by C. S. Poe
“A & F Designs, how may I direct your call?” asked a very professional, borderline robotic female voice.
“May I speak with Marc Winter please?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Winter is out of the office this week. Is there another senior architect I can connect you to?”
“Oh, that’s right!” I answered cheerfully, ignoring her question. “He mentioned that the other day. New York City.”
“That’s right,” she said, and I could hear her smile.
“You don’t happen to have the number for the office I can reach him at in New York, do you? I’ve been working on a project proposal with him….” I feigned hesitation. “No, I suppose I can put it in writing. It’ll take a while, though. I’m a finger-pecker with keyboards.”
She chuckled. Nothing like a bit of self-deprecating humor to lower a stranger’s defenses. “He won’t mind being interrupted if it’s regarding an ongoing proposal. May I have your name, and I’ll transfer you directly?”
“Huh. You can do that? Across states?”
“Technology is a wonderful thing,” she said lightly.
I needed confirmation that Marc Winter had really coordinated this business trip with his office and his ass was planted at a desk in the city. I wanted to be certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Marc had contacted Calvin when he did because he was nothing more than a selfish prick. That he didn’t want to start another new year with this unease between them. And his company’s need to have him in the city right before the holidays was the final push Marc needed to pick up that damn phone and call.
Basically, I didn’t want to believe my in-laws were murderers.
“Er—tell him it’s Sebastian Snow,” I answered.
“Thank you. Please hold.”
Mello guitar music started playing in my ear as I passed the playground of a public elementary school. I’d walked by a few brownstones and reached the end of the block when a familiar voice spoke.
“Mr. Snow?” Marc answered, an impressive combination of both wariness and annoyance in his voice.
“Mr. Snow is my father,” I replied, coming to a stop after crossing the street. “I’m only thirty-four. And, like it or not, we’re going to be legally related soon. Why not give Sebastian a try?”
Was that too bitchy?
“Sebastian,” Marc woodenly stated. “Why are you calling me at the office? Unless it’s to apologize and explain what the—” He paused and then murmured into the phone, as if to keep from being overheard. “What is going on with my brother?”
“Apologize?”
“Yes,” Marc retorted.
“No,” I said simply.
“No… what?”
“I have no intention of apologizing to you. If Calvin asks me to exchange polite small talk with you over dinner, sure. I’ll pass you the salt and pepper with an award-winning smile and even pretend I mean it when I tell you I can’t wait to ‘do this again.’ But I don’t make it a habit of apologizing to bullies.”
“Are you quite finished?” Marc asked.
“When you’re done making demands, I’ll stop telling you to go fuck yourself.”
Marc was silent.
I stamped my feet a few times and the wind rustled my hair. “I called to see if you were the sort who actually works on business trips, or the one who holds meetings at the hotel bar.”
“Of course I’m working. You know, Sebastian, I really tried giving you the benefit of the doubt. I wanted to do that for Calvin. But you are an obnoxious sonofabitch.”
“I’ve had a long day.”
“Where the hell is my brother?” Marc asked.
“It’s… an overwhelming story. I can’t really explain on the phone.”
“Then it’ll be convenient for Calvin to explain it to me in person. I’m staying at The Bellows on East Forty-Ninth. He can meet me there. I’ll even send a car.”
“Calvin is busy—”
“Bullshit,” Marc said, cutting off my lie. “I was there for that phone call before cops swarmed your cheap spook store and threw me out.”
“Let’s keep the blows above the belt.”
“Tell me the truth. Tell me where Calvin is or I’m hanging up,” Marc threatened.
I pulled my cell back and hit End. “Beat you to it, asshole,” I muttered.
Okay, so… that hadn’t gone according to plan.
Not entirely, anyway.
Marc was for sure in New York on business. That much the receptionist had confirmed by internally transferring me to his desk in Manhattan. But he didn’t like me. I daresay Marc might have even hated me, although so long as it was because I was an unapproachable ass and nothing more—fine. No love lost.
