The rain fell in icy cold sheets, so hard Leroy’s exposed skin stung with each tiny impact. He pulled the threadbare remains of his trench coat as high as he could in a futile attempt to escape the downpour. Soaked to the bone, his skin numb from the cold, his hands shivered. He plodded forward, unsure if he could still feel his feet. But at least I still have you. He caressed the bottle of Jack Daniels hidden in his pocket, the brown paper bag shredding at the touch of his fingers, it too failing to escape the onslaught. He carefully pulled the bottle containing its precious elixir from his pocket, his shaking hands threatened to drop his hard earned reward. He rushed the bottle to his lips, as if once pressed against them, the bottle would never drop. He took a long swig to dull his misery a little more. His hands stopped shaking for a moment then swiftly resumed their previous rattle as he returned the bottle to the one pocket with no holes. “I need to get out of this rain.”
“What about the warehouse?”
Leroy nodded. “Good idea.” He stumbled forward, willing his legs, numbed from the cold and alcohol, to carry him the few minutes’ walk to the shelter. He pushed forward, through the driving wind and rain, the occasional swig fortifying his resolve. He rounded a corner and smiled. “There it is!”
“Quit gawking and get a move on!”
Leroy’s nostrils flared in annoyance and shuffled the last few feet, all the while warily examining his surroundings, on the lookout for anyone who might seek to steal his own private refuge.
“Get in there you fool, there's nobody around!”
Leroy grunted and pushed open the door with his shoulder. It scraped on the concrete floor, the top hinge having let go long before. He cringed at the screech of metal, looked about one last time to see if anyone had heard, then entered as rapidly as his tired body could muster, shoving the door closed behind him. The storm howled outside, the wind rattled the peeling walls and painted over windows of the abandoned warehouse, its hollow shell, emptied of anything of value by the owners, the remainder by looters, acted like an echo chamber, the din from the storm a dull roar Leroy found peaceful, much like the roar he heard in his ears on occasion. On cold rainy days like today, or long winter nights, the respite it provided was welcome, much more than a packed shelter with rules to be followed. Here, Leroy was answerable to himself, free to enjoy the peace and quiet this refuge provided from the city noise. Even on a stormy day like today, it was still quiet compared to the din that was New York, the noise from millions of inhabitants so close by, silenced. And that was why Leroy loved his little piece of paradise, a place where he didn't need to worry about thrill seeking kids beating him, or worse, hauled away by cops looking for an easy bust. This was his place and his alone. He took a belt from his bottle, placed it on the concrete floor and peeled off his clothes until he wore nothing but his stained underwear. Taking another swig, he looked around for the mattress he had rescued from a garbage bin a month ago and stashed here. It was gone.
“It's over there in the corner.”
Leroy looked and smiled. He stumbled toward it but stopped short when he saw a chair with someone sitting in it, their back toward him.
“Who the hell is that?”
“I don't know,” replied Leroy. He tiptoed his way around the chair. “It’s a chick!”
“Are you sure?”
Leroy double-checked. Skirt and tits. “Yup.”
“Get rid of her.”
Leroy eyed the woman, her head slumped forward on her chest. He glanced back at his clothes, decided against dressing before confronting the unwelcome guest, and stepped in front of her.
“Hey, lady, this is my place,” he slurred. “You go find your own place!”
“You tell her, Leroy!”
Leroy took another swig. Emboldened, he continued, “Hey, Bitch! Get out of here!” He stumbled forward and tripped headlong into the woman, knocking her from the chair. He crashed to the floor and found himself lying beside her, face-to-face. He stared at her through his drunken stupor. Confused, he rubbed his eyes, trying to focus. His vision cleared for a moment, revealing a hole in her forehead, a small trail of dried blood running the length of her face. “Holy shit!” he yelled as he struggled to his feet and ran toward the entrance, his uncoordinated legs causing him to fall more than once.
“Where’re you goin’?”
Leroy stopped.
“She ain't gonna hurt nobody now.”
