After Midnight (33 page)
I filled the glass once more with water, then carried it out of the kitchen and into Murphy’s bedroom.
As I made my way toward the bed, I saw three of the ropes he’d used on me. They lay on the carpet like pale, dead snakes. Each was still tied to a leg of the bed.
I’ll have to take those…
I saw the condom, too. On the floor where I’d dropped it when I took Murphy into my mouth.
The pale white disk looked like a sea creature you might find washed up on a beach, dead.
I’ll have to get rid of it.
But I could do nothing, now.
I set the glass of water on the nightstand, then crawled onto the bed, sprawled myself out on its rumpled sheet, and buried my face in the pillow.
Most of my headache was gone when I woke up.
I was still facedown on Murphy’s bed, as if I hadn’t moved at all during my nap.
I’d drooled all over his pillow.
The sheet underneath me was sodden with my sweat.
I thought how nice it might be to take a shower, but then I remembered that Murphy was in the tub.
Dead.
I’d killed him.
I hadn’t
meant
to, but that didn’t count for much: he was just as dead, either way.
And here I was, sprawled on his bed like Goldilocks.
What if somebody shows up?
I’ve gotta get out of here.
So I rolled over, twisted sideways until my legs fell off the edge of the mattress, and sat up. I groaned. My body felt ruined. I was sore and stiff and achy almost everywhere. But at least my head no longer burned with pain.
I could think again.
I could function.
I
could
, but
didn’t
.
Not for a while, anyway.
For a while, I just sat on the edge of the bed, my head hanging, my back bent, my elbows on my thighs, my feet on the floor.
Almost like that statue,
The Thinker
.
But if anyone did a statue of how I looked then, he’d have to name it,
The Wasted
.
I knew that I needed to get off my butt and destroy every trace of my presence in Murphy’s apartment and go home. But I couldn’t bring myself to get started.
What’s the point?
I felt as if nothing mattered anymore.
Why not just stay here?
Sooner or later, somebody would show up and find me, find Murphy, call the cops.
Who cares?
Why not go to the phone and call the cops, myself? Tell them everything. Put an end to all this
.
But doing even that would’ve taken too much effort.
So I just kept sitting there.
Finally, I
had
to get up. It was either that, or flood the bedroom. Gritting my teeth, I made it to my feet. But I couldn’t stand up straight. Hunched over slightly, I hurried to the bathroom. I slipped on the wet tile floor, but didn’t fall. With my eyes fixed on the floor just in front of my feet, I found my way to the toilet and sat down without looking at Murphy.
I kept my head low while I went.
Stared at the floor.
But I could see him, anyway. That peripheral vision thing. The tub was a short distance over to my right. Even with my eyes down, I could see its long, white side. And Murphy’s legs sticking out over the edge. And his face. He seemed to be peeking at me from around the side of his left knee.
Finally, I looked at him.
His eyes were open, but he wasn’t seeing me.
He wasn’t exactly Murphy, anymore. Whatever’d been Murphy was gone. The thing in the tub was just a fair likeness, that’s all. Somebody might’ve dropped by while I was asleep, snatched his body and replaced it with a dummy from a wax museum.
A dummy that didn’t quite get it right.
Which was a good thing, I guess. I couldn’t have stood it if
my
Murphy’d been in the tub.
But he wasn’t.
When I finished on the toilet, I flushed and stood up and walked across the wet tiles to the side of the tub.
I stared down at the body.
And wondered what to do with it.
Leave it just as it is
.
Sure. Why not? I didn’t have the strength or desire to take it anywhere.
Besides, what could be accomplished by moving it?
I might try, if I had a good reason.
In spite of the difficulties and risks, I could probably haul Murphy’s body to the parking lot of Judy’s apartment building, or into Tony’s apartment, or even over to Miller’s Woods. But why? How could his body fit into the rest of it in any logical way?
I didn’t see how.
No matter where they find him, it’ll just add to the confusion
.
If they find him just as he is, I thought, it’ll look like an accident. While getting ready to take a shower, he somehow slipped and fell backward and bashed his head on the wall beside the tub.
Which had the advantage of being almost true.
Unless I did some major clean-up, however, they would also figure out that he’d been having sex with a woman just before his accident. And they might suspect she’d had a hand in his death.
If they got that far, they would look for samples of her hair, fluids, etc.
I’d
have
to make the clean-up effort.
I started with the bathroom. Taking care of the worst part first, I climbed into the tub, straddled Murphy’s body and wiped the wall where I’d hit it with my hands. I didn’t like standing there. Not one bit. I knew that
he
wasn’t under me, but
something
was. Not a wax dummy, either—a naked stiff. It made me nervous. Like I half expected a spook of some sort to take over the body and make a grab for me. Or lurch up between my legs and give me a bite.
Me and my imagination.
I got a good case of goosebumps, but I was okay as soon as I’d climbed out of the tub.
Next, I put away the package of cotton balls and the hydrogen peroxide—which wasn’t completely empty. (Naturally, I wiped the plastic bottle to take care of my prints.) Then I found all the used cotton balls on the floor and in the waste basket. I flushed them down the toilet.
Then I mopped the bathroom floor.
I wiped the toilet seat and the flush handle.
That was about it for the bathroom. For now. I’d be back again, but not until just before time to leave.
After putting away the mop and bucket, I went into the living room for my purse. As I headed for the couch, though, I saw a brown leather attaché case standing beside the front door. Though it must’ve been there before, this was the first time I’d noticed it.
