The Canal (14 page)

"Oh. Yes, yes sir. I mean--"

"Then goodbye."

"Sir, if you could just hold for one
second--" A button on Alan's phone was blinking for an incoming
call. It could be Womack. It could be Vincent. It could be Bob.

He quickly switched to the other line. "Who's
this?"

"Vincent."

"I'm calling you back." Alan switched lines
again. "Kozar, I'm sorry... Hello?" The line was dead, just a
panting dial tone. He tried again. Nothing. Well, then that would
have to be enough. Rose Lombardi it was. Even for Joe, to bring the
wilderness into your life? To lay down with it? How unclean.

But more importantly, Alan now possessed
Joe's secret. Finally, knowledge. Answers. Power. And, oh wow.
Frankly, it was rejuvenating.

His problems, they were still there, but the
air had changed -- it felt ripe with fortune, like anything Alan
wanted, he would get. Surely it was no coincidence that Vincent had
called at this exact moment. Surely, all the facts would soon be
his.

Alan dialed the morgue. "Tell me what I want
to hear."

"Ah, they just got finished. There's some
things that, I mean, some points of interest..." Vincent sounded a
little too meek, a bit too lost out there in all those miles of
telephone cable.

"Okay. But skip the small talk," said
Alan.

"Well then, all in all we've got around 40
stab wounds -- it's hard to be exact, they got lost in all the
mush. Mostly around the neck and torso, defensive hits on the arms
and hands. The wounds are actually paired -- suggesting a two
pronged weapon."

Alan breathed deep. The data, the
information, it swept him skyward in winged arms, quenching his
thirst, his hunger, healing him, showering him in pure, flawless
light... Male. 5-foot-9. 44 years of age. Approximately 170 pounds
when in possession of previous skin and organs, or as Vincent
called them, "incidentals." Teeth intact. Dragged by the foot
across open ground, some dirt and grass discovered on the body.
Timewise this came after being skinned...Vincent, after much
vacillating, used the word "stripped."

"About the skin," said Alan. "Was the victim
still alive when it was removed?"

"He was already dead from the stabbing. But
the surprise here is that, well, there's no sign that a knife or,
or anything cut away the, well the hide. Which is unexpected.
Instead, we got, uh, what we've got are. These...teeth marks."

"Excuse me?"

"Teeth," said Vincent, airlessly.

To himself, Alan admitted a certain technical
appreciation -- incorporating devourment into the overall formula
would make for a clever challenge.

"In a million years I couldn't make this up,"
said Vincent.

"Give me details," said Alan. "What and
how."

"Well, the Doc says that the damage is, it's
more of a scraping, rather than, like a tearing. So the skin
was...I mean, this blows my mind. Who's gonna eat a body?"

"Vincent. VINCENT. Listen to me. I can hear
it in your voice. An unattractive doubt. A fear. And quite frankly,
it's unprofessional. X's and O's is all this is. A plus B equals C.
Facts and factors."

"But I--"

Why was it so hard for people to understand?
Why was Alan the only who got it? "Names, dates, numbers!" he
snapped. "X, Y, Z! If you're going to talk about scraping, then
give me scraping and save the rest for your fucking diary."

Vincent apologized. Alan briefly wondered if
Vincent actually did keep a diary, and what that would be like.
Probably semi-literate, the dulled observations of a tough.
Although that was probably more Womack's style. So no, maybe
Vincent didn't keep a diary. But he'd definitely do something just
as pathetic. Like go to church.

"Okay," said Vincent after a few heavy
breaths, some kind of Lamaze. "You-you're right, Alan. So,
then...it was the doctors opinion that the, the skin, and
specifically only the skin, was, you know, got at from under the
edges, ah, kind of peeled and, I guess, sucked away. So, it could
also be that the substance, the fluid we found on the body is
possibly, ah, well, you know, saliva."

Alan's first thought: dogs. He pictured
beasts covered in mud and feces, bald in patches, bitter tramps
beaten wild. Then another picture -- top floor. Those derelicts
locked up there, depraved and filthy, gathered around a bathtub
with a body in it, taking one bite at a time, pulling the skin away
like pizza cheese. And Rose making off into the night...

"What kind of bite marks are we talking
about?" asked Alan. "Animal or otherwise?"

