Free The Night Parade by Ronald Malfi Page A

water. The blood in the bowl was the startling Christmas red of arterial blood, and as David stared at it, he thought he could see small clumps of fibrous material in it. There were spatters on the seat and some reddish spray down the side of the toilet tank. A few bright stars stood out sharply on the ecru tiles. One particular spill had been smeared by David’s own shoe, most likely when he had first come in here to get the towel; he had inadvertently left a shoe print of blood on the pale green bath mat. His gaze levitated until he saw splotches of blood in the sink, too. Crimson droplets littered the countertop. The mirror was speckled with red teardrops.
    How had he missed all this just moments ago? Had he been so focused on helping Deke that he had just overlooked it all? Given the condition of the bathroom, it seemed impossible.
    He wanted to wash his face and hands—just looking at all that blood, not to mention the blackish clumps floating in it, made him feel unclean—but he wouldn’t touch this sink. Instead, he went down the hall, into the kitchen, and scrubbed himself at the kitchen sink, where there was nothing more ominous than dirty dishes and empty glasses in the basin.
    He considered going against Deke’s wishes and calling 911 after all. He could request paramedics come out and take a look at Deke. Would they examine the blood, too? Deke hadn’t looked hurt—he certainly hadn’t been bleeding from anywhere that David could see—but that blood had come from somewhere.
    In the end, he decided not to call. Instead, he checked in on Deke before leaving the house. The big man lay like a beached whale on his mattress, one pasty leg dangling over the side of the bed. His snores were immense, thunderous rumblings. For a moment, David considered flipping on the lights . . . but he feared what that light might reveal of Deke’s bedroom. Before he could chase the thought away, he imagined Deke sprawled out across a mattress sodden and black with blood, carpentry nails driven into the hardwood floor like booby traps.
    â€œDeke?” It came out in a whisper.
    Deke’s only response was a guttural snort.
    â€œOkay,” David said. “Good night.”
    He left the house, thumbing the lock on the side door before pulling it closed behind him. The hunger he’d felt for hours had fled, leaving in its wake a sickening hollowness. He knew that when he went to sleep that night, he would see that bloody stew floating in Deke’s toilet behind his eyelids. All of a sudden, the thing with the geese seemed trivial.
    When he got home, Kathy met him in the foyer. In a pair of gold silk pajamas and her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she was already made up for bed.
    â€œWhere’ve you been?”
    â€œI stopped at Deke Carmody’s house,” he said, stepping out of his shoes. “I caught him wandering around outside in his underwear.”
    â€œWhat? ”
    She followed him into the bedroom, and he told her what had happened as he undressed. Once he finished, he said, “What do you think? Should I call someone? Paramedics?”
    â€œMaybe it’s cancer.”
    â€œWhat is?”
    â€œAll the blood,” Kathy said. “He could be sick.”
    â€œMaybe. But what about the other stuff? The condition of his house and the nails in the windowsills?”
    â€œEarly stages of dementia?” Kathy suggested.
    â€œSince when?”
    â€œIt’s just a guess.”
    â€œI don’t feel good about this. Not at all. I should call an ambulance or something.”
    â€œIf he asked you not to call, then you should respect that.”
    He considered this for perhaps five seconds.
    Kathy said, “Maybe he’s going through some medical issue and doesn’t want anyone to know. You just happened to find him—”
    â€œStanding outside in his underwear, yeah,” David finished.
    â€œDoes he have any family that you