Infected Page 90

Maybe it was the pic, maybe it was the fact that he’d seen the kid play on TV. Dawsey had been a rare one, a veritable beast who dominated the game every time he set foot on the field. Kid played meaner than a bull with a cattle prod up his a.s.s and a rat trap snapped on his nuts. It was a d.a.m.n shame, really, the knee injury that ended Dawsey’s career. Dew remembered seeing that on TV, too. Dew had watched men blown in half by land mines, men impaled with giant splinters from trees. .h.i.t by artillery fire, men decapitated and twitching, rotten and bloated, yet there was something about watching the super-slow-mo replay of that kid’s knee bending ninety degrees the wrong way that had made Dew’s stomach almost rebel.

He stared hard at the picture, memorizing every detail of Dawsey’s face. Big boy, sure, big and strong and mean and dangerous, sure, but that’s why man invented guns. f.u.c.k Murray’s orders — being an AllAmerican didn’t make you Superman, and a bullet in the head would bring “Scary” Perry Dawsey down just as it would anyone else.

Someone had to pay for Malcolm’s death. Dawsey was as good a target as any.

67.

THE COUCH DANCE

Perry sat on a pale yellow couch that looked brand-new, sinking back into the apartment’s welcome shadows. He always found it strange to be in another Windywood apartment. With an identical floor plan but different furniture and decorations, it was as if his apartment had been taken over and redecorated with watercolor seascapes, matching curtains, lace doilies and enough country-art knickknacks to gag a camel.

He munched on a chicken sandwich, cautiously peeking between the slats of the venetian blinds. He’d lucked out with Fatty Patty’s apartment; from her window he could see the flurry of activity in front of his building. Seven cop cars — five local and two from the state police — threw a visual cacophony of red and blue lights against the pitch-black night.

Observing the scene, he saw the reasons for his narrow escape. Fatty Patty had been watching out this window, and from this third-story perch she had seen the police cruiser a long way off. Her Triangles warned Perry, got him out of harm’s way. It only made sense, really; they were protecting their own. Keeping Perry alive was vital — he was a walking incubator, after all, and if he died the Three Stooges probably died with him.

The cop cars’ flas.h.i.+ng lights created a disco effect on the falling snow. It was well past midnight and there wasn’t a star in the sky. If he was going to move, it would have to be later that night when the starless darkness covered everything and the soft snow swallowed every little sound with an insatiable hunger.

But he wasn’t going anywhere until he saw Fatty Patty pop. He had to know how it happened. She sat on a yellow chair that matched the yellow couch, nibbling on a sandwich of her own. She cried silently, fat jiggling in time with the tiny sobs. She held a thrice-folded paper towel to a fresh cut on her forehead. Perry had told her not to cry out loud. She hadn’t listened. He’d cut her; the noise had stopped. Like Daddy always said, sometimes you just had to show women who was in charge.

He noticed she’d used masking tape to hang a Michigan road map on the back of the front door. She’d scrawled a red line on U.S. 23 moving north away from Ann Arbor. The line turned west at 83, then followed a

series of small roads until it hit the town of Wahjamega. Around the town she’d drawn several red circles and written the words This is the place. Near Wahjamega, in neat ruler lines, she had drawn a symbol in red ink:

Perry looked at the design he’d cut into his right arm. The scabs were still fresh. Sure, his was a bit messy, but then again it’s a tad harder to make straight lines with a kitchen knife, right? What did that symbol mean to the Triangles? Did the meaning even matter? No, it didn’t — nothing really mattered anymore.

“They told you to go to Wahjamega, too, eh?” Perry asked. She nodded quietly. “Do you have a car?” She nodded again, and he smiled. It would be easy; all he had to do was wait for the cops to clear out, then he and Fatty Patty could drive to Wahjamega. As for what waited there, he really didn’t want to know, but he was going anyway.

This was his second chicken sandwich (with Miracle Whip, mind you, and with a side of Fritos, it really hit the spot). He’d already polished off lasagna leftovers, some chocolate cake, a can of Hormel chili, and a pair of Twinkies. His hunger was long gone, but the Triangles constantly urged him to eat. And eat he did.

Munching away on the sandwich, he felt surprisingly content. He wasn’t sure how much of that enjoyment was his and how much was overflow from the Triangles; the things beamed with near-o.r.g.a.s.mic pleasure at the steady flow of nutrients. The line between what they felt and what he felt was beginning to get a little fuzzy, like the way he now truly wanted to go to Wahjamega.

Have to watch out for that, Perry old boy. Can’t fall into their little trap. Got to keep your own thoughts or you’re as good as dead.

He decided to kill another Triangle as soon as he finished the sandwich. That would redefine their relations.h.i.+p. Nothing like a little selfmutilating demarcation to set things straight.

In front of his building, the Columbos scrambled around like little ants. Perry reveled in his third-floor view. The drama below unfolded like a soundless, long-distance version of Cops.

The police had knocked on Fatty Patty’s door. She’d given an awardwinning performance. No, she hadn’t heard anything. No, she hadn’t seen a huge man wandering around the building. She was afraid of Perry, but thanks to her Triangles she was scared s.h.i.+tless of the cops. So she chose the lesser of two extreme evils.