"Well, seeing as the abrasions, are uh,
total, everywhere. You think it was some kind of, a goddamn shark,
I mean what else has--"

"Vincent. I'm low on fuse here."

"Okay, okay, that's... A dentist's gonna let
us know. It could be either. Some sort of, a really big animal, or,
well many, many humans, chewers..."

"Fine, fine," said Alan. "Now listen to me,
Vincent. I want you to join Womack at the canal, and I want you to
bring a couple of guys. And you tell Womack..." Again an image:
those squatters -- hungry faces, bloody fingers, yards of skin. Joe
had known something was going on there...maybe his so-called wife
had told him. So then Joe went and stumbled into that building,
like he stumbled into everything, and got overtaken by a bunch of
fucking pagans. The scenario seemed reasonable to Alan. But he
needed some of those squatters to be sure.

"Vince, you tell Womack that building is top
priority. I want you guys to put out the word -- any creep that
comes within a thousand yards of that place, they're shackled, you
hear me?"

Now Alan felt right. Oh yeah, this was more
like it. Data was his weapon. Knowledge was his napalm. Unaware he
was even doing it, Alan picked up a phone message: Wants tlk 2 U.
From a precinct across town.

Alan needed a shower. He needed an aspirin.
He needed to be on the streets, using what he'd learned. Because he
needed some goddamn subtraction. He needed deletion. He needed his
desk to be clean like he always has it and everybody should fucking
know this because it so obviously shouldn't be fucked with.

Fine. He'd answer one message, allow himself
that luxury at least, and then he'd see about everything else.

Alan called the number on the slip. "Who is
this!" he barked. "Why are you calling!" He continued to speaking
strictly in single units -- yes, no, dunno, goodbye. Automatically,
he called another number. Who, what, why, next, erase, erase,
ERASE. And once he started on the messages, there was no stopping,
no way. It felt too good. And after what he'd been through, he
needed this, just, he needed to let himself have this, please. He'd
delete every message. Yes. He'd delete the crap on his desk. Yes.
He'd delete everything, wouldn't he? YES. Fucking erase them all,
dismantle them. Joe and his wilderness bride. All the skin eaters.
All the filth that was always pressing in on him, just beyond his
shields and barriers. And anything and anyone else. Just get in his
way, just do it, please, just get in his way. He'd do it to them
all, to everything, erase, erase, ERASE, until all that was left
was perfect and pristine.

>> CHAPTER TEN <<

Dinner.

The hour was near. Paul didn't need a clock;
by now he was ingrained with nocturnal rhythms, with tidal pull.
Ever since the visitor's first meal his days were little more than
prologue to the sun's daily failure, its million-story plunge to
the sea, to that instant when all control was relinquished to
night. Every day Paul waited for the sun to die another death.
Every day Paul waited for a chance to feed.

But Paul still lay on the floor, still too
weak, his heart trying dizzily to keep its pace. He had been this
way since morning, weaving in and out of consciousness. But Paul,
well, he'd never missed a dinner. He refused to miss one now.

He knew it wouldn't be easy to match his
previous dish -- that meal had been incomparable, a soaring high.
And to disappoint his friend tonight with middling meats, why that
would be devastating. It was at times like these that Paul truly
suffered.

He scolded himself. If only he had felt
better, if only he had invited the policeman inside. Like the other
night. Like the other man…

*

Dinner.

Two evenings past.

Paul was in the kitchen. He was preparing a
turkey, a boulder of meat and bone and, of course, skin, wet and
dotted and yellow. The skin was important. The skin was the
thing.

Zzzzzzzzerttt.

The door. Paul was reluctant to answer,
afraid it was that relentless woman peddling her relentless
leftovers. Every week it seemed she came, singling him out, leaving
him to dispose of her inedible, vile crimes.

But, no. Instead he met a salesman. How tall
the man was, how fat, how ugly, how stale of sweat -- Paul noticed
none of these things. What he noticed was the suit. How many nights
had it seen sleeping in bus terminals? How many mornings spent
shaving in diner bathrooms? How often had its pockets been pulled
inside out in search of pennies to pay for coffee? The suit said:
often. The suit said: every single day. The suit said: this man
could disappear and nobody would notice. Nobody would even think to
complain.

The new Paul sensed an opportunity. He'd been
sent a gift, wrapped in a suit of fraying seams and faded
cloth.

