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FLEMING

DUGAN&039;S hideout was the last of four similar sh ehts to indicate a town The two farthest houses showed lights, the nearest was dark He&039;d picked a great spot for privacy

To the north was Chicago, its glow against the clouds unan had acquired his last lair, I looked for graves and was thankful when nothing obvious presented itself There was a rickety shed in back, eainst one side The house itself was eht hiit to better keep his head down

Putting the revolver on a kitchen counter, I gaverime off my face and ar, too, before my interruption The bathtub had water in it, but it was draining away around a leaky plug I quelled an urge to fill the thing and dive in

His shaving things were balanced along the edge of the sink I felt my beard, considered for less than a second, and left I didn&039;t want to touch any of his stuff if I could help it

First things first, I found the rest of the blood supply he&039;d brought for e: a dozen quart ed one and drank it straight down My healing and the fight had taken it out of eneral weariness

That, I told iven ht I&039;d get the shakes or cringe at a bad memory, but I&039;d worry about it then, not now

Next I had to clean things other thanback down into that damned basement It stank of blood and terror I made an effort not to breathe the rusty sweet stench

The tableHe couldn&039;t have ed it on his own otherwise

The two rods stuck up as I&039;d left them, one with the handle broken off I looked underneath to see how he&039;d worked it and saw that there had been a reason for the threading

The lower part of the rods extended about a foot and a half below the table, and he&039;d filed the ends to points, the easier to pierce my arms There were two thick metal squares with half-inch holes drilled in their centers firmly screwed to the underside of the table Each rod went through that hole, held firmly in place with thick nuts and washers Without the plates to spread the load, I ht have been able to pull the rods out from the wood Hideous, simple, and it worked

I wanted to burn the table, but that would not be practical Instead, I re the table with the holes and reinforcing plates as a mystery for anyone who happened to come down here next The rods, rope, and my packet of earth went into the car I kept the butcher&039;s apron out

The basement had a cement floor with a drain and over in a corner was a faucet Cold water, but it did the job once I found a bucket and an ancient mop I threater over the table and swabbed it down, on top and underneath My blood had soaked into soiven time would turn into unidentifiable stains

After the table I threater on the stairs and floor,them down The porous cement would not scrub clean, but most of the red stuff went down the drain, and the place looked less like a slaughterhouse The mop head reo in the car

Upstairs, I swept up the broken glass and put it in the bucket I carried his radio, toolkit, and the bottles of animal blood to the car He had a crate in the trunk, and the bottles fit neatly into it with no chance of spilling This must have been how he&039;d carried the bundles of money, spare clothes, newspapers, andto indicate his identity

On his writing table was a bottle of his favorite green ink ready to refill his favorite fountain pen

In his neat, machinelike hand, he&039;d covered one sheet of paper with personal observations about his experiment-me I didn&039;t care to read otten in a kitchen drawer I cruathered up all the origa the reen was consu water flushed the last of his poisonous thoughts away for good The sink had a scorched area, but that would be so into the suitcase with his shaving gear, the paper and ink-everything he&039;d brought-and put it in the car, keeping one of his shirts I used it to rub down every surface in the house I could re and a few love to pick up the revolver again, wiping it, too, then thoughtfully switched off the lights The doorknobs got a final swipe as I went outside

My ar been cut away, but I didn&039;t feel cold I&039;d worked up a good sweat from all the work

There was one last job to do, and I&039;d allowed for the fact that I round next to the grave he&039;d dug

I&039;d shot him He was dead

For now

I didn&039;t know if he would stay that way

After all the blood he&039;d drained fro to take any chances

I looked at his corpse, and all I could feel was relief Guilt, regret, fear of being caught, even satisfaction-all the varied emotions that people experience when theyweren&039;t there for me I was only relieved that it was over

Maybe that one, burned away like his writing Or maybe I was in some kind of shock

Then it was a relieved kind of shock

I dropped the revolver into the hole and tossed the shirt aside in case I wanted a rag for later

His shovel was on the ground next to a pick he&039;d used to break up the tough earth He was no expert at grave-digging, but he&039;d y and strength he&039;d taken froot the shovel It still had the price written on the handle in grease pencil

Last job

It was a bad time to stop and think, but I realized I didn&039;t know just how to do what needed to be done

One short moment of consideration later, I turned him on his face His body was flaccid and oddly heavy Was it already repairing that bullet hole in his heart? I had no sense that there was anything left of him There is an awful emptiness to the dead You expect the that they don&039;t

Of course, it&039;s evenif they do

Two-handed, I raised the shovel and brought it straight down like a guillotine blade on the back of his neck It sheared through the bones and flesh, biting into the earth beneath His head did not roll away Appalled that I&039;d even thought of it, I had carefully banked snow around hily, a great deal of blood Much of it leaked into the ground, but a lot splashed ontoit low to cover er hole It landed chest up

Snapping the pick handle in two over one knee, I vanished, went down in the hole long enough to rath of wood into his heart, took off the heavy apron, and shot swiftly clear

Solid again, I quickly stuave out I fell on all fours in the snow, heaving and whooping and finally sobbing, though ht up toain On an intellectual level I&039;d done as necessary, but certain horrors are harder to deal with than others

Nausea anchoredout even the cold, wet snow as I lay curled on the ground, groaning and miserable

Once more I conjured that perfect summer day, but it was less perfect now The stock-tank water was unco the blue sky Bobbi and Escott were nowhere in sight

My doppelg§Ԯger loafed under the shade tree, hands in his pockets, his expression sy§Ԯgers in legend were supposed to be evil things They brought calah to see theirs

Maybe he was the real Jack Fleave a sardonic snort, shaking his head, showing a brief grin

"Don&039;t be a pill," he said, then walked away

I blinked awake What the hell did that mean?

Ah, crap, I&039;d think about it later I was freezing

I scattered snow over the an&039;s body was still in it, showing no signs of resurrection I shoveled dirt in, enough to discourage scavengers, then regarded the s it as a place to bury h to toss his in, but I felt a reluctance to do so There was no excuse not to use it, but froainst an unexpected streak of superstition

I had a nightrave to go digging up its head

That would not happen but soive in to a mild case of irrationality If it makes you feel better, why not?

My irrationality was sufficiently strong that it gave h the back half of Dugan&039;s head Can&039;t say I felt better, as the nausea returned in force, but the action rehostwith the sound his skull made when the bones shattered, but everyone else was safe

I shut the i with the swabbed-down shovel In a couple days I&039;d call the cops and co from the shed Of course they would be revolted by the headless corpse and the obvious violence that had taken place, but that couldn&039;t be helped They would eventually identify Dugan from his prints or as left of his face and unofficially close a few files