But despite his animosity toward me, his concern regarding Calvin’s radio silence had seemed sincere. Of course, a psychopath would fake genuine human emotion in order to better blend into society…. And a psychopath with a murderous streak—no. I was letting my personal opinion and flair for the occasional dramatic conclusion color Marc in a light that was simply not true.
I was certain he wasn’t working a side hustle after the closing of Architect Business Hours, which included lopping off body parts and mailing them to guys like me as a not-so-veiled threat to find him the skull of Edward Cope or else! I mean, what would a paper-pushing guy like Marc even do with the skull of a once-infamous man, now barely recognized outside of his extremely specific scientific focus? Senior architects made good money, so I couldn’t imagine him wanting to sell it. And unless Marc’s suburban lifestyle included an impressive collection of human skulls that he kept in his basement man cave….
I started walking again.
I supposed anything was possible. But to be honest, I was no longer convinced of Marc’s involvement. Maybe I never had been. Not really. The problem was, he and Ellen were the only “suspects” who had the personal connection that could have possibly explained the text messages to our friends and family. Without them, I had to consider Dr. Thyne and Angela London to be a hell of a lot more dangerous than I’d initially given them credit for.
Or perhaps Rossi knew us a lot better than I’d realized.
A residential building up ahead advertised its street address in big impossible-to-miss numbers above the arched doorway: 637. I took out Quinn’s note, confirmed this was the address I was hunting for, and went to the front door as I fished out the keys. I chose the one without a label and tried the lock.
Schiiick.
I smiled and slipped inside. I eased the door shut behind me and immediately checked the half a dozen mailboxes on the wall to the right. I scanned the handwritten names and then stopped on 3B. It was left unlocked by the carrier, due to an overflow of mail. I nudged the box open and scanned the dates of D. Howard’s post.
Huh. The oldest envelope seemed to have been stamped and delivered on Saturday. Considering the pileup, it was likely Daniel hadn’t been home since then. Only three days and there’d been enough deliveries to stoke a cozy fire for some time. Kid needed to lay off the subscription services.
I shoved the magazines and other junk back into the mailbox and took the stairs to the third floor, holding on to the handrail as a guide through the unfamiliar building. I opened the door that separated the stairwell from actual apartments and tiptoed in salt-encrusted loafers to 3B. I tried the doorknob. It was old and shitty, definitely not something that’d been replaced by the landlord in my lifetime, but it was locked all the same. I tried each of the keys on Frank’s ring just in case, but it seemed like Daniel had only provided Frank with a copy of the key to the outer door. I guess he assumed he’d be home to let Frank into his actual apartment when the other man stopped by for a midnight tumble.
I swore under my breath and turned to 3A. It appeared dark under the door. I creeped close, pressed my ear to the wood, and listened. It was quiet. And not the sort of quiet where you can still hear a human existing. Maybe—hopefully—they were at work.
I straightened and returned to 3B
. I turned sideways, gripped the doorknob in one hand, and without giving myself the opportunity to second-guess this potentially awful plan, slammed my shoulder hard into the door. It splintered and flew open with me following suit, shouting expletives the whole way down. I crashed to the floor as the broken door knocked hard against the wall.
I rolled onto my back and looked up at the threshold. If I’d had a gun and badge, that would have come off as a really cool action-movie entrance. But seeing how I was me… I sat up and staggered to my feet, winced, and rubbed my shoulder.
“God,” I said through gritted teeth. “That’s gonna leave a mark.” I flipped a light switch above an end table near the door and took a step into the studio apartment. The very first thing I noticed was…. “Decomp.”
Things were not looking up for Daniel.
I put my sleeve to my face, trying to mask the stench as I poked about the home. There was no body in the neatly made bed. Or underneath. No one lay across the floor like a broken doll, and no goodbye messages were written in blood on the walls. The studio was quite orderly, in fact. A bookshelf housed mostly nonfiction, likely titles assigned throughout Daniel’s college experience.