The man was, appropriately enough, selling
graves. He said his name was Ray. Ray reverently displayed a slim
brochure, holding it with a look-but-don't-touch preciousness. New
Paul was content to let him talk, to let the twilight creep
closer.

"Manicured lawns," explained Ray. "We use
sit-down mowers, not the push kind. The push one's don't do so good
a job. I'm talking acres. More than seven, less than nine. You ever
even seen an acre? It's like farm country. Goes forever, endless.
We have a crew, works 'round the clock. I'm talking lawn as smooth
as polished stone."

Paul smiled. Or he nodded. He didn't need to
talk -- Ray both asked his own questions and answered them. "Are
you a smart man, Paul? Yes you are. Ever think about your 'time,'
meaning the afterlife? You do, because these things matter. You
ever hear of Lawnhill Cemetery? Of course you have, you can't not
have. We're the fifteenth largest in the area. And when you're that
big, well..." Ray said he greatly admired men of few words. And
then he talked and talked.

Memorials, chapels, vaults, caskets,
nonsectarian, tiered packages from pauper on up to prince, from
shallow ditch to gated and eternal flame'd pyramidal tomb. There
was the Glade of What-Have-You and Mount Everlasting So-and-So and
a watersprinkled parklike pasture devoted to veterans. Take your
pick, pick your price, inside tip -- it's cheaper at the curb.

And then came the final plea. An entire sales
commission hung in the balance. "Now here's the truth Paul. I stand
here today because I believe in what I'm offering. Yes, I myself
own a fine plot of Lawnhill land. But it's more than just the
obvious -- a dignified place for peace and eternal rest. So much
more. Hear me again, I own this land. Own. Its ownership, land
ownership. Do you know what that means? Of course you do. It means
that while you, Paul, will lose everything you've worked for upon
your day of passing, by God, at Lawnhill you WON'T. In death YOU
CAN STILL OWN. You can leave this world with something in your
hands!

"Lawnhill welcomes you with openness Paul.
Please. Please, won't you join us?"

Paul sought the council of his inner clock.
Was it time? Yes. He asked, "Are you alone?"

Ray smiled harder. He tried forcing his
pamphlet into Paul's clasped fingers. "Please, please join us?"

Of course he was alone. The suit said so. The
suit said: permanent bachelor, dinner for one, baloney on white,
brownbag drinker. Paul took the brochure. "Come inside."

Ray was suddenly in the hallway pumping
Paul's hand, thanking him profusely. Paul pointed him to the living
room and locked the door. If Ray was offended by the untidiness --
the prowling gnats, the calcified dust, the animal odors -- he
didn't show it. He sat on the couch and made a space for his
briefcase. He produced a second pamphlet and stood it atop the
coffee table.

"Are you a mausoleum man?" inquired Ray. "We
cremate too, just you see. Grave marker is included with only a
minor additional charge. Is there a Missus? Oh, I understand. I
should tell however, we do do transfers."

Paul asked Ray if he wanted anything, maybe
coffee. The salesman declined. "Ulcer," he said. "But I'll take an
installment plan! Ha ha. What's that, you don't have one? Well it
just so happens I do! Ha ha."

"Excuse me for minute," said Paul. He crossed
the living room and opened the door to the patio. "I seem to have
forgotten something."

"I'll abide," said Ray, smiling confidently.
"But the day of reckoning won't. It's never too soon Paul, and you
are -- if you don't mind my saying it -- an olderly man."

Paul nodded and went outside. He took the
meat fork from the barbecue. He paused to examine the tines --
scraped and bent, crusted with old blood, but still sharp. Paul
carried it behind his back and returned to the living room.

*

Their arrangement was, Paul cooked and the
insect came to eat. Paul's interest in the creature had quickly
become that of the doting father; he was intensely proud. And there
was much to be proud of. As the years went by, the creature grew
stronger, maturing and evolving. It learned to walk, or better, to
stalk. Iron knots of dark muscle bloomed. Its head merged with its
humped torso and the old face got grown over, the blind eyes
getting engulfed. And in a strange paradox, the healthier it got,
the sicker it got -- violent, swollen carbuncles, bursting and
pink, jutted from its body like peacock plumage, while suppurating
cankers draped its chest and dripped fried pus while cancers roamed
its face. And of course, the teeth, always more teeth.