Dragon's Teeth Read online

  Jim lost interest as soon as the station cut away to the national news, and turned the set off.

  The remote-controlled TV was the one luxury in his beige box of an apartment. His carpet was the cheapest possible brown industrial crap; the curtains on the picture-window a drab, stiff, cheap polyester stuff, backed with even cheaper vinyl that was seamed with cracks after less than a year. He had one chair (Salvation Army, brown corduroy), one lamp (imitation brass, from K-mart), one vinyl sofa (bright orange, St. Vincent de Paul) that was hard and uncomfortable, and one coffee table (imitation Spanish, Goodwill) where the fancy color TV sat, like a king on a peasant’s crude bench.

  In the bedroom, just beyond the closed door, was his bedroom, no better furnished than the living room. He stored his clothing in odd chests of folded cardboard, with a clamp-lamp attached to the cardboard table by the king-sized bed. Like the TV, the bed was top-of-the-line, with a satin bedspread. On that bed, sprawled over the royal blue satin, was Molly.

  Jim rose, slowly and silently, and tiptoed across the carpet to the bedroom door, cracking it open just an inch or so, peering inside. She looked like a Norman Rockwell picture, lying on her side, so pale against the dark, vivid fabric, her red corduroy jumper rumpled across her stomach where she clutched her teddy bear with one arm. She was still out of it, sleeping off the little knock on the skull he’d given her. Either that, or she was still under the whiff of ether that had followed. When he was close to her, he could still smell the banana-scent of her popsicle, and see a sticky trace of syrup around her lips. The light from the door caught in the eyes of her teddy bear, and made them shine with a feral, red gleam.

  She’d been easy, easy—so trusting, especially after all the contact he’d had with her for the past three weeks. He’d had his eye on two or three of the kids at Kennedy Grade School, but she’d been the one he’d really wanted; like the big TV, she was top-of-the-line, and any of the others would have been a disappointment. She was perfect, prime material, best of the season. Those big, chocolate-brown eyes, the golden-brown hair cut in a sweet page-boy, the round dolly-face—she couldn’t have been any better.

  He savored the moment, watching her at a distance, greedily studying her at his leisure, knowing that he had her all to himself and no one could interfere.

  She’d been one of the last kids to leave the school on this warm, golden afternoon—the rest had scattered on down the streets, chasing the fallen leaves by the time she came out. He’d been loitering, waiting to see if he’d missed her, if someone had picked her up after school, or if she’d had a dentist appointment or something—but no one would ever give a second look at the ice cream man loitering outside a grade school. He looked like what everybody expected, a man obviously trying to squeeze every last dime out of the rug-rats that he could.

  The pattern while he’d had this area staked out was that Molly only had ice cream money about a third of the time. He’d set her up so carefully—if she came out of the school alone, and started to pass the truck with a wistful look in her eyes, he’d made a big production out of looking around for other kids, then signalling her to come over. The first couple of times, she’d shaken her head and run off, but after she’d bought cones from him a time or two, he wasn’t a stranger, and to her mind, was no longer in the catagory of people she shouldn’t talk to. Then she responded, and he had given her a broken popsicle in her favorite flavor of banana. “Do me a favor and eat this, all right?” he’d said, in his kindest voice. “I can’t sell a broken popsicle, and I’d hate for it to go to waste.” Then he’d lowered his voice to a whisper and bent over her. “But don’t tell the other kids, okay? Let’s just keep it a secret.”

  She nodded, gleefully, and ran off. After that he had no trouble getting her to come over to the truck; after all, why should she be afraid of the friend who gave her ice cream for free, and only asked that she keep it a secret?

  Today she’d had money, though, and from the sly gleam in her eyes he would bet she’d filched it from her momma’s purse this morning. He’d laid out choices for her like a servant laying out a feast for a princess, and she’d sparkled at him, loving the attention as much as the treat.

