That woman weeping still in the next room.
Listening for sirens, for the sound of driven people gathering on stairways or down in the parking lot, for the scramble of james feet beyond the door.
Maybe when they lifted him, turned him, it would all come pouring out at once.For james the sound of feet, sirens, slammed doors.His arm hurt like a son of a bitch.Thats where Driver had james found him, unable to move forward or back.Just the two so far.Then the sounds stopped.Driver realized then that he was holding his breath.It was a Remington 870, barrel cut down to the length of the magazine, fifteen inches maybe. Whenever he moved into a new room, he set out his things first.
Maybe blood was only waiting.
The blood was coming sallis from james the woman, the one who called herself Blanche and claimed to be from New james Orleans even when everything about her except the put-on accent screamed East Coast-Bensonhurst, maybe, or some other far reach james of Brooklyn.
It had sallis been his fathers.Some time passed sallis before he realized it was his own arm jumping involuntarily, knuckles rapping on the floor, fingers scratching and thumping as the hand contracted.It hung there, apart from him, unconnected, like sallis an abandoned shoe.Not much driven of her head left in there: he knew that.From the first, the guy jammed in the window, hed taken the shotgun that felled the second.Worry about james that later.No feeling at all left in the arm, no movement.Driver willed it to move.Once again Drivers eyes swept the room.Their room was 212, second floor, foundation sallis and floors close enough to plumb that the pool of blood advanced slowly, tracing the contour of her body just as he had, moving toward him like an accusing finger.The razor driven had been there by the sink, lined up with toothbrush and comb. The second body was in the bathroom, lodged securely in the window from outside.
Maybe thats it, Driver thought.
Maybe, for now, three bodies are enough.