On the desk at the foot of the bed was a neat pile of spiral-bound notebooks and a day planner. I flipped through a few recent pages. No personal memos. It was all school-related. A space in the middle of the table suggested a laptop usually sat there but was suspiciously absent now. A single picture—a retro Polaroid—was propped against the desk lamp. I picked it up by the corner, brought it closer, and fished out my magnifying glass from my bag. I studied the photo, and my stomach dropped like a rock sinking in water.
It was my Head-in-the-Box. Daniel. Daniel was the victim couriered to the Emporium!
The kid was smiling for the camera and standing close—closer than just colleagues would—beside another man with several years on him. Frank Newell, I presumed. He had an arm over Daniel’s shoulders. A hefty college ring was on one finger. Fuzzy out-of-focus dinosaur displays filled the backdrop of the picture.
“Jesus.” I frowned and gently set the photo back where I’d found it. “Poor kid.”
I’d honestly agreed with Neil that Daniel was likely dead, that the reality of our situation didn’t leave room for the possibility of him being on winter break in Michigan… but still….
I took a step back and opened the closet door. Half a dozen hangers were empty, but I couldn’t find a laundry basket to suggest they were simply in need of a wash. Absent clothes, missing computer, uncollected mail—why had Daniel tried to run?
The house still stank of death. I checked the bathroom last, half expecting a chemical soup in the tub eating away at human remains. But no. It even appeared as if Daniel had recently scrubbed the porcelain. I walked out of the room, down the short hall, and toward the refrigerator. I tugged the door open and studied the contents. Take-out containers, soda and cheap beer in cans, and a whole pot of macaroni and cheese.
A fly buzzed in front of me as I shut the door. I swatted it away.
Another flew past.
Then a third.
What the…?
I looked to the right. A cardboard box with the top open sat on the table. More flies buzzed around the contents. I walked forward, tilted the box to look inside, and a cloud of insects vacated. What remained were two rotting human hands, cut at the wrist. One of the fingers wore a gaudy class ring.
Well… now I knew why the kid attempted hightailing it out of New York. I wasn’t sure where Daniel’s second package would be, but it didn’t really matter. He hadn’t tried to find and deliver the Cope skull in return for his life. He’d run instead. Tried, anyway. Tried and failed.
The first victim—the one sent to Frank—was still an unknown. But otherwise, the routine Calvin had initially established was adding up. Frank was likely dead by Friday night and used as a threat to Daniel. Daniel was dead by Sunday night, and delivered to me bright and early Monday morning. I’m sure if I cared to look a bit longer, I’d have found the note that accompanied his lover’s severed hands. The only variation in this gruesome game was that I’d received three packages and messages, when the others had only gotten two. And that was because of the sudden change in the Collector’s plan—which assured me I had until Thursday morning.
Roughly thirty-nine hours to go.
I raised my arm, coughing and breathing into the fabric of my coat when the odor of decay became too much. With my other hand, I folded the tops of the box down to study the postage. Or lack thereof. I wondered if this, like Frank’s first package, and mine, had been delivered by courier.
I stepped away and took out my phone. I opened a text with Quinn and sent: MAybe 4th suspct is courier. Confirm DH is ded head at Emporium.
She answered almost immediately. Copy. I will follow up.
I added: Confrm Frank dead too.
Understood.
Dnt enrage courier. No cops.
I rolled my eyes and corrected the last message with: engage.
The assortment of items kept on the funky, old-world-charm, bronze end table near the door fell to the floor. I quickly spun on one heel—in time to see a stranger grip the stand like a baseball bat and take a swing at me. The side of the rounded tabletop grazed my face, enough to throw me to the floor, but not enough to knock the teeth from my mouth, which told me it was a cheap, aluminum metal, probably fabricated in China. I’d never been more thankful for crappy student-affordable décor in all my life.
