Part 37 (1/2)
”You're really an a.s.shole, you know that?”
This last line was spoken as they finally started climbing the stairs.
”G.o.d, how'd you like to hang out with those guys?” Josh grinned.
”Yeah, right.”
”Let's start looking again.”
I went into the bedroom and wished I hadn't.
First thing through the door, I smelled Cindy's perfume. I felt sick, thinking of them in the double bed that rested between two long corner windows.
I started hearing their ghosts, what she said to him, what he said to her.
She loves me, I wanted to say to Garrett's ghost.
But there wasn't time.
We had to hurry.
I started with his dresser drawers. One was filled with underwear, two handguns and several bullet clips. The next was filled with socks, a long economy-pack of Trojans, a small cellophane bag of stuff that looked and felt just like marijuana. The third drawer contained two ugly sweaters. Probably Christmas gifts he never wore. The last drawer held a bunch of skin magazines and several videotapes. The Blonde Blower was the t.i.tle of one of the tapes. Kind of made a fella wonder what it was about.
I looked under the bureau and under the bed but found nothing. I looked behind the bed and behind the drapes and behind the small bookcase and found nothing again.
The closet seemed to hold no problem at all.
Garrett didn't exactly have a lot of clothes. There were three s.h.i.+rts on wire hangers that clanged, and maybe three pairs of dark slacks, and two pairs of Levi's. A fleece-lined jacket hung on one hook while a red and black checkered hunting s.h.i.+rt hung on another.
And then I saw them and I knew right away that something was wrong, him not wearing them tonight, and so I picked them up and I carried them out to the head of the bas.e.m.e.nt.
”You down there?” I whispered.
”Yeah.”
”I think I found something.”
”What?”
”Bring the flashlight up.”
That was the trouble with sharing a flashlight.
We put Garrett's new cowhide western boots down on the kitchen floor and then we started examining them.
There probably hadn't ever been a pair of western boots that had been examined with such care.
”Funny he isn't wearing these,” I said. ”They're his brand new boots.”
”Yeah. Real funny.”
”What if he didn't wear them because something was wrong with them?”
”That's what I was thinking.”
”But what could be wrong with them?”
”I guess that's what we have to find out.”
So we kept on looking.
Couple of times, the boys upstairs sounded as if they were standing on chandeliers and dropping big black vaults on the floor. And every so often they would swear at each other and argue about the pizza or the beer or the TV show they were watching. Fun guys.
Josh was the one to find it.
The white st.i.tching on the upper part of the sole of the left boot.
The white st.i.tching was discolored maybe an inch, inch-and-a-half.
Josh held the beam close to the st.i.tching.
”Kind've orange,” he said.
”Yeah.”
”The way dried blood is kind've orange sometimes.”
”Maybe that's why he isn't wearing them.”
Then we looked closer and saw that there was also a deep staina”like a splasha”right across the arch of the same boot.
”Bet whatever stained the st.i.tching also stained the arch,” Josh said.
”I'd bet the same thing.”
He turned off the flashlight.
We just knelt there in the faint moonlight, looking at the lone western boot sitting between us.
Josh said, ”He gets Mae Swenson's blood on his bootsa””
”a”but he's too cheap to throw them awaya””
”a”so he just keeps them in the closet.”
”Figuring that after you get convicted of her murder, he can start wearing his boots again.”