Vanished in the Dunes Read Online Free PDF Page B

newly finished floors. Stupid. Stupid. He stands and wipes his face with his fingers. She is dead. Who should he call?
    And then the reality begins to seep in.

CHAPTER 2
    He remains seated beside her and loses track of time. Through a blur he sees his watch. Three hours have elapsed since the bus arrived. His crying has stopped. He holds her hand. It’s still warm, yet he senses stiffness in the fingers. A part of him realizes he should call someone, probably 911. He stands and moves his shaking body to the downstairs phone, but hesitates before he takes the instrument from its cradle.
    What would they think? he wonders. It was an accident, but there is no proof. No witness to his sordid thoughts.
    “It was just an accident,” he shouts into the empty hallway. Yet some prosecutor might claim he bludgeoned her to death in a jealous, frustrated rage. What was she doing at his house? they would ask. Did she refuse you when you wanted sex? And Sara? She would ask the same thing and shout that she knew all along he was screwing someone else. And there would be no answer that could satisfy all of the questions. Even the complete truth would be insufficient.
    “I wasn’t even here,” he shouts over and over again into empty space, and absurdly remembers the potential legal problems he faces. In those cases his innocence was suspect, but here, while there is no question, why would anyone believe him?
    “This is madness,” he says aloud, yet in some deep recess of his brain, in some effort at rationality, he has already decided he must find a way to move the body.
    A storage shelf in the garage provides a supply of large steel-flexedtrash bags. He takes two silver colored bags from the carton. He’s about to leave when he impulsively grabs a pair of gardening gloves from the same shelf. He returns to the hall. She has not moved. He almost wished she had. He would pay the penalty if she survived, but she lies still and motionless. His tears return and he sits on the steps for several minutes until they dry.
    He has never been this close to a dead person, but there is no particular discomfort. He slips on the gloves, and then lifts her body and tries to maneuver it into the bag. The body is all deadweight, a thought that in other circumstances might have brought a smile, but this is not such a time. The body moves surprisingly smoothly into the sack. Her face is the last part to be covered. Her eyes are closed as if in sleep.
    “I’m so sorry,” he says and lingers for a moment before he impulsively leans forward and brushes a kiss across her forehead. He starts to close the bag when he remembers her shoes. He takes the pair of white sandals, and slips them in as well. Then he slides the second bag around the first. It is actually a harder process that takes him several minutes. Perhaps the rigor has already begun. He rolls the bag over in the hallway and it seems secure.
    Only then does he see her straw bag, as it hangs over the edge of a high step where its own fall must have ended, somehow immune from gravity’s further demands. He brings the straw bag down and reopens the double plastic bags. He inserts the bag beside the lifeless form. His motion forces him to move his arm across the front of her body, necessarily across her breasts. He gulps down his bile and finishes his work, for that is what this has become.
    That is when he sees the bloodstains for the first time. A purplish mass rests on the tiles where her head had landed. He finds a sponge, wets it, and begins to soak up the residue. Twice he flees back into the downstairs bathroom to vomit. He retches long after there isnothing left to expel, but the sight of her blood and other clotted matter that clings to the tiles is too much.
    Many minutes pass before he concludes that the blood is gone, yet a small stain in the grout remains between some of the tiles. He curses silently and goes back to the garage for another remedy. He will bleach the grout he thinks,