Leroy nodded. He approached the body again, picked up his dropped bottle, thankful it hadn’t shattered, and took a long drink. As quickly as his shaking hands would allow, he set about taking her watch, ring, bracelet and necklace. He saw a purse on the floor nearby and opened it. He removed the wallet, relieved it of cash and credit cards, then started back toward his clothes.
“We hit the mother lode today!”
He nodded as he thought of how much he'd be able to buy when he pawned his newly acquired goods. He leaned down to check on his clothes when the door blew open and banged against the wall, the sound echoing through the empty warehouse. “Shhh!” he hissed, stumbling toward the entrance. He lifted the door, its single good hinge itself on its last legs, and shoved it back into place. It took several tries to get it to stay closed, but once successful, he returned to his clothes. Still wet. He looked at the bed, took another shot of courage and headed back. He lay down, facing away from the woman, and passed out.
Officer Steve Scaramell watched the road as his Training Officer, Officer Brent Richards, poured coffee from a thermos into an insulated cup, tore open two sugar packets with his teeth and dumped them into the dark brew, then retrieved a swizzle stick from the dash and stirred the liquid. Finished, he tossed the stick back on the dash and looked at the road. His partner’s eyes where they should be, Scaramell returned to surveying the surroundings.
The downpour had convinced them to do a quick warehouse district tour to kill some time and avoid having to get out from the shelter of their radio car. Scaramell, on the force less than a year, was relegated to the passenger seat, which was fine by him since he hadn’t learned to drive until the Academy and was still a little nervous behind the wheel. His partner, however, seemed able to drink coffee and gnaw at beef jerky while engaging in a high-speed pursuit. His laissez-faire approach to paperwork, protocol and driver safety, had at first shocked Scaramell, but in time he learned to ignore it. He was the “rook”, here to learn, and if lucky, correctly distinguish the good habits from the bad.
He spotted an open door on an abandoned warehouse and pointed. “Looks like the winos are busy again.” Richards nodded, pulling the patrol car up to the warehouse. They climbed out and trotted over to the entrance, weapons drawn. The sheets of rain prompted Scaramell to shoulder the door open and rush in quicker than his training dictated, leaving him to be first to spot a pile of clothing laying nearby on the floor. “Oh great, a fuckin' naked wino.” He hated dealing with drunks; they usually wanted to be your friend then puked on your shoes.
“Look.” Richards pointed to the other end of the warehouse where someone lay on a mattress and another on the floor, near a toppled over chair. He holstered his weapon and Scaramell followed suit. “Looks like a 10-64,” said Richards as he walked toward the pair. Scaramell quickly flipped through his mental file of codes. Quality of Life. A little disappointed the call had become completely routine, he followed his TO.
“Okay, wakey, wakey!” called Richards as he approached the man snoring on the mattress. No response. Scaramell gave a gentle kick to the ass of the one lying near the chair, a woman, probably so strung out on crack she had no idea she had just partied with a bum who hadn’t seen a shower since the administration changed. Still no response. Richards booted the mattress, unwilling to touch the near naked man.
“Wake up!” The man stirred, looked up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
“Whaddya want?” he demanded before realizing it was a cop. He struggled to his feet, nearly losing his balance as he rocked on the soft mattress. The man’s tired bones c
racked, making Richards cringe, the foul stench of body jam occupying every orifice so overpowering, it caused him to gag. “Oh, sorry, officer. H-how may I be of s-shervice to you?” He cocked his head to the right. “Shuddup, I'll handle this.” He hiccupped then farted.
Scaramell watched the walking petri dish for a moment, then turned his attention to the hooker. His jaw dropped as he saw the bullet hole in her forehead. “Holy shit!” He yelled as he drew his weapon and spun toward the wino. Richards snapped his head around, looking at him then the girl. “She's dead!”
“What?” Richards drew his weapon and spun full circle, his trained eye searching the warehouse’s every corner. Scaramell continued to cover the wino while his TO scanned the warehouse. Richards turned his weapon on the wino. “Call it in!”
Scaramell grabbed his mike and radioed for backup, his heart thumping against his chest at the excitement of his first homicide.
“I told you we shouldn't have stayed here!” said the wino. He shook his head. “No, you shut-up!”
