Endless Night Part 35

"Looking good," Sharon said.

Jody twisted around and peered out the rear window. Except for one car, the onramp behind them seemed to be deserted. "Is that Simmons?" she asked.

"That's him."

Dad picked up speed and eased into the flow of eastbound traffic.

"Here he comes," Jody said.

The unmarked police car sped closer, then swung to the left and eased up alongside them. The driver's right arm reached out. For an instant, Jody thought he was pointing a gun at Dad. Her stomach plummeted. But then she saw the man raise his thumb.

Dad returned the thumbs-up signal. Sharon leaned forward a bit and waved. Then Simmons's car shot forward and was lost in the traffic.

The radio suddenly blasted. Before Jody got a chance to recognize the tune, the volume faded. "Jody's station," Dad said. "K-Noise."

"Very funny, Dad."

"Let's see if we can't find us a li'l ol' country station."

"Is that what you like?" Sharon asked.

"I reckon it's what you like."

"How'd you guess?"

"They don't give sergeant stripes to dummies, ma'am."

Sharon laughed softly. "Do you like country?"

"Reckon I'm ambidextrous."

"It's fine with me," she said, "if we keep on Jody's K-Noise."

"No," Jody said. "That's okay. I like everything, mostly. Except Willie Nelson."

"You don't like Willie?"

"I think it's his headband," she said.

"When Jody was eight," Dad explained, "she got carsick while Willie was singing *Always on My Mind' on the radio. Ever since then, she thinks about him every time she loses it. And vice versa. That's the real reason she can't stand him."

"Very nice, Dad. Tell everyone about me throwing up."

"I've done it myself," Sharon said. "In fact, I toss my supper every time I see a dead body."

"Every time?" Dad asked.

"Well, only the ones I meet on duty. I don't usually throw up at funerals."

"Your partners must love that."

"They've been okay about it. As long as I miss them."

Dad started laughing. He laughed hard.

"They find it amusing, too."

"What is it, the aroma?"

"Jeez, Dad!"

"It gets me even when I can't smell 'em."

"Knowing how they're gonna smell," Dad suggested.

"Hey, maybe so. I never thought of that."

"Oh, my G.o.d," Jody said.

"What?" Dad asked. Sharon looked around at her.

"I just remembered. Last night at Evelyn's, the place smelled like something dead. Remember the rat that died behind the wall, Dad? It was that sort of smell. The killers smelled like that. A couple of them did, anyway. The fat one who got Evelyn, he had that smell. And so did the little guy who came to Andy's room."

Even in the dark, Jody could see the look of revulsion on Sharon's face.

"If you were right about that guy's pants," Dad said, "the stink probably came from them."

"I don't think so. They didn't look ... rotten."

"Pants that rot?" Sharon asked.

"I can't believe it," Dad said. "You mean the word hasn't gone through the whole department by now?"

"I was briefed on last night's homicides, but ..."

"You know about Jody killing one of the perps?"

"Sure."

"Well, according to Jody and Andy, that guy was naked except for a pair of trousers made out of human skin-somebody's b.u.t.t and legs."

"Holy s.h.i.+t."

"But they looked sort of normal," Jody said. "I mean, not normal But we both thought the guy didn't have any pants on, at first. Until we started to notice things. But anyway, what I'm getting at is the skin looked regular. The color wasn't funny. There might've been some kind of preservative stuff on it, but it wasn't brown like leather usually is. And it sure didn't look like it was going bad. I mean, it wasn't slimy or green or moldy, or ..."

Sharon turned her head away, gagging. More choking sounds erupted from her as she rolled her window down. Quickly, she tugged off her NRA cap and stuck her head out. Her short hair blew in the wind.

Jody reached over the top of the seat and put her hand on Sharon's back. "Jeez, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

Sharon pulled her head in. "That's all right." She glanced sideways toward Jack. "I just needed a little fresh air. I'm okay now."

Dad looked over at her. "How long have you been on the job?"

"Six years."

"And you're still this squeamish?"

