me in. He was wearing a towel and had his wet hair pushed straight back. He looked a smidgen less tense.

I put the supplies on the table, and gave him the food. He sat on the bed and ate the hamburger while I went down to the ice machine and scraped what ice there was into the room bucket. I thought the ice looked suspicious in color, but not so much I didn’t figure on letting Bill use it. I went back with the bucket and filled a questionable looking glass with ice and poured him some Coke. By the time I did that, he was finished with the burger. He drank the Coke rapidly, and I filled his glass again.

“Listen now,” I said. “I’m going back to the house. I’ll come back later with some clothes, a little money, a few odds and ends. I’ll bring you some more food and some coffee.”

“Any ideas yet, Uncle Hank?”

“My instinct is to tell the police, tell them what you’ve told me. I don’t care how you feel the frame looks. You tell it the way you told me, and no matter how the evidence is presented, I think you got a better than average chance. I’ll see you get a good lawyer. I’ll do everything I can.”

“I don’t know, Uncle Hank. It looks bad. I start talking about a fat man and a stinky guy with a cobra painted on his head killing the Doc and the Disaster Club, who’s gonna buy that? I mean, that sounds like some comic book shit. Know what I’m saying?”

“Well, I’ve thought about it from that angle too. I swing from one feeling to another, but I figure whatever I decide it’ll come down to you going to the police. So, you can get ready for that. But before we go, we got to get our game plan together. For now, I’m going to see if there’s anything on the news about this, anything in the papers tomorrow.”

“All right.”

“I’ll be back after while. I’ll bring you some clothes. Mine’ll be big on you, but you can get by.”

“I appreciate it, Uncle Hank. Really.”

“Watch some TV. Jack off. Take another shower. Whatever, but relax. Sleep if you can. You didn’t kill anyone, Bill. You never had any intention of killing anyone. Your biggest crime is you’re a dumb asshole.”

“Beverly’s going to [’atch some love this,” Bill said.

“I might not tell her everything right off. We’ll ease into this one.”

I got the photo album off the table. “I’m going to take this with me. You don’t need to look at it anymore.”

I started for the door, paused. “I don’t know if I’m being melodramatic or what, but you lock this door behind me. And don’t go anywhere.”

“You don’t need to tell me that,” Bill said. Then: “Uncle Hank?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

“I love you. I’m not just saying it. I’m not trying to con you or nothing.”

“I love you too, you moronic little shit. Now shut up and lock up.”

“Sure.”

“Uncle Hank?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you get me some cigarettes?”