“Who the hell are you talking to?” Richards approached the man cautiously, his weapon aimed at the man’s chest.
“N-nobody,” replied the man who lowered his chin and whispered, “Get out of here while you still can, they can't see you!”
“The guy's nuts. Better search him.”
“Fuck that, rookie, I ain't touchin' him,” replied Richards. “You have at it.”
Scaramell holstered his weapon and looked the man over. He wore only underwear, but unless he had a package that would make a porn star proud, he definitely carried something in his shorts. Scaramell pointed. “Empty it out.”
“Empty what out?”
Scaramell pulled out his Tazer. “Do you really want me to use this?”
The wino raised his hands. “J-just a second.” He inched his hands lower, his eyes never leaving the Tazer. With his left hand he pulled his underwear out by the elastic, stretching the threadbare material, exposing a tear in the front from which a watch clasp dangled out. His right hand shook as he pulled at the gold clasp, freeing the watch and a testicle. Scaramell groaned and almost squeezed the trigger. The man looked at the officers, sheepishly tucked his shame back in and turned slightly to the right, hiding the hole from view. He emptied out the remaining contents of his underwear onto the mattress. Scaramell motioned for him to back up as he snapped on a pair of latex gloves and examined the stash. Credit cards, cash, jewelry, and a driver’s license. He retrieved the license and read the name to his partner.
“Tammera Coverdale.”
Merissa came to in a blinding orange haze and excruciating pain, lying in a heap on the hard, dirt floor she had grown accustomed to over the past several weeks. Her entire head roared as if on fire, the pain so intense she didn’t know where it hurt most. She gingerly touched her face and winced as she explored the split lower lip. A trickle of blood ran down her finger, skirted her palm then continued down her raised arm. She gently pushed on the lip to try and stop the bleeding and was rewarded with a gush of blood. It was split in two, her finger merely occupying the empty area where her lip should be. She moved her hand up to her nose and pinched it slightly. She gasped at the sharp pain then again at the pain in her chest. She remembered some of the blows missing her face and landing on her chest and collarbone. She took another breath and shooting pains coursed through her entire upper body. Something’s broken. She tried to steady her breaths, making them as shallow and regular as she could. The pain subsided somewhat after she regained control and she returned to her self-assessment. She touched her eyes, the lids and surrounding area protruding at least an inch, and determined the orange haze was the light shining through the lids of her swollen shut eyes.
Overhead she heard the familiar sound of footsteps then the chain rattling as the platform lowered. She didn’t feel much like eating, she was in so much pain, she didn’t know if she even could, however rather than risk another beating, she decided she better get whatever today’s offering might be. The platform hit the floor and she crawled toward the sound, her head throbbing now that she was leaning forward on hands and knees, each movement of her body sending shooting pains from her broken clavicle. She found the platform and reached further in. Her hand grasped a piece of wet cloth which after a moment turned ice cold. She jerked back then tentatively reached forward again, gently felt the cool, wet cloth and concluded it was an ice pack. She picked it up and before she could explore the remainder of the platform, she heard the chain rattle as her captor grabbed it to haul the platform back up. I guess that's it.
She crawled back to the wall, made more difficult this time by her free hand now holding the ice pack. The effort left her breathless, her gasps triggered spasms of pain. She sat against the wall and took as long, shallow breaths as she could, until she finally had regained control. After a few minutes the pain in her chest subsided, and she turned her attention to the icepack. She placed it on her eyes and after several minutes of gently applying the cool ice to each, the swelling eased enough for her to see again. Nothing had changed in her surroundings. The lone light illuminated what she now knew was definitely a basement in a home, having just experienced the upstairs. Her split lip throbbed for attention. She pressed the ice pack against it and winced, her eyes tearing. She pulled the cloth away, the slowly melting ice mixing with the blood and flowing down her hand and arm.
I can't let this go on.
