The Cleanup

by John Skipp; Craig Spector

  Louis wasn't too hot with the next of kin, either. So Broome was left to deal with the mourners and positive identifiers of the late Lisa Traynor.

  Tactfully.

  Which he did.

  "May I help you?" he said.

  "We're here to . . ." the male member of the couple began, then faltered. He and his girlfriend/wife/sister/whatever were as pale as the corpse that they'd come to identify. This was killing them. Understandable.

  "Over here," he said, careful to avoid anything like okay or it's alright. It wasn't okay, it wasn't alright, there wasn't anything remotely okay or alright about it. He turned and walked down the aisle of bodies to the table on which she lay. They followed.

  He turned down the sheet.

  They both started to cry.

  Shit, he thought, biting down on his own emotions. By almost anyone's standards he was a callous sonofabitch, but there were still some things that got through to him. Thank God. Having to fight it down meant that it was still there.

  One of the detectives appeared in the doorway. Broome thanked God again. It would give him someone to shuck and jive with when the worst part of the horror was through.

  Billy, like Broome, had seen a lot of corpses lately. He had thought himself steeled to the sight of any other.

  He was wrong. He knew that now. This wasn't a Rickie or a Rex or an Albert; this wasn't just another anonymous scum. The shape under the sheet was someone he loved.

  Too much for words.

  Too far gone for deeds.

  Mona had turned away, was unable to look any longer. Her sobs were soft and rhythmic and steady; it was the measure of her restraint. She'd gotten the official call minutes before Lisa had died. Dragging herself down to the hospital, so close on the heels of her own collision with nightmare, was nearly impossible. This dragged her squarely to the brink.

  Which Billy had just gone over.

  The question why was in his head, but he already had it answered. He knew why. He knew fucking well why. She was dead because she knew too much.

  She was dead because he loved her.

  Just like Mona's rape, the Smiley-Face slashings. They were sacrifices on the black altar. They were designed to drive him mad, to overwhelm him with the hopelessness of his struggle.

  Oh, God, his mind whispered in prayer. Let this not be true. Let this all be a dream.

  God didn't seem inclined to oblige him. The morgue didn't shimmy like a cinematic segue, turn into his bedroom. It remained as it was.

  Lisa's body remained as it was.

  Oh, God, Billy repeated, not knowing what he was praying for as he leaned over the corpse, spilling tears onto her lips, cupping her white face in his hands. Listening, as he had all those many times before.

  Hearing nothing.

  It was like holding a seashell to your ear, running a blank tape through your stereo and then listening to it with headphones. It was a dull, constant wash of white noise, too subtle to even be called a hiss.

  Whatever there was of Lisa, beyond the body, was gone forever.

  That was when all of the walls collapsed, just as he collapsed on top of her. There was nothing left for him to do but cry and

  (avenge her)

  hold her for the very last time and then

  (avenge her)

  avenge her.

  Avenge them all.

  Dennis Hamilton was standing in the doorway, wondering why he wasn't surprised. At least a little. Actually, he was wondering if anything would ever surprise him again.

  At first, the revitalized Marcy Keller had thrown him for a bit of a loop. Then he'd realized that it wasn't Marcy Keller, and it had been like hitting the jackpot on a Las Vegas slot machine: DING DING DING DING, with all the cherries lining up perfectly. He hadn't cashed in on it yet—it wasn't as easy as calling the casino owner over to confirm his winnings—but he had everything he needed for his own satisfaction. The last hole in the hunch had been plugged.

  Did that mean that this girl had been killed by the Slasher? Hamilton believed that it did. His twenty minutes with Freddie Brown had convinced him. Apparently, Ms. Traynor had done a number on her killer before she died. That was both good news and bad news. He wasn't sure which outweighed the other. It was only one of the questions that remained.

  For examples: Who was the Slasher? What did he have against Billy? He knew they were tied together, but he didn't know how. How?

  And if Billy really was the vigilante, how had he done the things that he'd done? How had anyone done them, Billy or not?