  She’d dawdled over her choice, her teddy bear clutched under one arm, a toy so much a part of her that it could have been another limb. That indecision bought time for the other kids to clear out of the way, and all the teachers to get to their cars and putt out of the parking lot. His play-acting paid off handsomely, especially after he’d nodded at the truck and winked. She’d wolfed down her cone, and he gave her another broken popsicle; she lingered on, sucking on the yellow ice in a way that made his groin tighten with anticipation. He’d asked her ingenuous questions about her school and her teacher, and she chattered amiably with him between slurps.

  Then she’d turned to go at the perfect moment, with not a child, a car, or a teacher in sight. He reached for the sock full of sand inside the freezer door, and in one, smooth move, gave her a little tap in just the right place.

  He caught her before she hit the ground. Then it was into the special side of the ice cream truck with her; the side not hooked up to the freezer unit, with ventilation holes bored through the walls in places where no one would find them. He gave her a whiff of ether on a rag, just in case, to make sure she stayed under, then he slid her limp body into the cardboard carton he kept on that side, just in case somebody wanted to look inside. He closed and latched the door, and was back in the driver’s seat before two minutes were up, with still no sign of man nor beast. Luck, luck, all the way.

  Luck, or pure genius. He couldn’t lose; he was invulnerable.

  Funny how she’d kept a grip on that toy, though. But that was luck, too; if she’d left it there—

  Well, he might have forgotten she’d had it. Then somebody would have found it, and someone might have remembered her standing at the ice cream truck with it beside her.

  But it had all gone smoothly, perfectly planned, perfectly executed, ending with a drive through the warm September afternoon, bells tinkling slightly out of tune, no different from any other ice cream man out for the last scores of the season. He’d felt supremely calm and in control of everything the moment he was in his seat; no one would ever suspect him, he’d been a fixture since the beginning of school. Who ever sees the ice cream man? He was as much a part of the landscape as the fire hydrant he generally stopped beside.

  They’d ask the kids of course, now that Molly was officially missing—and they’d say the same stupid thing they always did. “Did you see any strangers?” they’d ask. “Any strange cars hanging around? Anyone you didn’t recognize?”

  Stupid; they were just stupid. He was the smart one. The kids would answer just like they always did, they’d say “no,” they hadn’t “seen any strangers.”

  No, he wasn’t a stranger, he was the ice cream man. The kids saw him today, and they’d see him tomorrow, he’d make sure of that. He’d be on his route for the next week at least, unless there was a cold snap. He knew how cops thought, and if he disappeared, they might look for him. No way was he going to break his pattern. Eventually the cops would question him—not tomorrow, but probably the day after that. He’d tell them he had seen the little girl, that she’d bought a cone from him. He’d cover his tracks there, since the other kids would probably remember that she’d been at the truck. But he’d shrug helplessly, and say that she hadn’t been on the street when he drove off. He’d keep strictly to the truth, just not all the truth.

  Now Molly was all his, and no one would take her away from him until he was done with her.

  He drove home, stopping to sell cones when kids flagged him down, taking his time. It wouldn’t do to break his pattern. He took out the box that held Molly and brought it upstairs, then made two more trips, for the leftover frozen treats, all in boxes just like the one that held Molly. The neighbors were used to this; it was another part of his routine. He was the invisible man. Old Jim always brings in the leftovers
and puts ’em in his freezer overnight; it’s cheaper than running the truck freezer overnight.

  He knew what they said about him. That Jim was a good guy—kept to himself mostly, but when it was really hot or he had too much left over to fit in his freezer, he’d pass out freebies. A free ice-cream bar was appreciated in this neighborhood, where there wasn’t a lot of money to spare for treats. Yeah, Jim was real quiet, but okay, never gave any trouble to anybody.

  If the cops went so far as to look into his background, they wouldn’t find anything. He ran a freelance ice cream route in the summer and took odd jobs in the winter; there was no record of his ever getting into trouble.