She held the icepack to her left eye and rested her head against the dirt wall. It has to stop. She knew it had to stop. She wasn’t willing to be the victim any longer. How many more beatings would she have to endure? How many more attempted rapes? How many more days of being treated like an animal? Staying alive was one thing, but this wasn’t life. This was existence. This had to stop. This will stop. Decision made. But as she thought about it, she realized as soon as it stopped for her, it would most likely start for someone else. She had to somehow help them with what she had learned. But how? What had she learned that may help someone else? She knew he drugged the food. She knew he was trying to rape her when she was drugged and it was happening upstairs. How could she let someone know this so they might use it to their advantage? She knew she wouldn’t be able to trick him again. This knowledge would be of no use to her, but to someone else it might just let them escape.
But how can I get a message to them without him knowing?
She examined her surroundings. She couldn’t carve it into the floor or walls, he would see any message immediately, and she couldn’t reach the ceiling, it was too high. She growled in frustration then took a breath, reviewing each item available to her. She eyed the water hole and smiled as the solution dawned on her. It might take a few days, but it would work.
It has to work.
“Miss Kai?”
Aynslee raised her head off her desk with a start, not certain what had woken her. She rubbed her hand across her chin, wiping off a spot of drool. She reached for a Kleenex to wipe up the more embarrassing puddle on her mouse pad when she heard someone clear their throat. Her hand flew to her chest as she jumped in her chair, shocked to see someone standing at the entrance to her cubicle. A quick glance at the clock on her desk confirmed she had slept for several hours after pulling an all-nighter editing a report for the 6 am broadcast. The voice that had woken her belonged to a tall, lean man in his mid-thirties. He wore a tailored suit cut to hide what was clearly a very athletic frame, his square jaw, pronounced cheekbones and slightly protruding Adam's apple revealed no hint of excess body fat. His short, dirty-blonde hair had a functional style, clearly a barbershop cut rather than a salon, and his clean shaven face revealed no scars or blemishes. She found herself assessing him in Hollywood terms, her old beat taking over. A young Tom Selleck without the porn star mustache. Tall, dark and handsome. Who are you and where have you been all my life?
“Sorry to startle you,” he said, his voice, not too deep but not too high either, drew her in. Its sincere quality made her feel like h
e was truly sorry. She wasn’t sure what swooning was, but was certain she was doing it right now.
“That's okay,” she replied as she yanked herself from her fantasy. “How may I help you?”
He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a wallet, flipping it open to reveal a gold shield. “I'm Detective Hayden Eldridge, I'm investigating the murders of Tammera Coverdale and two John Does. Do you have time for some questions?”
“Yes, yes I do.” She stood, straightened out her skirt and blouse, ran her fingers through her hair, giving it a toss, then motioned down the hall, hoping her makeup wasn’t smeared down one side of her face. “Perhaps we should do this in the conference room?”
“That would be fine.”
She snatched her purse and led the detective down the hall as she surreptitiously fished a small makeup mirror from her purse, quickly making sure she didn’t have a Tammy Faye outbreak, or worse, the imprint of the mouse pad running down her cheek. In the clear, she returned the mirror to her purse and when they reached the conference room, held the door open for her guest. She closed it behind them and motioned to a seat across the table from where she then sat down. The detective removed his jacket and draped it across the back of his chair before sitting.
“Now, how can I help you Detective, Eldridge, was it?”
He nodded as he pulled out his note pad and pen, swirling it to get the ink flowing. “When did you receive the first video depicting the murder of Tammera Coverdale?”
“A couple of nights ago, Wednesday I guess, while I was heading home on the subway. Actually, that's not right. I guess I received it just before I left. The email arrived before I left but I didn't bother checking it.” She leaned forward on the conference table. “You see, it had been a late night and normally I work the entertainment beat so I figured any email at that time of night could wait.”
“Yes, I've seen your reports on the news.”
Aynslee smiled, about to twirl her long brown hair, when she caught herself. What am I, fourteen? “Oh, you have?” She wasn’t sure she sounded disinterested enough.
“So the email arrived Wednesday evening,” prompted Eldridge, evidently choosing to ignore the flirtatious note in her voice.
“Just before midnight.”
Eldridge jotted this down. “And you actually read it when?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes later. I read it on my BlackBerry and immediately came back to the office.”
“And that's when you notified the police?”
“Well, no, I called my news director.”
Eldridge looked up. “And then he called the police?”