  It would not be good form to assail Billy now. However many levels of bullshit there might be on the surface, there-was no doubt that the kid was grieving. Hamilton didn't have his senior partner's official sanction, and he couldn't quite whip up the requisite cold-bloodedness himself.

  He turned away from the doorway, where Billy Rowe and his nameless dead ringer went through their unassailable anguish together. A little later in the day—at the Rowe residence, perhaps—he would get closer to the bottom of things.

  And with any luck at all, survive that dangerous knowledge.

  Mona didn't know about Hamilton's suspicions. She knew very little of the subtext at all, but it was enough to assure her that the world had gone mad.

  She let Billy make the final identification. She let Billy lead her out of the morgue and back up to the street. She let him hail her a cab, let him accompany her home in it, let him come up with her to make sure that the apartment was safe.

  When he hugged her tight and broke down in her arms, she let him do that, too.

  They cried each other to sleep, that night. It was good just to hold him, to not be alone. In the back of her mind, there was a strange subconscious intermingling of terror and love for him.

  Later, when her mind came back, she would sort out the pieces.

  If her mind ever came back at all.

  FORTY-ONE

  MASTER OF THE UNIVERSE

  By noon on Saturday, Brenda Porcaro had just about had it. Larry was still in the living room, still watching the damned TV, still in his unattractive underwear. She peeked discreetly around the corner, thinking, my God, he hasn't even combed his hair!

  Larry's matted, frizzy head poked unceremoniously over the back of her gracefully, roll-arm model camelback sofa with the taupe cotton olefin fabric and coordinating throw pillows (which she'd picked up at Cimbel's Total Home sale).

  A vague wave of distaste rolled through her. Their relationship was as yet in that delicate phase wherein the sight of the dreaded Morning Roth did more by way of damage than endearment. If things were a little more serious, perhaps . . . but as it stood, she'd had him around all week. She wasn't sure that she wanted to make a weekend out of it.

  Unfortunately, that seemed to be exactly what he had in mind. He'd shown up on her doorstep last night with that horrible black eye and that even more horrible story about how he'd chased those two hoodlums out of his apartment and gotten in that terrible fight with one of them.

  Well, she certainly couldn't turn him away. And it wasn't like she expected him to be gone before she woke up: after all, it wasn't that kind of relationship. She really liked Larry. He was funny and bright and he knew how to order in a French restaurant. And after a lifetime of creeps and losers, it looked like maybe she'd found a nice guy. Someone who wanted more than to just bury his face between her breasts and make motorboat noises all night long.

  Though he does do a pretty fair imitation of a Chriscraft, she remembered. Brenda giggled and flipped the setting on her True Hue mirror to Daylight, made up and checked her eyebrows. They needed tweezing.

  No, she thought further, I really do like Larry. And she didn't want to get ugly or anything. But she hadn't bargained on this . . .

  Larry had been planted there all morning—unkempt, unshaven, robe hanging open to expose his belly, which was starting to pot—silent and sullen and sucking up every stupid cartoon show that came on. Right then it was some idiotic thin
g called HE-MAN, MASTERS OF THE UNIVERRRRRRSSSSSSE . . .

  Or some such silliness. Brenda didn't like cartoons. They were juvenile. She went about making the bed, thinking not that it needs much making. Not much happened last night to muss it up.

  She was trying to be understanding: she'd read in Cosmo that it happens to a lot of men after enduring a heroic, life-threatening situation. But it left her feeling rather unsatisfied.

  Not to mention useless. He hadn't said more than three words to her this whole morning, and Brenda was starting to get just a little bent out of shape. He was just sitting there like a lump and staring at his stupid cartoons. It was so unromantic.

  She saw the pile of clothing he'd left on the wall side of the bed. That actually made her angry. She'd worked hard for her own place, committed major portions of her income to making it nice and keeping it nice. Larry's wrinkled ball of outerwear stood out like a pile of day-old doggy doo on her Anso II nylon saxony broadloom. It was a slap in the face to her sense of decor and good hygiene.