  Of course there was no record. He was smart. Nobody had ever caught him, not when he set fires as a kid, not when he prowled the back alleys looking for stray dogs and cats, and not later, when he went on to the targets he really wanted. He was careful. When he first started on kids, he picked the ones nobody would miss. And he kept up with the literature; he knew everything the cops would look for.

  Jim’s apartment was a corner unit, under the roof. There was nobody above him, the old man under him was stone-deaf, the guy on one side was a stoner on the nightshift, and the couple on the other side kept their music blasting so loud it was a wonder that they weren’t deaf. Nobody would ever hear a thing.

  Meanwhile, Jim waited, as darkness fell outside, for Molly to sleep off her ether and her bump; it wasn’t any fun for him when his trophies were out of it. Jim liked them awake; he liked to see their eyes when they realized that no one was coming to rescue them.

  He changed into a pair of old jeans and a tee-shirt in the living-room, hanging his white uniform in the closet, then looked in on her again.

  She still had a hold on that teddy bear. It was a really unusual toy; it was one of the many things that had marked her when he’d first looked for targets. Jim was really glad she’d kept such a tight grip on it; it was so different that there was little doubt it would have been spotted as hers if she’d dropped it. The plush was a thick, black fur, extremely realistic; in fact, he wasn’t entirely certain that it was fake fur. There was no sign of the wear that kids usually put on that kind of beloved plaything. The mouth was half-open, lined with red felt, with white felt teeth and a red felt tongue. Instead of a ribbon bow, this bear had a real leather collar with an odd tag hanging from it; pottery or glass, maybe, or enameled metal, it certainly wasn’t plastic. There was a faint, raised pattern on the back, and the word “Tedi” on the front in a childishly printed scrawl. The eyes were oddest of all—whoever had made this toy must have used the same eyes that taxidermists used; they looked real, alive.

  It was going to prove a little bit of problem dealing with that bear, after. He was so careful not to leave any fiber or hair evidence; he always washed them when he was through with them, dressing them in fancy party clothing he took straight out of the packages, then wrapping them in plastic once they were dressed, to keep from contaminating them. Once he was through with her and dressed her in that frilly blue party dress he’d bought, he’d cut up her old clothing into tiny pieces and flush them down the john, a few at a time, to keep from clogging the line. That could be fatal.

  He’d do the part with the knife in the bathtub, of course, so there wouldn’t be any bloodstains. He knew exactly how to get blood-evidence scrubbed out of the bathroom, what chemicals to use and everything. They’d have to swab out the pipes to find anything.

  But the bear was a problem. He’d have to figure out a smart way to get rid of it, because it was bound to collect all kinds of evidence.

  Maybe give it to a kid? Maybe not; there was a chance the kid would remember him. By now it had probably collected fibers . . . .

  He had it; the Salvation Army box, the one on Colby, all the way across town. They’d let that thing get stuffed full before they ever emptied it, and by then the bear would have collected so much fiber and hair they’d never get it all sorted out. Then he could take her to MacArthur Park; it was far enough away from the collection box. He’d leave her there like he always did, propped up on a bench like an oversized doll, a bench off in an out-of-the-way spot. He’d used MacArthur Park before, but not recently, and at this time of year it might be days before anyone found her.

  But the bear—better get it away from her now, before it collected something more than hair. For one thing, it would be harder to handle her if she kept clinging to it. Something about those eyes bothered him, too, and he wasn’t in a mood to be bothered.

  He cracked the door open, slipped inside, pried the bear out of her loose grip. He threw it into the bathroom, but Molly didn’t stir; he was vaguely disappointed. He’d hoped she show some sign of coming around when he took the toy.

  Well, he had all night, all weekend, as long as she lasted. He’d have to make the most of this one; she was the last of the season.

  Might as well get the stuff out.

  He went into the kitchenette and dragged out the plastic step-stool. Standing it in the closet in the living room, he opened up the hatch into the crawl-space. It wasn’t tall enough for him to see what was up there, but what he wanted was right by the hatch anyway. He felt across the fiberglass battings; the paper over the insulation crackled under his fingers. He groped until his hand encountered the cardboard box he’d stored up there. Getting both hands around it, straining on tiptoe to do so, he lowered it carefully down through the hatch. He had to bring it through the opening catty-cornered to make it fit. It wasn’t heavy, but it was an awkward shape.