“Well, no, he called a production meeting, and our lawyers, who then made contact with your department the next morning, after we aired the story.”
“And it never occurred to you to contact us immediately?”
Aynslee blushed. “Well, of course it occurred to me, however Legal said we were within our rights to hold off until it aired.”
Eldridge grunted and returned his attention to his pad. “And you received the second email when exactly?”
“Early yesterday evening, maybe eight o'clock. I was editing my piece for the eleven o'clock news when it arrived.”
“And you notified us …”
She looked down at her hands sheepishly. “After the broadcast.”
“Uh huh. And you have no idea who is sending you these emails?”
“No, none, and our geeks can't trace the emails either.”
“Yeah, we have our own techs looking into that as well. It seems they are recorded on a cell phone and then the suspect uploads them using a hijacked residential wireless connection.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m not a techie, but our resident geeks explained it to me. Apparently if you don't secure your wireless network at home, anyone can piggyback on it and surf the Internet, send email, pretty much anything they want.”
“And that's how he did this?”
“Yes, we've traced the two emails to completely different parts of the city.”
“Really.” Her voice trailed off, her mind spinning, already wondering how to work this into her next broadcast.
“Did you recognize any of the victims?”
It took a moment for her to notice he had spoken. “No, no I didn't,” she said, shaking her head.
Eldridge folded his notebook and returned it and the pen to his shirt pocket. “Okay, I guess that about does it for now.” He stood and put his jacket back on, extending his hand to Aynslee who joined him at the door. “Thank you for your time and I'll contact you if I have any more questions.”
“You're quite welcome.” She shook his hand, his grip firm and, most important, dry, immediately telling her she was dealing with confidence. She stole a quick glance at the other hand. No ring! “Do you have a card in case I need to reach you?” Clever girl!
“Of course.” He handed her a business card from the inside pocket of his sport coat then headed toward the elevator. He paused and turned back to face her. “And Miss Kai?”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Yes?”
“Next time you get an email from a killer, call the police immediately.”
She blushed. “Yes, Detective.” What, you thought he was going to ask you out?
Shaw glared as what was obviously a detective left that little bitch's office. Steal a story from me? He was pissed. He was the lead crime reporter. If there was a crime, he got first dibs, no one else. If he wasn’t interested then it was up to him to kick it to one of the more junior reporters. And never in a million years would he pass something on to a walking set of tits far younger than he was when he got his first break. The pencil in his hand snapped, startling him from his mental tirade. He looked around to make sure nobody had noticed and turned to his computer, wondering how to get her emails forwarded to him without her knowing. Looking up from the computer in frustration, he saw the geek lurking about and waved him over.
“Yes, Mr. Shaw?”
Man, I used to pummel kids like this in high school. “Reggie, my boy, have a seat!” He motioned toward an uncomfortable chair facing his desk and leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Reggie, is there any way to get somebody's email forwarded to another person without them knowing?” He knew from the rapid flushing of Reggie’s cheeks he was taken aback by the question, almost as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The little shit’s probably reading everybody’s email.
“Wh-why? Do you think someone is looking at your emails?” Reggie squirmed in the chair, gripping the arms, the cheap plastic shining with the sweat pouring from his palms.
Yahtzee! Shaw shook his head and leaned in closer still. “No. I want you to forward someone's emails to me without their knowing.”
Reggie's jaw dropped. “I-I can't do that!” The glare from Shaw caused him to lower his voice. “I would need management's permission.”
“Listen, kid, I can make your life here a living hell, or I can make it very pleasant.” Shaw leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on his desktop. “Which is it going to be?”
Reggie gulped.
“Tick-tock, kid.”
Reggie looked at the floor. “Wh-who's email do you want forwarded?”
Shaw grinned. On the inside. Fucking wimp! “Aynslee Kai.”