  Same with the damp, balled-up towels from his shower and the fist-sized squeeze in the middle of the toothpaste tube. Not to mention all the frizzy hairs in the tub. Gross. She thought about it for a few more minutes, then arrived at an ultimatum: either we breathe some fire into this, or we call it a day.

  So Brenda slipped into her new Christian Dior demicup underwire bra with the matching lace-front bikini that she'd ordered special from Victoria's Secret and checked herself in the mirror. Her breasts jutted fearlessly, without a hint of sag. Pleased with the results, she strolled over to the closet and heaved back the louvered doors. Today she'd be casual, opting for her turquoise Cathy Hardwick bigshirt over narrow stirrup pants with a matching soft-wool jersey halter top (which she'd gotten on sale from Miss Bergdorf Sportswear, just last weekend). A pair of short, zigzag braid boots with three-inch stacked-look heels (from 9 West), and a waxy ranch-leather belt (with silver-tone metal buckle, by Liz) tied it all together.

  Some quarter-carat diamond studs and a touch of makeup (just a touch, though. Casual.). A dab of Obsession.

  She ran some Paul Mitchell sculpting lotion through her hair and gently blew it dry. Then she stepped back and assessed the total effect.

  Stunning.

  This'll pull him out of his funk, she assured herself. This'll knock his socks off.

  Or, so help me God, I'll kill him.

  The voice wafted out of the bedroom, full of promise. "Larry . . ."

  No answer.

  "Lar-reeeeeee . . ."

  Subtle innuendo was all but lost on Larry Roth. He sat lumpen on the sofa, eyes glued to the flickering images playing across the screen. The Masters of the Universe had departed for the week; He-Man and Skeletor were quickly replaced by Hulk Hogan and Sergeant Slaughter. A whole cavalcade of 3-D he-men grunted and sweated and bashed it out, live from Madison Square Garden. Larry's eyes watched it all.

  But his brain . . .

  His brain was AWOL, off in some private netherworld that the dawn's early light had failed to vanquish. And it was busy busy busy, with thoughts of scary things.

  Like big greasy bruisers, bashing it out with him. Or roommates and old friends, gone suddenly psycho.

  Or peculiar odors, wafting from the landlord's apartment as he fled his own. That smell, like a refrigerator full of spoiled meat, waiting just behind the door

  (i'm going to pay off albert now)

  which was ajar, and Albert never left the door ajar

  (give him everything we owe him)

  and he could swear that he heard flies buzzing, and WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?

  Brenda snuck up behind Larry. She was trying to be understanding. She'd read, in that same article, that many men were often withdrawn and uncommunicative after enduring a heroic, life-threatening situation.

  She threw her arms around him.

  The article never said anything about shrieking.

  Or fainting.

  FORTY-TWO

  BUBBA KNEW

  It was almost five-thirty on Saturday afternoon before Bubba dared to venture into the bedroom. He'd been there for their hysterical return from the hospital, early that morning. He'd watched them cling to each other and cry. They cried until it seemed like they might never stop.

  But, of course, they did. The hitching, wracking sobs eventually wound down, and they passed out together on the bed: fully clothed, clinging to each other's warmth like a pair of wet puppies in a storm.

  Bubba had sat and watched from the relative discretion of the doorway. His reasoning powers might be marginal, but his intuition was first-class. He knew something was wrong. Very wrong indeed. Their clothes had the smell of death on them: death, and agony, and despair.

  Bubba was a Good Boy. He'd gotten out of the way and stayed there, letting them deal with their Bad Thing as he knew they surely must. And he'd sat, on guard and ever vigilant, just outside the bedroom door. Protecting them. It made him feel a little bit better. It was the only thing he knew to do that helped, and he did it wholeheartedly.

  But he'd been there a long, long time. Over fifteen hours had passed since Billy and Mona had returned from the Dying Place. Bubba didn't know what minutes or hours were, but he measured time very accurately nonetheless: with his eyes and his belly and his bladder. He'd seen the light come and brighten and start to go again. He'd felt the rumble deep in his stomach that said yummy for so long that he hardly felt it anymore.

