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revived my hard-on. Would I abuse a dead body? I felt the dead girl’s skin. Her tits were clammy and turned me off. After a while I masturbated on her to clear my brain. For a lot of years after that, the memory of her dead body spurred on dreams and fantasies, and I could always masturbate at the thought of Taunja. She became my favorite fantasy.

3 A Word to the Dead
    I looked at my watch and it was after midnight—time to dump the body. I turned off the lights and made sure the coast was clear. She’d stiffened up, and I tied a rope around her neck to make her easier to drag. I pulled her out the front door by her feet, squeezed her onto the front seat of the Nova hatchback, folded her legs inside and pushed the door shut so it wouldn’t make a loud click.
    Her head rested against the window, but there was nothing I could do about that. Other drivers would just think she was drunk. I brought an extra pair of shoes to put on after I finished dumping her body. My triple-E Cannondale bicycling shoes had a flat, ribbed sole with a tread pattern that would be easy to trace. I would miss them—I used to ride forty or fifty miles a day.
    I locked the little brown house and drove back out to Crown Point, being careful not to speed or cross over the center line. Vista House is locked in the wintertime, but five or six cars were in the parking lot. I talked to the dead girl as we looked for her final resting place. “Where will you sleep tonight, sweetheart? In that culvert over there? That ditch? Those briers?”
    I drove a mile past Vista House to a straight stretch of roadway. Pretty soon my headlights showed a ravine. I grabbed her hand, pulled her out of the car and dragged her down the embankment. It was a steep grade, and I tripped on shrubs and bushes. About sixty feet from the road, I let loose of her and said, “This is it. Your home!” Her head was pointed downhill, and one arm stuck out backward.
    I should have covered her with leaves, but I thought I saw some lights below me and rushed toward my car to get the hell out. Scrambling up the slope I saw a big bony hand backlit by the moon. I panicked before I realized it was the silhouette of a dead tree.
    I drove off fast. When I reached the first sharp turn, my lights hit the side of an oncoming Multnomah county sheriff’s car. I watched in my rearview mirror to see if he stopped. He never slowed down.
    I was pissed at myself for leaving the body so close to the road, but it was too late now. I threw my biking shoes in the underbrush along the shoulder. I dropped her Walkman on the Sandy River Bridge deck so cars and trucks would flatten it. Then I took I-84 west to the Burns Brothers Truck Stop in Troutdale, one of my hangouts when I was driving truck.
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    I’d just ordered coffee when three state-patrol cops headed straight toward my booth. I thought, These guys know. They know! And her purse is outside in my car!
    They took seats in the next booth, and I recognized a couple of them from my days on the road. After my heart slowed down, I started a conversation to build up my alibi. One of them asked if I was still driving truck, and I told them I was in between rides. We talked for a while and they left.
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    I stayed at the truck stop till 8:00 A.M ., making sure that plenty of people saw me and talked to me. Then I drove three miles up the Sandy River Road, took two dollars from the dead girl’s purse and flipped it into a blackberry patch where nobody would ever find it. A smart move, too. It stayed there for five years and finally saved two people’s ass.
    Back home again, I opened up the house windows to get rid of the faint smell of death. I scraped dried blood off the walls and washed the sheets and blankets, vacuumed the floor and cleaned the rugs with a carpet cleaner. Eventually I had to deodorize the carpet twice and steam clean it.
    I tried to wash the bloodstains off the ceiling and decided to paint it