Merissa sat huddled in the corner as she came to terms with the decision she had made. She saw no other alternative; she was going to die, she could do nothing about that now. The question was what to do about it. It had taken hours to decide, but she knew she had only one choice. She pushed herself forward on her knees, clasped her hands and looked toward heaven. She wasn’t a religious person, she hadn’t attended church since she was a child, she wasn’t even sure how to do it. She had prayed while trapped here, more to comfort herself than anything else, but this time, based upon what she had decided to do, she figured it was best to pray formally. Dear God, I know suicide is supposed to be a sin, but I have no choice. I kno
w he is going to kill me, but if I die on my own terms, maybe I can save the next person he takes. Please forgive me. She made the sign of the cross and collapsed forward, her shoulders shaking as the torrent of emotions spilled out. Her chest filled with despair, her mind with the questions she had asked for weeks. Why me? What did I do to deserve this? Her inner strength broken, she questioned her decision. Perhaps she could escape?
“No!”
She startled herself, not having heard her own voice spoken beyond a whisper in weeks. It was enough to shock her from her bout of self-pity. She wiped the tears off her face and rose to her feet. Removing her shirt, she wrapped it around the chain that still bound her to the ceiling, then, using her handcuffed hand, she looped the cloth covered chain around her neck, momentarily appreciating the irony that what had kept her prisoner would soon set her free. She knew it would be painful, but nothing compared to the pain she had already experienced. With the chain secure around her neck, she relaxed her knees and dropped toward the floor, gravity slowly tightening its grip. The pain wasn’t as bad as she had feared, the cloth from the shirt softening the chain’s pinch at first. It tightened with every inch she lowered herself, the pain taking hold soon replaced by a far worse sensation. Suffocation. She gasped for breath, the reflex actions of her body not succeeding, the chain now too tight to let any air pass. She fought the urge to get up, knowing if she did she would have to go through this all again. Her gasps became shorter and shorter, her clouded mind no longer able to resist her survival instinct. Her suffocating body demanded she stand. With her one hand chained close to her neck, she was forced to reach with the other to try and pull herself up using the now tight chain. Grasping at it above her head she tried to lift her body to relieve the pressure. For a moment she tasted the sweet relief of a tiny amount of air making its way into her lungs. She pulled harder. Her oxygen deprived body unable to coordinate the attempt at self-preservation, her bare feet slipped on the dirt floor and she flipped over, her feet now extended out in front of her, her body facing upward, her full weight pulling on the chain as her arms and legs flailed, all coordination now lost. It took less than a minute for her to blackout from the lack of oxygen, the Technicolor display provided by her brain not the least bit interesting to her in her final moments.
Aynslee’s eyes drooped as she dialed what must be the fortieth number in the past two hours. As soon as the detective had left, she had written down the name he had mentioned, Tammera Coverdale, then confirmed with Legal the police hadn't released the identity yet and got the green-light to run with it. At the moment all she could do was report on the video clips themselves, but now she had a name. And she also knew the police didn't have names for the second set of victims, meaning they probably hadn’t even found them yet, a story in itself. She had searched the Internet for hours, calling every listing for Coverdale she found. Three dozen phone calls to New York based Coverdale’s had proven a bust. She had moved on to Jersey, the fourth listing for Coverdale, Hugh and Elise. Work with me, Jersey! The phone rang in the earpiece of her headset, pulled low on her ear to lower the volume. It rang several times, Aynslee’s finger hovering over the button to end the call. Her heart leapt and she yanked her finger away as the clicking sound of a handset being lifted off its base crackled through the earpiece. She shoved it into position and took a breath.
Silence.
She waited a few more seconds, unsure of what to do, then decided to speak first. “Hello, my name is Aynslee Kai, I work for WACX News, I—.”
“Leave us alone!” a woman’s voice cried, then the line was cut.
Bingo! Aynslee snatched her purse and jacket off her coat rack, ran down the hall and grabbed a camera crew.
Lance, not his real name, twirled the straw in his definitely not virgin Shirley Temple and stared at the vision in front of him. He was all man, he could tell. Tight jeans showed off his firm ass (he had checked!), a white denim shirt, untucked with the first three buttons open, displayed his tight, sweaty chest to the world. Lance was swooning. He's sooo cute! A little young maybe, but that just meant he would get a chance to teach him a few new tricks that would change the boy's life forever. They had talked for about fifteen minutes, every moment of it perfection! I have to have this dreamboat!