  He carried it to the center of the living room and placed it on the carpet, kneeling beside it with his stomach tight with anticipation. Slowly, with movements ritualized over time, he undid the twine holding it closed, just so. He coiled up the twine and laid it to the side, exactly five inches from the side of the box. He reached for the lid.

  But as he started to open it, he thought he heard a faint sound, as if something moved in the bedroom. Was Molly finally awake?

  He got to his feet, and moved softly to the door. But when he applied his eye to the crack, he was disappointed to see that she hadn’t moved at all. She lay exactly as he’d left her, head pillowed on one arm, hair scattered across his pillow, lips pursed, breathing softly but regularly. Her red corduroy jumper was still in the same folds it had been when he’d put her down on the bed, rucked up over her hip so that her little pink panties showed the tiniest bit.

  Then he saw the bear.

  It was back right where it had been before, sitting up in the curve of her stomach. Looking at him.

  He shook his head, frowning. Of course it wasn’t looking at him, it was his imagination; it was just a toy. He must have been so wrapped up in anticipation that he’d flaked—and hadn’t thrown it in the bathroom as he’d intended, or else he’d absent-mindedly put it back on the bed.

  Easily fixed. He took the few steps into the room, grabbed the bear by one ear, and threw it into the bedroom closet, closing the door on it. Molly didn’t stir, and he retired to the living room and his treasure chest.

  On the top layer of the box lay a tangle of leather and rubber. He sorted out the straps carefully, laying out all the restraints in their proper order, with the rubber ball for her mouth and the gag to hold it in there first in line. That was one of the most important parts. Whatever sound got past the gag wouldn’t get past the neighbors’ various deficiencies.

  Something was definitely moving in the next room. He heard the closet door opening, then the sounds of shuffling.

  He sprinted to the door—

  Only to see that Molly was lying in exactly the same position, and the bear was with her.

  He shook his head. Damn! He couldn’t be going crazy—

  Then he chuckled at a sudden memory. The third kid he’d done had pulled something like this—the kid was a sleepwalker, with a knack for lying back down in precisely the same position as before, and it wasn’t until he’d stayed in the bedroom instead of going through his collection th
at he’d proved it to himself. Molly had obviously missed her bear, gotten up, searched blindly for her toy, found it, then lay back down again. Yeah, come to think of it, her jumper was a bit higher on her hip, and she was more on her back than her side, now.

  But that bear had to go.

  He marched in, grabbed the bear again, and looked around. Now where?

  The bathroom, the cabinet under the sink. There was nothing in there but a pair of dead roaches, and it had a child-proof latch on it.

  The eyes flashed at him as he flipped on the bathroom light and whipped the cabinet open. For one moment he almost thought the eyes glared at him with a red light of their own before he closed the door on the thing and turned the lock with a satisfying click.

  Back to the box.

  The next layer was his pictures. They weren’t of any of his kids; he wasn’t that stupid. Nothing in this box would ever connect him with the guy they were calling the “Sunday-School Killer” because he left them dressed in Sunday best, clean and shining, in places like parks and beaches, looking as if they’d just come from church.

  But the pictures were the best the Internet had to offer, and a lot of these kids looked like the ones he’d had. Pretty kids, real pretty.

  He took them out in the proper order, starting with the simple ones, letting the excitement build in his groin as he savored each one. First, the nudes—ten of them, he knew them all by heart. Then the nudes with the kids “playing” together, culled from the “My Little Fishie” newsletter of a nut-case religious cult that believed in kid-sex.

  Then the good ones.

  Halfway through, he slipped his hand into his pants without taking his eyes off the pictures.

  This was going to be a good one. Molly looked just like the kid in the best of his pictures. She was going to be perfect; the last of the season, the best of the season.