“The motorcycle?” said Lane in a quizzical tone. “It’s not dried up oil or something, is it?”
“Nope,” I answered after a short investigation. “It’s definitely not oil. Although some sort of crud has leaked from the saddlebags and the trunk.”
“Well, let’s take a look around; see if we can find the keys.”
We separated. My husband went left; I went right. A thorough scan of my half of the unit yielded a small wooden box all but hidden by heaps of squashed cardboard cartons. I grabbed it from its niche on the floor next to one wall and opened to find what I anticipated was the desired object.
“Hey—I dangled a key ring from the end of a finger—here’s a set of keys.”
He sidestepped through piles of belongings and grabbed the ring.
“Let’s see if they work.” He tried keys until—with a click—one of them opened the trunk of the dust-covered cycle. As though it protested revelation of the trunk’s contents, the lid defied his efforts to raise it. He persisted...then slammed it shut again, gagged.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Then the smell hit me. I gagged. “Jesus, is something dead in there?”
He turned, gray-faced. “Yes,” he managed to say in a near whisper.
It was my turn to feel the blood drain from my face. “Then that crud is...? You’re kidding, right?”
“I wish I was. Let’s go call the cops.”
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