"It looks that way, doesn't it." She sounded defensive, slightly annoyed.

"You must spend half your life throwing up."

"Come on, Dad. Anyway, she didn't throw up."

"That's right, I didn't."

"And it's not as if you've never done it. Remember when you found that mold on the bread after you'd already eaten half the sandwich, and ... ?"

"Okay, okay," he said. "n.o.body wants to hear about that."

"Let he who never vomits cast the first ..."

"Cut it out, now, Jody."

"To get back to the point," Sharon said, "some of the men who invaded the Clark house last night smelled like dead rats. Is that right?"

"That's right," Jody said. "And I don't think the stink came from the skin pants. I don't even know what the fat guy was wearing. He looked all s.h.a.ggy, like his clothes were tattered, or something. He smelled the same way as the little guy, though."

"And you don't think it was the clothing?" Sharon asked.

"I don't think so."

"Then what could account for the odor?" she continued, as if determined to show that she could function in spite of the disgusting subject matter.

"I don't know. Unless they're zombies."

"They're not zombies," Dad said.

"I know," Jody told him. "But why would they smell like that?"

"When we get our hands on one, we'll find out." He drove in silence for a few seconds. "I didn't smell anything like that tonight at the Zoller house. Just the usual. Nothing like a rotten carca.s.s."

"The shooter had to be one of the guys from last night," Sharon said.

"Maybe I just didn't pick up on it. The place was pretty whiffy. Or maybe the stink the kids noticed was a fluke and they don't always smell that way. They might've just finished disposing of an old body, or something, before they paid their visit to the Clark house."

"Or maybe they hadn't disposed of it," Sharon said. "Maybe they had it with them. Maybe they were keeping it."

"Why would they want to keep a body?"

"For a mascot?" Sharon suggested.

Dad laughed.

"You cops are all a bunch of psychos," Jody said.

"Ain't that the truth?" Dad said.

"Hey," Sharon said, "did you know Psycho Phelan?"

"Are you kidding? Psycho? Man, what a lunatic. Did you hear about the time ... ?"

And so it began.

They started telling war stories.

Jody listened eagerly to their tales of Psycho Phelan, then to one story after another about busts that went awry, amazing goofs, tight sc.r.a.pes, practical jokes played on fellow cops, bizarre civilians they'd encountered, peculiar deaths that were awful but often hilarious.

To hear what they were saying, though, Jody had to sit on the edge of her seat and lean forward, bracing herself with her arms stretched atop the seatbacks. That way, she could keep her head in the middle of things and catch both sides of the conversation. After a while, however, the muscles under her arms began to feel the strain of holding her up. Her back and neck started to ache. All over her body, nicks and scratches, cuts and sc.r.a.pes and bruises seemed to come awake and hurt her.

Finally, with a moan, she succ.u.mbed. She eased herself backward and settled down in her seat. She wanted to stretch out. "Okay if I put the shotgun on the floor, Dad?"

"Sure. Just don't fire it."

"Once was once too often," she said. She slipped it out from under the blanket and set it carefully on the floor.

"Is my rifle in the way?" Sharon asked, looking back at her.

"No, I think it'll be fine. Gotta get rid of this stuff, though." She dug her hands into her jacket, pulled the pistol out of one pocket, then removed the loose magazine and box of cartridges from the other.

As she set them on the floor with the shotgun, Sharon said, "You like guns?"

"They're okay."

"She loves her little Smith & Wesson," Dad said.

"I don't love it. Jeez. It's just a gun." To Sharon, she said, "I do get a kick out of shooting it, though. I think that's a lot of fun. I really like shooting-as long as I don't have to shoot some sort of big old cannon. It sort of hurts to shoot the big stuff."

"Yeah, I know what you mean." She smiled. "I've got a Parker-Hale .300 Winchester magnum at home. Every time I fire it I end up with a big ugly bruise on my shoulder."

"Why do you fire it, then?"

"I like it."

"The power," Dad said.

"That's it."

"I knew there was something I liked about you," he told her.