He was dancing with a long time on-and-off partner, when he spotted this vision eyeing him from the bar. A quick smile fired in his direction was enough for Lance to abandon his partner on the dance floor and sachet over to the bar. Introductions (his name was Charles!), a round of drinks, and a little bit of leg and arm rubbing, and he was ready to do anything this boy wanted. Anything!
“It's kind of loud in here, you wanna go somewhere quieter, where we can...” Charles paused and looked at Lance slyly as he ran his finger from under Lance’s ear, down his neck then as far down his bare chest as he could, yanking at the top button of his shirt. He leaned in and bit Lance’s earlobe, then whispered, “Talk?”
Lance didn’t know if his loins leapt more from the throaty whisper or the red-hot touch, but it didn’t matter. You dirty dog! Talk indeed! He threw his boa around his neck, took Charles by the hand and dragged him from the club. They hadn't even made it a block when Lance couldn’t help himself. He dragged Charles into an alleyway, shoved him against the wall, and ground his hips into him. Reaching down between his legs to check out his package, he cooed, “Oooh, is that for me?”
Charles smiled and reached into his pocket, pulling out a couple of tablets. “E?” Lance nodded and stuck out his tongue, closing his eyes. Feeling Charles place the tablet on the end of his tongue, he flipped it back into his mouth and swallowed. He opened his eyes and turned his head to the side, kissing his young delight on the side of the neck, then flicking his tongue over his Adam’s apple. He looked up and a mischievous feeling spread over him. Slowly he dropped to his knees and unbuckled Charles' belt. As he undid the fly he felt the Earth start to spin but kept going, determined to reach his prize. He fumbled with the button, his fingers suddenly uncoordinated, then collapsed.
Aynslee burst from the station van, her camera man and sound engineer scrambling to keep up. She rushed up the steps to the Coverdale’s small Cape Cod style home and, when everyone was in position, rang the doorbell. Her heart pounded as she waited, thinking of the scoop that had fallen into her lap. This was huge. Not only would she be revealing exclusively to the world who the victim was, but also get an interview with the family to boot. I wonder have they been notified? She had a moment of doubt about what she was doing, then shoved it aside. If they know the name, then of course they’ve notified the family. As they continued to wait, her excitement started to wane. Are they not home? After a minute with no answer, she rang again and knocked several times, but still no one came. She tried to peer through the glass block window to the side and in desperation placed her ear to the door. She listened for a moment and thought she heard sobbing. She decided to take a chance and motioned to the cameraman to start rolling. The red light on, she leaned closer to the door. “Mrs. Coverdale, this is Aynslee Kai, WACX News, I'd like to talk to you about your daughter, Tammera.” She listened and this time heard a definite cry from the other side of the door, near the floor. “She's in there,” she whispered to her crew, pointing toward the door and down. Lowering her voice, she tried to soothe the door open. “Ma'am, I'm the reporter who was sent the footage of your daughter's murder. I'm just as confused as you are about all of this, and I'd like to talk to you about it, to find out what kind of a person your daughter was so the world can know she was an innocent victim, not somebody caught up in some sordid affair.” The sound guy, Steve, gave a thumbs up as they heard someone unbolt the door.
Aynslee doubted the friends of the poor, disheveled woman who opened the door would recognize her, her eyes bloodshot, her nose bright red and swollen from crying, her hair in knots, having not seen a brush in days. She was gaunt, her face pale, her cheeks sunken, dark circles under her eyes adding years to her face. She was a woma
n who had lost the will to live. When she saw the camera pointed at her she yelped and slammed the door shut.
“No cameras!”
Aynslee waved off her cameraman, Mike, who nodded and turned off the light but left it recording, aimed at the ground. “I've turned off the camera, Mrs. Coverdale. Can I speak to you now?” The door slowly opened again and they saw the middle-aged woman step back and head deeper into the house without saying a word. Aynslee looked at Mike and Steve, shrugged her shoulders and stepped inside, following the woman. They found her sitting in a chair in her living room, hugging a throw pillow.
