Part 7 (1/2)

The words were gone.

Janice sat down on the floor, pulled her knees to her chest, and grasped the slick piece of gla.s.s, wincing as she pried it from the thick callous on her heel. Blood smeared across the bottom of her foot like finger paint.

Then a smell. Ink.

Janice blinked, unsure of her eyes. Like waves of ants, the words came. They mounted an a.s.sault, driving their tiny, sans-serifed feet into the soft flesh of her ankles, calves, and the back of one hand as she leaned on the floor. The pain burned, a thousand pinp.r.i.c.ks of fire, and she slumped back, cracking her head.

They blotted her eyes, swarming toward her mouth, and she could scarcely hear the other jars as they struck the floor, one after another, as the rest of her words joined the onslaught.

Chapter 36: Fuzzy.

The bright wreaths, teddy bears, and colorful drawings were out of place in the somber decor of the Kurtis Brothers' Funeral Parlor, but a child's funeral was never a normal affair. At the front of the chapel, flanked by flowers and mourners, sat the open coffin of little Tommy Bellinger, age three and a half, his face yellow wax, his hair too orderly, and his expression too dour. A small, sky-blue blanket rested under his folded hands.

”What's with the blanket?”

Kyle Kurtis, always respectful in his black suit and conservative tie, placed a hand on his junior partner's shoulder, led him a few steps toward the back of the room, and bent to his ear. ”The mother insisted. Said the kid never went anywhere without it. Said he was holding it when the truck-well, you know.”

”Oh.” The younger man glanced at the coffin and then to the sober couple in black at its right.

Kurtis shrugged. ”The customer is always right.”

Later that night, after the wake was over and all the relatives were tucked neatly into motel rooms across town, Jacob Bellinger woke to the clanging of trash cans being dumped outside his bedroom window. He half-rose from bed and leaned on an elbow, kneading his forehead with the other hand. ”s.h.i.+t.”

”Jake?”

”Sorry to wake you, Mags.”

Another crash.

”Ah h.e.l.l,” he muttered. ”Gillespie's dogs are at it again. Or one of those d.a.m.n racc.o.o.ns I've been reading about in the paper.”

Maggie Gillespie rolled off the side of the bed, tucked wisps of brown hair behind both ears, and shuffled around the footboard toward the window. ”I wasn't sleeping. I couldn't sleep.” She stopped short of the window and wrapped her arms over both shoulders in a self-hug.

Jacob closed his eyes and nodded his head slowly. He rose and caught his wife, squeezing her gently with his long arms. ”I wish I could-”

Another muted crash from outside the house interrupted him.

”Those G.o.dd.a.m.n dogs. I'll have to chase them away. Maybe call the cops.” He pushed his naked feet into a pair of plaid slippers.

The phone rang, startling them both, and Maggie scanned the alarm clock on Jacob's dresser. ”11:14. Who would be calling now...with the funeral tomorrow?” She drifted to the phone and lifted it from the cradle.

Probably Gillespie telling me those G.o.d-forsaken mutts are loose again. Jacob started for the door, wondering whether he should grab his broom or air rifle this time, when another sound, almost like the sob of a child, wrenched his attention to the window.

”Mr. Kurtis?” Maggie's voice was as and pale as her cheeks. ”What...I don't understand...” She began to shake.

Through the window, Jacob Bellinger watched a shape, a dark shadow too tall for a dog, rummage through the strewn trash. The side of the house was dark, but he could see the form, the size of a child, flit around in the gloom.

”Maggie...it's a burglar...I think. Definitely a person. A short one.” Jacob's voice was hushed and serious. He turned to face his wife, her face sucked white save for the heavy bags of faded purple under each eye. ”Mags...what is it?” Fear pressed against Jacob's back.

”The funeral home.” She spoke as a robot. ”Tommy...they called the police...this has never happened....”

Jacob clenched his fists against the cold fingers walking his spine. ”What is it?”

”The body is gone...Tommy is gone. Missing.”

Another almost-human cry sounded outside followed by a thud. The cold fingers wrapped around the back of Jacob's neck. It's impossible. Impossible. He s.h.i.+vered. A terrible realization coiled in his brain. ”Oh G.o.d...he's looking for it...”

Maggie stumbled to the bed and sat on the corner; tears skated down her cheeks. Her eyes, wide and lost, burned toward her husband. ”Who? Jacob, what are you saying?”

Jacob staggered to the window, his back pressing against the cold gla.s.s. ”I-I replaced Tommy's blankie with a new one. Fuzzy was dirty, Mags. Stained. I threw it away. I-I didn't think-”

Maggie, fueled with grief and horror, sprang from the bed and shoved past her husband to the window. Her eyes searched the shadows outside and saw it moving below, something the size of her son, hunched over the spilled trash, searching. ”He never goes anywhere without his blankie,” she whispered.

Jacob slumped to the floor, shaking his head. ”I...I didn't think he'd know the difference...”

Chapter 37: Words Per Minute.

The man with nine fingers leans forward, his face cut with shadows and light under the lamp. ”You got 'em, Manny?”

”Sure.” Manny places a crinkled paper sack on the table, reaches inside, and produces a rag. He unwraps the first layer of the rag, revealing dark stains on the folds underneath.”Five choices this time...hope one works.”

The man with nine fingers slides his right hand under the lamp. The pinkie is severed at the second joint, a clean cut with little scar tissue.

”This one ain't gonna work,” he says, lifting one finger from the cloth. ”Too short. They'd snipped it at the wrong knuckle.”

Manny nods and dabs his damp forehead with the back of his arm.

The man with nine fingers proceeds to try each remaining pinkie next to his stump, scrutinizing them under the harsh lamplight, comparing skin tone, size, fit. With a grunt, he tosses the last on the rag with the others and pushes away from the table.

”No good?” Manny asks even though he knows.

”No.”

Manny collects the cast offs in his paper sack. ”I'll see what I can do...but really, is it worth--”