Right away, I knew what must be inside.
I crouched beside it, set it down flat on the floor, snapped open its latches, and raised the lid.
The case was
loaded
with money.
Neat packets of one-dollar bills, fives, tens, and twenties.
He’d gotten it for me in small bills, just as I’d asked
.
Murphy’s idea of a joke, I guess.
I would’ve thought it was pretty funny if he’d been there to enjoy the gag with me.
But he wasn’t.
I smiled for about a second, then fell apart.
This was the worst yet. You’d think I’d never seen anything as heartbreaking as those five thousand dollars in small bills. I
bawled
. Tears poured down my face and spasms wracked my body. I ended up stretched out on the carpet by the door, crying onto my crossed arms.
When I finally ran out of tears, I felt empty and lazy. I was dangerously close to falling asleep, so I pushed myself up. Leaving the attaché case by the door, I hurried into the kitchen. I jerked a couple of paper towels off a roll by the sink, and used them to cover my hands while I pulled open a few cupboards.
I found Murphy’s stash of grocery bags. The paper bags were folded neatly in a row inside a cupboard. I took out two, stuffed one inside another for double thickness, then returned to the living room.
Squatting over the attaché case, I double-bagged my cash.
Then I carried Murphy’s empty case into the kitchen, set it down by the table where he used to work, and wiped it carefully with a paper towel.
I’d planned to do the bedroom next, but suddenly had an urge to take care of my kitchen chores. So I made a couple of trips into the living room to gather the beer mugs, bottles and water glass. I washed and put away the mugs and glass. I wiped the bottles and dropped them into Murphy’s recycling bin.
Back in the living room, I saw the bag of pretzels on the coffee table. I had not only touched its cellophane bag, but I’d reached into it. My fingerprints might actually be
inside
the bag. So instead of trying to clean it, I decided to take it with me. It went into the grocery sack along with the money.
Well, I’m beginning to see that it might take me all day to describe every single step in detail. And who really wants to read about all that stuff, anyway? So I’ll just summarize the rest of it, if that’s okay with you.
Here’s what I did—pretty much in order—before leaving Murphy’s apartment.
1. Placed my autographed copy of
Deep Dead Eyes
in grocery bag.
2. Put bottle of Excedrin in my purse.
3. Untied ropes from all four bed legs and tossed them into grocery bag.
4. Found knife Murphy had used to cut the ropes (and me), washed it in the kitchen, and put it away.
5. Flushed condom and condom wrapper down toilet (and again wiped handle).
6. Removed pillow case and sheets from bed, stuffed them into grocery sack.
7. Put clean sheets on bed, fresh pillow case on pillow.
8. Artfully arranged Murphy’s trunks and Bear Whizz Beer T-shirt on bed mattress as if flung there in haphazard manner.
9. Took five copies of
The Dark Pit
from box, wrapped them for mailing, and labeled package with address Murphy’d copied onto the back cover of
TV Guide
(and his return address).
10. In bathroom, turned on shower so it sprayed down on Murphy.
11. Left shower curtain open and shower running.
12. Gathered my clothes and shoes, got dressed.
13. Put wig on.
14. Rearranged contents of grocery bag so that package of books went in on top of money.
15. Set grocery bags and purse near front door.
That’s pretty much all I did. It took a while—especially getting the books ready for mailing. I had to find tape and scissors, cut up a grocery bag, and be careful not to leave prints on any of the books or wrapping materials. A major chore.
I felt pretty good about doing it, though. I’d killed the poor guy, but at least he might get his chance at a movie deal.
Finally, all dressed and ready to go, I made the rounds one more time. I picked up a few odds and ends that shouldn’t be left behind, and gave a quick wipe to whatever I might’ve touched but couldn’t take with me.
I didn’t go into the bathroom, though. The floor was too wet from the shower, and the air was so thick with steam that I couldn’t even see Murphy in the tub.
Returning to the front door, I tossed a few things into the grocery bag with the money, books, etc. I didn’t think I’d be able to manage two bags, so I mashed down the one holding the dirty sheets and pillow case, and stuffed it into the other bag. Then I slipped my purse strap onto my shoulder. I put on my sunglasses and picked up the full bag.
It was pretty heavy. With my right arm, I hugged it against my chest. I used my left hand—wrapped in my skirt—to open the door.
For a few seconds, I stood there and looked out through the screen door. Nothing seemed to be going on outside.
From one of the nearby units came the noisy whine of a vacuum cleaner. I also heard television voices coming from somewhere.
But I saw nobody.
So I stepped out, pulled the main door shut, and walked briskly toward the sidewalk. I was several paces away from Murphy’s unit by the time its screen door bammed shut.
Eyes turned toward me as I entered the post office. Mostly belonging to guys, of course. Scoping out this flashy redhaired babe with the body to die for, the slit up her skirt and her blouse half open.
I recognized nobody.
I don’t think anyone looked high enough to see my face.
But I had my sunglasses on, just in case.
Holding the wrapped books low in front of me to keep the view of my cleavage clear, I walked straight over to the waiting line. There were ten or twelve people ahead of me.
I planned to send the books First Class.
I’d considered Overnight Express Mail, but it was after four o’clock by the time I reached the post office. I thought that might be too late in the afternoon for guaranteed nextday delivery, so why go to the extra expense?