When Sam awoke again, the clock was blinking 3:21 and sunlight was slanting in through the curtains.
Time to get to work.
He still had a few hours before people began returning from their cushy jobs at the office, especially since this little turnpike town would require a long commute. Shaking his head to clear the last sticky tendrils of drug-induced warmth, Sam slipped into an innocuous white muscle shirt and jeans. If anyone in the neighborhood saw him, they'd probably assume he was a handyman of some sort.
The sharp spring air did more to wake Sam up then the coffee that was sloshing around in his empty stomach. He shoved his hands in his pocket and rolled his shoulders to ease the tension from them. Walking meant that canvassing would take longer, but also removed the chance his license plate would be spotted.
A few blocks from the hotel, he hit the jackpot. A row of houses stared at him like empty eyes. Sam took a deep breath and forced himself to slow down.
Rushing'll just get you caught. Check for alarms, dogs, little kids, anything that'll make noise. Find a door that isn't dead-bolted. If you play it smart, you'll be skipping town before they even realize you're gone.
He saw a likely candidate; a run-down bungalow at the end of the block. Weeds choked the lawn and overgrown bushes partially obscured the low-set windows. Most importantly, the house was dark and the driveway was empty.
Still, Sam listened at the door, checking over his shoulder as he did so to ensure that the streets stayed clear. Satisfied that the house was silent, he slipped a lockpick out of his pocket. Within moments, he was inside.
The mudroom smelled faintly mildewed, with a strong overtone of cat. A faded floral apron hung on a peg, with a pair of well-worn, dusty boots underneath it.
Great. I'm probably robbing some old lady. Good job, Sammy.
For a moment, he considered backing out; picking a different place that wouldn't make him feel quite so sick inside, but his instincts told him that was too risky.
If the neighbors notice me wandering around the block, it'll be all over. One house and done, that's the way it's gotta be.
Plus that constant, inner hunger would not let him pass up such an easy opportunity for cash.
I'm sorry, Jess, he thought as he stepped cautiously over the threshold into what looked like a living room. Pictures hung in silvery frames on the wall. Babies in frilly outfits grew into gap-toothed kids, and from there morphed into beaming graduates and proud parents.
So this is it, huh? The life Jess never lived to see. The life I'll never have now because I'm a useless fucking junkie without a future-
Sam felt an irrational surge of anger shoot through him; so sudden and visceral that before he knew it, he was gripping one of the portraits in his hands. Sam took a shaky breath and forced himself to step back before he tore it from the wall.
No time for this. I'm just doing what I have to, to survive .
The rest of the living room seemed empty of any actual value. Save for and ornamental tea set that might have gold inlay, most available surfaces were cluttered with tiny china figurines. Sam turned the angel ones around because something about them gave him the creeps.
"No clowns, at least," he muttered to himself sarcastically.
The kitchen proved a bit more successful, with a few silver plates, burnished to a fine sheen.
Look at how well she took care of those. His conscience had recovered and was now wheedling through the cracks in the wall Sam had built around it. The rest of the house is dusty and threadbare but the plates look brand new. I wonder if they were a wedding gift?
"Shut up!" Sam cried out, a little too loudly. He stood stock-still at the foot of the stairwell, listening to his own ragged breathing as the old place creaked and settled around him. Clearly no one was home, but Sam couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him, sending trails of sweat pricking down the back of his neck.
Lose the paranoia and get out of here, he told himself, as he edged up the narrow flight of stairs. From what he'd learned about layouts in his newfound criminal stint (as well as an architecture course or two he'd taken for fun at Stanford), the second floor of this house would be small due to the sloping roofs of the bungalow style; possibly only storage space.
Halfway up, Sam caught a pungent whiff that was all-too-familiar.
Oh God no.
He knew he should get the hell out as fast as he could, collect his belongings at the motel, and beat it, on the off chance that anyone who had seen his face connected him to the incident. But a terrible curiosity compelled him onwards, the smell getting more and more cloying with each step. The smell hunters learned to recognize above all else, not that one could forget it easily- Sam had tried.
It wasn't the messiest Sam had ever encountered, but it was pretty damn bad.
An old woman lay spread-eagle on her bed, her fragile hair spread about her face like a dandelion. The sheets underneath her were red, red, with the occasional wet glistening of viscera breaking up the patchwork.
ohfuckshit I'm gonna have to wipe down every goddamn surface in this place and even then they're gonna find something that'll link back to me, so really I should just leave as fast as I can before anyone finds the body maybe she was a loner and I'll have a few days' headstart, fuck!
He ran a hand through his hair, gripping the back of his head like he wanted to rip it out by the roots. Nervous energy sparked and faded sporadically throughout his body, making him twitch.
Once I put this town in my rearview mirror, I can just take a huge hit and forget.
Because that worked so well with Jess, his conscience whispered.
There was a knock at the door.
Sam inched his way down the stairs, sweat now running in tiny rivulets along his hairline. He clenched his fists to keep them from shaking. On the last step, he peeked around the wall; he had a clear shot of the front door through the living room, straight across to his left. He could see the outline of a figure, probably male judging by the height, through the artfully distorted glass cut-out at the top of the door.
Police! Sam's insides froze. Someone must've noticed she was missing for a few days, now they're coming to check.
The knock sounded again, more insistent.
"Mrs. Carruthers?"
Shit. Sam ducked to the right, into the cramped kitchen. She's gotta have a back exit.
"Mrs. Carruthers?" A rattle. "The door's unlocked. I'm coming in."
His breath was coming hard and fast, almost panting. He scrabbled with the chain on the backdoor, praying he could get out before the cop saw enough to ID him. With a slight bang, he threw open the door and sprinted out to the sidewalk, just as the first heavy footfalls entered the house. He paused for a moment, resting his hands on his knees like an afternoon jogger taking a break.
A jogger in jeans and boots.
Sam turned, preparing to make the hastiest nonchalant exit he could manage, but was stopped dead in his tracks. His mouth dried instantly, and for a second he thought he might laugh out loud, high and hysterical because how the fuck could my life get any worse?
A 1967 Chevrolet Impala sat crouched at the curb outside the late Mrs. Carruthers' abode.