“W-wait!” I protested, looking up and rolling to the side when the stranger brought the table down.
The metal dented inward upon kitting the floor, and the sound reverberated off the walls.
“What’d you do to Dan?” the stranger shouted.
“Hold on! Put that down!” I scrambled backward like a crab, managed to stand, and skidded down the hall when the table came at my head again, only to hit the wall directly where I’d been standing half a second prior.
“Where’s Dan?” the man shouted again.
I grabbed the wooden chair at the desk and used it as if I were an animal tamer trying to keep back a wild tiger or lion. “Stop!” I protested. “Or I’m calling the cops!”
“You’re calling the cops?” he said. “You’re the one fuckin’ breakin’ and enterin’!”
The guy was actually a kid—a college student. I’d guess the same age as Daniel. Probably a classmate, although he was a lot less put-together-looking in a pair of Levi’s, a baggy sweatshirt with the hood pulled up around his face, and hair hanging nearly to his shoulders in limp, stringy strands.
I held a hand out, slowly lowering the chair with the other. “I came looking for Daniel,” I said carefully. “I know he’s been missing.”
The kid narrowed his eyes, tightened his grip on the impromptu weapon.
“Probably since Friday night, right?” I asked. “His boyfriend is missing too.”
That got the guy’s attention. “You know Frank?”
I nodded. “I know Frank. I know Angela too.”
Wrong answer. The kid raised the table again, ready to strike.
“Whoa, whoa! Hey!” I shouted.
“That bitch is psycho!”
“Listen….” I held my hands out, moving slowly. “I know how this looks, but I swear I’m here to help. What’s your name?”
“Jason,” he answered with a touch of reluctance. Jason lowered the table, then awkwardly crouched to set it on the floor. “Who’re you?”
“My name’s Sebastian. Are you a classmate of Daniel’s?”
Jason stiffly nodded. “Yeah, man. Dan’s been gone for days.”
“Have you notified the police?”
He snorted. “Nah.”
“Uh… why not? You seem concerned.”
“I am! But you smoke a little weed and suddenly no cop takes you seriously.”
I rolled my eyes and realized belatedly, as my adrenaline began to wane, that my jaw was throbbing. I gave it a gentle
rub.
Jason pulled back the hood on his head. “You really lookin’ for Dan?”
“Really.”
“Do… do you think he’s dead?”
JASON DUMPED copious amounts of crushed red pepper all over the slice of pizza I bought him. “I knew it,” he said. He set the shaker aside, folded the pizza, and took a massive bite like he hadn’t eaten all day. And considering he was a grad student, that might have very well been the truth.
“You knew Daniel was dead?” I asked gently.
We stood at a tall table in a corner joint simply called Grandma’s Pizza. The overhead lights were twitchy fluorescents, and the wobbly table was still messy with a previous customer’s sprinkled parmesan cheese. But it was warm inside—the giant pizza ovens spitting out pie after pie—and the employees were doing a brisk trade like any good cheap-slice shop should.
Jason guzzled his can of Coke before saying, “Yeah. I mean, I guess I’m not surprised. You know?”
“No, I don’t know,” I said. A slice of pizza sat untouched on a paper plate in front of me.
Jason took another huge bite, grease dripping down his fingers. “Angela. You said you knew her.”
“Yes, but I only met her today.”
“She killed Dan.” He shook his head forlornly. “I know it,” he said for a second time.
“Why do you think so?”
Jason was already chewing on the crust. “She’s crazy. Dan said Frank was afraid of breakin’ up with her. Like, she’d threatened to kill herself. That kinda nuts.”
“I see.”
“But Dan. I dunno….” Jason looked up as he finished the crust, staring thoughtfully at the far wall. “I guess he didn’t date much in Michigan. He was just so in love with Frank. Like a puppy dog. Frank was all he fuckin’ talked about. I warned him shit would get bad if someone like Angela found out….” Jason smiled a little and finally looked at me.
