That’s why I’d asked Nathan that question. Rack was arrogant; everything about his letters told me that he’d want to gloat. The gloating would hurt more coming from someone I hated. Did Rack know how much I hated Potash? Maybe. He definitely knew how much I hated Nathan, though, and after this betrayal he’d know I’d hate him even more. Nathan it was.
I dragged Nathan’s body closer to one of the drains, setting his head almost exactly on top of it, then ran for the water pump. They must have used it for washing something, or maybe for watering the plants around the grounds; it had a long rubber hose, ending in a smooth metal nozzle. I screwed the nozzle off, leaving a slim metal tube about a half centimeter in diameter, and then opened the tank’s dump valve, letting all the water splash out onto the floor.
I looked at the garage door again. He wasn’t there yet.
While the tank drained I ran to the tool bench, ignoring Brooke’s rant, and searched for a roll of wire or duct tape—anything I could use to clamp down on an artery to create a seal. Brooke seemed to calm slightly, distracted by my actions. I combed through the bench and found nothing but a vise grip and decided it would have to do. The water tank was nearly empty now, so I closed the valve and pulled the gas hose as far as it would go, sticking it into the top of the water tank and setting it to fill as fast as it could. It would be easier if I could use the gas pump directly, but the pressure would be wrong. I let it fill and sat down next to Nathan, with the water pump in one hand and the vise grip in the other. My knife lay beside me.
“What are you doing?” asked Brooke.
“I’m embalming him,” I said. I took a deep breath. Let’s do this.
I set down the tools and picked up my knife, wiping away the grime from the floor and then carefully slitting open his neck. The skin split open like a piece of raw chicken, blood welling up at the wound. I’d never worked on such a fresh body before. I lengthened the hole, pulling it wide, and reached inside with my finger to find the jugular artery. It felt like a thick hose, not much different from the water-pump hose by my feet. I pulled out a loop of it, and looked around for something to anchor it.
“What do you need?” asked Brooke. Her eyes were wide, watching the process with morbid fascination. I didn’t know if it was Brooke or Nobody or some other personality I hadn’t even met yet.
“A screwdriver,” I said.
“Phillips or flathead?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
She brought me a screwdriver from the workbench, and I placed it under the loop of the artery to keep it from sliding back inside the neck. I looked up at the door. Empty. I took my knife and slit the artery carefully, making a hole big enough for the slim metal water pump. I slid it in about two inches, pinched the artery closed around it, and clamped it in place with the vise grips.
I stood up gently, trying not to disturb the body. The water tank had several inches of gas now, and I turned the pressure dial as low as it would go. Sixty psi was the upper limit for most embalming pumps; anything higher might tear the blood vessels apart. I put my hand on the switch, ready to turn it on, then stopped suddenly and looked wildly around the room.
“What do you need this time?” asked Brooke.
“A ventilator, a fan, something like that.”
“The door’s open,” she said, “we’re not going to choke.”
“Call it a superstition.” I spotted a vent in the ceiling and took a deep breath, nodding. These things had to be done right. “Let’s hope that fan doesn’t give out on us,” I said, and flipped the switch on the pump.
The hose jumped, and Nathans’s body lurched at the sudden influx of pressure. I ran to him, holding the bloody artery in my fingers, trying to add more pressure to the seal. Gas leaked out onto my hands, but only a little; most of it seemed to be going inside. If I’d done it right the gasoline would run through his system, filling the blood vessels and pushing out the blood. Filling the heart with poison. I held my breath, staring at the neck, never taking my eyes away from the hole I’d cut in the artery. Gas was flowing in one end …
… and very slowly, in bigger and bigger drops, blood was coming out the other.
Soon the blood was flowing freely from the artery, and I did my best to angle it so it flowed down the drain. I looked at the open door, but still saw nothing.
“I’ll go watch,” said Brooke, wrapping Trujillo’s old coat tightly around her as she walked to the edge of the garage.