  And he felt the time pass elsewhere: someplace that would not be ignored much longer. Bubba was a Good Boy, but if someone didn't take him out soon, something very very bad was going to happen.

  So, when he could simply wait no longer, Bubba gently nosed the door open.

  And softly . . . softly . . . ventured into the darkness.

  In his dream, Billy was back in the cathedral.

  And he was afraid.

  Because it was changing: growing murkier, more indistinct, with each passing step. The doors vanished: no more memories, no alternatives. No present, save the stepby-step.

  No future, but the one that stretched relentlessly before him.

  A path. Straight and narrow.

  And sharp as the edge of a razor.

  Billy walked, the way stretching taut and thin as an executioner's garrote, a nightmare tightwire from which there was no escape.

  There was only onward.

  Or down.

  Billy walked. Not feeling the pain as each step sliced into him. Not feeling the tears, tracking down his face. Feeling only the fear.

  And crying all the more, because he could barely even feel that . . .

  . . . and then Bubba was there, licking his face like only Bubba could, all hot sloppy tongue tasting of tears and beef by-products. Billy coughed and sputtered and opened his eyes.

  "Oh, Bubba," he whispered. "Poor guy." He hugged Bubba's big hairy neck. Bubba wagged his tail.

  "You need it bad, huh?"

  Bubba wiggled in affirmation. Now now NOW Billy!

  Billy smiled, feeling such a welcome surge of love from this silly creature that he could barely contain himself.

  He looked at Mona; she was definitely out. He'd be back before she was.

  Billy rose from the bed.

  Bubba did his oboy! dance, partly in anticipation of relief but mostly for joy. Billy was back. Oboy oboy oboy

  "Put a lid on it, Peewee," he chided, grinning. "Lemme get my coat."

  Bubba wobbled into the living room. Billy grabbed his jacket and the leash, walked into the kitchen, and opened the door.

  For his friend.

  It was a Bubba walk. Everything revolved around Bubba. He set the course: a leisurely stroll through the grounds of the Episcopal seminary down the street, followed by a whirlwind tour of all the happening fire hydrants and lampposts in the neighborhood. He also set the pace, the duration of stay at each checkpoint. There was no dragging on the collar, no hustling him of before he'd had a chance to catch up on the neighborh
ood news. This was a Bubba walk, and Billy was happy to give it his all.

  One last time.

  Billy's feelings ping-ponged between sheer amazement at how much piss that dog could hold—fourteen stops so far—and the simple, unbounded joy he felt as he watched Bubba go through his idiot paces.

  And then there was the fear: a quiet, gnawing fear that Bubba was in danger by virtue of his mere proximity. By virtue of his love.

  And Billy couldn't allow that.

  They rounded the corner onto Tenth Avenue, and Billy was surprised to find Bubba padding up to the door of the Chelsea Commons. Whether this was a reward for being so patient, or just because Bubba loved his favorite window perch, was a mystery. Billy just shrugged and went in, grabbing a stool at the bar.

  Jessie and Julie were on today: the former at the tables, the latter behind the bar. Both were sharp and sweet and lovely beyond belief, and Billy had often mused that he'd risk Hell for a sweet romp with either of them. Or both at once.

  Except that now

  (hell is real)

  he couldn't help but view them as he did Mona and Bubba and

  (lisa)

  every single person, place, or thing that he cared for on this earth. They were endangered. They were at risk by virtue of the fact that

  (hell is CLOSE)

  he loved them.

  "Howdy, stranger," Julie said. "How ya be?" She set an ice-cold Rolling Rock in front of him and leaned over the bar.

  "And how are you, Muffin?" she called to Bubba, who shot a panting-dog grin back at her from the windowsill.

  "We're both fine," Billy said. It sounded a little bit too low-key to be true. "How are you?"

  She turned back to him, melting him with a level gaze that said never mind about me, you little fibber. Let's hear some facts. "You look beat," she said.

  "Not yet, I'm not?" he joked halfheartedly, flexing his muscles. It was good for half a laugh: a quarter apiece.