Off Season - Jack Ketchum [60]
“You got it,” Shearing said.
“Let’s have a look,” said Peters. He and Willis stepped inside.
Twenty minutes later they were through. Peters had seen quite enough of the house by then so Willis led him up the hill to the smoldering fire.
As far as Peters was concerned, it was worse looking at the thing on the spit than at all the others put together. He had never had much stomach for burn wounds, and this was the worst he’d ever seen. This was not burn wounds, this—as Willis said—was barbecue. There were bones and half-eaten bits of flesh scattered all around the front of the house, and now he was looking at where it all had come from. The roast. There was no way to tell if it was a man or a woman. It was enough to know it was human. His most outlandish hunch about Donner’s story and Mrs. Weinstein’s story was confirmed and then some. At the time, he’d thought his imagination was getting a bit frisky, that he was seeing ghosts and monsters where there were only idiots and crazies, routine human evil. But here it was, grisly beyond belief. And now he wondered if he hadn’t underestimated them.
He knew two things now that he hadn’t known twenty-four hours ago. One made him sick, the other made him scared. The first was that they killed and ate their victims. The second was that they had menfolk.
The hand on the floor belonged to a male Caucasian of darned-near enormous proportions. It was filthy and it was the hand of a workingman, scarred on the back and callused on the front. It did not belong to any of the discovered victims. Both the male with his throat slit on the bed and the man out front had smooth, tender hands. City hands. This one was used to wood and dirt and stones. Just like the woman’s had been. And God help him, just like the kids’.
Peters watched Willis pour some tap water over the last few burning embers. They left the human carcass hanging from the spit exactly as they’d found it, for the photographer. Tonight, thought Peters, the photographer was going to be a busy man.
“How far to the ocean from here, Willis?” he asked.
“Oh, ‘bout two miles. As I recall, there’s a path or two leads you right down there. You follow this one here to the brook and then there’s another a couple yards downstream, takes you right to the shoreline. Used to come down here to bait our hooks when we was kids, then walk over and do some surf fishin’. Never got much, though.”
“Any caves or anything down that way?”
“I don’t really remember, George. Might be.”
From where he stood at the top of the hill, Peters saw headlights in the distance. It had taken them long enough to get here. He saw Shearing approaching on the run. Shearing was always running someplace, thought Peters. ‘Course, part of that was Peters’ fault. But it keeps a man trim, all that running. He envied Shearing his youth and strength.
“I think I’ve got what we need,” said Shearing.
“What’s that?”
“The station says the house was rented through King Realty. We woke up Mrs. King and she says that her client was a Miss Carla Spencer, New York City. No other clients involved. No males. But Mrs. King says she knows Miss Spencer has a sister and that she mentioned something about her coming up to visit sometime. She couldn’t say when she was expected.”
“Damn,” said Peters. “I was afraid of that.”
“Of what?” asked Shearing.
“New York plates on one car, local rental on the other. Three victims, counting this one here. Two of the victims males. This one possibly male, possibly female. Suppose we say it’s female. What’s that suggest to you boys?”
“Suggests another woman,” said Shearing. He consulted his notes. “Rental on the Pinto is to Miss Carla Spencer, New York City. That means the black Dodge was company. Probably the sister, with two male friends. That means there’s at