"I said are you staying another day?"
"Yes. Yes, I'm staying another day."
She went into another room. She was working her way toward mine. I
hurried back in. I put one bag in the closet, opened the other one, put
my toilet articles back in the bathroom. I slammed the door and went
out. The dog was standing by the car again, whining. I got behind the
wheel and drove out of there. I drove away from town. I didn't want to
be stopped by a traffic light where anybody could look down into the
back of the car. I remembered an old tarp in the back. I pulled off
onto the shoulder and got the tarp. I waited while traffic went by and
then spread the tarp over Grassman. I tried not to look at him while I
did it. But I couldn't help seeing his face. The slackness of death had
ironed everything out of it, all expression.
I drove on aimlessly and then stopped again on the shoulder of the
highway. I wanted to be able to think. I could feel the dreadful
presence of the body behind me. My brain felt frozen, numbed, useless.
It did no good to wonder when the body had been put there. I couldn't
even remember the places where I had parked.
Why had it been put in my car? Somebody wanted to get rid of it.
Somebody wanted to divert suspicion from himself. From the look of
the wound, murder had been violent and unplanned. One tremendous,
skull-smashing blow. It was inevitable that I should begin to think
of Fitz. Of the people I knew in Hillston, he was the one capable of
murder, and both quick and brutal enough to have killed a man like
Grassman. From what I had seen of him, Grassman looked tough and
capable.
But why would Fitz want to implicate me? The answer was quick and
chilling. It meant that he had traced the right Cindy, the Cindy who
would know where Timmy had buried the money. He might already have the
money.
The immediate problem was to get rid of the body. It should be a place
where there would be no witness, no one to remember having seen my
car. I couldn't go to the police. "I was here before. Unemployed. No
permanent address. A criminal record, according to your definition. It
so happens I have a body in my car. It got in there somehow last night.
Was I drunk? Brother, you can find a dozen witnesses to how drunk I
was. I was a slobbering mess, the worst I've ever been in my life.
Worse even than the night before."
There would be no glimmer of understanding in the cold official eyes of
Lieutenant Prine.
A state road patrol car passed me, going slowly. The trooper behind the
wheel stared curiously at me as I sat there. He stopped and backed up.
Maybe they were already looking for me.