Cut to the Bone(63)

“I can drive,” Emily mumbled.

“Right. And my face is on Mount Rushmore,” Annie said.

Emily hiccupped. “I’m not DUI.”

“Just UI,” Annie said.

“That’s mere supposition.”

“It’s a fact, Jack,” Annie said, pulling away from the Mining Camp and heading for downtown. “Lee Ann had room in her garage, so your car’s safe and sound. Set your alarm when you get upstairs. Don’t forget, because I’m swinging by at six to pick you up.”

“Aye aye, mommodore,” Emily said, saluting. She hit her nose instead of her forehead.

Annie grinned. “On second thought, I’d better call you.”

Marty checked his watch. Almost midnight. God, he was tired - worked all day, worked all night. But the powder room was finished, and for that, he was happy.

“Guess Em’s gonna wait till tomorrow,” he muttered.

He dragged himself upstairs, every step like climbing Everest. He peeked in the closet to make sure the tommy hadn’t disappeared, then walked to the master bathroom.

He washed himself of dirt, sweat, and grout spatter, then dried with her bath towel. Kept it to his face a minute ‘cause it smelled like her. Hung it back on the rack, making sure the corners were lined up - she had her idiosyncrasies - and walked out into the bedroom.

“Ow,” he said, grimacing.

He sat on the bed, took off his right shoe. A chunk of grout fell out. He two-handed it into the wastebasket next to her triple dresser. Score.

He tried to get up to go home, but his bones wouldn’t let him.

“Quick nap,” he mumbled, letting the shoe fall from his hand. “That’s all I need. Ten minutes and I’m outta here.”

Emily waved as Annie sped off. She opened and closed the front door, checked twice that it was locked. She wasn’t drunk, not a bit. But she had to admit to a certain tipsiness.

She gathered the envelopes from the foyer floor. The day she installed the door slot, she asked Joey the mailman to make his deliveries there instead of the curbside box. He understood why and was happy to oblige. She did, however, maintain the curb box, to fool the bad guys. Another silly superstition, she supposed. But one just like it saved her life two years ago, and as Branch said time to time, “Can’t hurt, might help.”

The Executioner gunned the mini-fueler under the Washington Street viaduct and into downtown Naperville. He cut west on Douglas Avenue, south on Mill Street, west again on Jackson Avenue. He stuck to the speed limit, signaled each turn. He’d memorized the information on the gas jockey’s driver’s license, but only marginally resembled the photo. He couldn’t afford a traffic stop.

He slowed at the VFW, scouting the area. Homes, driveways, sidewalks, trees, grass. Lots of lights, but none inside the houses. Emily’s included.

Nice-looking place, he thought. He appreciated artistry in industrial processes, and this had plenty. The terrain-hugging two-story featured a metal roof that looked like slate, brick cladding to match the Riverwalk pavers, contrasting limestone quoins, designer windows, and a wraparound porch. Not dissimilar to others in the neighborhood. The frame, walls, and floors, however, were poured concrete, two feet thick and sandwiched with insulation. He knew that from the Naperville Sun article about cutting-edge home building around town. Concrete, the article said, saved trees, cut energy bills, didn’t rot, and repelled destructive critters.

Well, most, anyway.

The front of the house sat blessedly close to the street. Brass lanterns lit everything yellowish white. The entrance door looked like oak. Probably steel, given the roof. A mail slot with a shiny brass cover was cut through at waist level.

Exactly as he’d remembered from his drive-bys.

Emily walked to the powder room. She’d start the grouting before hitting the hay. The job was much more fun when Marty helped, but that wasn’t possible so . . .

“I must be drunk,” she muttered, not believing her eyes. Every line was grouted white. The exquisitely inlaid granites and marbles were sparkling clean. The floor was done, and it hadn’t been when she left for work. Who in the-

She heard a titanic snore erupting from her bedroom.

“Man, oh man, oh man, oh man,” she whispered.

The Executioner peered through the gaps in the garage curtains. No cars. Nobody home.

Flame on.

January 17, 1972

“Weatherman promises nine degrees tonight,” Potter Stewart said.

“Nine?” William Rehnquist groused, not feigning the shiver. “Washington’s a southern city, for crying out loud. If I wanted winter wonderlands, I wouldn’t have left Milwaukee.”

Stewart’s polished heels popped like snare drums as the two justices strode across the Great Hall of the U.S. Supreme Court. “Well, at least the debate was hot.”