The plant - By Stephen King Page 0,88

to join the disposal crew? I will, if you want me."

Bill Gelb thought it over, then shook his head. "Two of us should do just fine. But we ought to put the... you know, the remains... in something. I wonder what there is?"

Which was when Herb went into the supply closet, rummaged awhile, then came back out dragging the rug remnant behind him.

It turned out to be just the right size. Bill and I were exempted from the task of gift-wrapping Carlos Detweiller, and I thought Sandra would stay with us out in the hall (exempting herself, as it were, by virtue of her sex), but she pitched in with a will. And all around us Zenith hummed contentedly, putting a floor under us, sending out what the Beach Boys (another whitebread favorite of mine) would probably call "good vibrations."

"Telepathy seems to improve teamwork," Bill commented, and I had to admit it was true. Sandra and Herb spread out the rug beside Sandra's desk. Roger and John lifted Detweiller and deposited him face-down at one end of the rug. Then, working together, they simply rolled him up like a Devil Dog pastry, securing the whole with the heaviest twine the supply closet could provide.

"Man, he bled a lot," Bill said. "That rug's a mess."

"The plant will suck up most of it today and Sunday," I said.

"You really think so?"

I really did. I also thought that I could get up most of the residue with a good application of Genie Rug Cleaner. The final result might not fool a police forensics specialist, but if the police wind up in here, our butts are probably going to be baked, anyway. To an ordinary outsider, the remaining stain on Sandra's carpet will look as if someone spilled a pot of coffee there a few months ago. Maybe the only real question is whether or not Sandra can live with that manta-ray shadow in the place where she earns her daily bread. If she can't, I suppose I can replace that particular piece of carpet. Because it's as Roger says: such minimal expenses will soon no longer annoy us.

"You're sure you can get this truck?" Roger called out from Sandra's office. He was sitting back on his heels and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "What if the guy's gone for the weekend?"

"He's home," Bill said, "or at least he was an hour and a half ago. I saw him on my way out. And for fifty dollars, he'd rent me his grandmother. He's a nice enough guy, but he's got this little problem." He mimed sniffing, first closing one nostril and then the other.

"Make sure he's there," Roger said, then turned to John. "Body disposal bonuses at Christmas for all of us. Make a note."

"Sure, just don't put it in your monthly report," John said, and we all laughed. I suppose that must sound gruesome, but it was the cheeriest, most collegial laughter you ever heard. I believe that Sandra, with a tiny smear of Carlos Detweiller's blood on her forearm and another on her right palm, laughed hardest of all.

Bill went in his office and got on the phone. Roger and John moved Carlos, now wrapped in the brown rug remnant, down to the reception area, behind LaShonda's desk.

"I can see his shoes," Sandra said. "They're sticking out a little."

"Don't worry, it'll be okay," Herb said, and just like that I knew that he's been doing the horizontal bop with the lady fair. Well, mo powah to him, is all dis fella kin say. Might be no mo playin truck-drivah and l'il girl hitchhikah, praise de Lawd.

"Nothing's going to be okay until that homicidal idiot's taken care of," Sandra said. She started to brush her hair back, saw the blood on her hand, and grimaced.

Bill came out of his office, smiling. "One old but serviceable panel truck, at our service," he said. "Bread company advertising logos on the sides, very faded. Riddley, we take it away this afternoon at four - in less than three hours, in other words - and I bring it back later tonight. No questions asked, although I had to agree to mileage, as well. Two bits per. That okay, boss?"

Roger nodded. "This guy lives downstairs from you, right?"

"Right. He's a stockbroker. Buying vehicles at auction and turning them over is just a sideline. I think he scams the insurance companies when he can, as well. I could have gotten a hearse, actually, but that seemed... I don't