Aynslee sat across from her and pulled out a notepad. “Ma'am, first let me start off by saying how truly sorry I am about your loss.” She looked at a picture sitting on the end table next to her of a young woman. It was hard to be certain, but she bore a definite resemblance to the victim. “Is this her?” The woman nodded. “What can you tell me about her?” Aynslee jotted down the name emblazoned on the school sweater worn in the photo.
The woman took a deep breath, as if steeling herself for what she was about to say. “She was a wonderful child, our only child. She had a terrific job that was taking her places and she had a fiancé who loved her very much. They were getting married this fall.”
Aynslee scribbled in her pad. “And what was the fiancé's name?”
“Jeremy Rush. They were so much in love. They planned on having children right away.” Her voice cracked. “Grandbabies,” she whispered as she bent over and burst into tears, her hand reaching blindly for a tissue from the box sitting next to her.
Aynslee opened her mouth to ask another question, but found her voice cracking as the enormity of what she was doing hit. Someone died! This is real, this isn’t an out on the town segment! She closed her mouth and waved her hand back and forth in front of her neck. This time Mike turned the camera off for real. Aynslee knew she wasn’t going to get anything else from the distraught woman, and didn’t want to regardless. She had enough to throw together a small segment for the next newscast; it would have to be enough. Rising, she walked over and placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and said softly, “I'm truly sorry.” She motioned to her crew and they walked out the door, a sobbing victim left behind, Aynslee fighting back her own tears, her crew uncharacteristically quiet.
Elise heard the door click shut, the reporters gone. She curled her legs up under her and leaned over, resting her head on the arm of the La-Z-Boy recliner, still hugging the pillow. Her body racked in sobs, every muscle ached from crying for days. My baby is gone! She couldn’t understand why. Why would God do this to her? Why would God take her child from her? No parent should have to outlive their child. This isn’t right! She looked up at the ceiling and through it, as if directly into God’s eyes. Damn you! She wailed. She was losing her faith. That, combined with her grief, was leading to a spiral of depression she didn’t care if she ever came out of. She didn’t want to. She pictured her precious, beautiful, baby daughter. First steps, first words, first day at school. Last supper, last hug goodbye, last wave from the curb, last phone call, last sound of her voice.
And where the hell was her husband? Why wasn’t he there to support her? She knew he was hurting as much as she was, but he was too much the traditional male. He needed to be on his own to grieve; no one could see him cry. But she needed him. Here. Now. I can’t be alone. And at that moment she knew exactly what she needed to do. She needed to be with Tammera. Standing, she strode with purpose to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out the bottle of sleeping pills prescribed to her husband months before. Opening the bottle, she poured them into her mouth as she heard the front door open.
Merissa awoke to pain, excruciating pain around her neck from where the chain had bitten into and torn her flesh, the shirt she had wrapped around it only delaying the inevitable. But it was nothing compared to the searing, jolting shock she experienced when she took that first breath. It felt as if someone had punched her full force in the throat, her collapsed esophagus trying to pop back into shape as her body forced air through it. She focused on her breathing as she tried to control the pain, keeping her breaths slow and steady. The pain gradually subsided as her airway returned to normal. Her instincts forced a wave of relief to flow through her as she realized she was alive, but as more oxygen made it into her system she became aware of her surroundings. She lay on the basement floor, the light gently swung above her, the platform still in place, the chain removed, not only from around her neck, but her wrist as well. She wore a fresh blouse, her old one nowhere to be found. I've failed! Her relief turned back to despair as she grasped that she was still alive, the exact opposite of what she had hoped to achieve. She had failed, and now with the chain removed, might never get another chance.
A creak overhead snapped her back to reality, signaling the return of her captor and the lowering of the platform, but instead of food, she saw a pair of legs standing on it. Her pulse raced as he pulled on the chain, the thumping in her chest gained strength as his ankles, knees and then waist were revealed,. The platform was half way down when she saw he had his back to her, an opportunity she dared not pass up. She rose, careful to remain out of sight, and on adrenaline alone, her body still weak from her ordeal, she charged the platform, throwing herself at it as hard as she could. The platform swung away from her, the chains groaning in protest, her captor letting out a surprised yelp as he fell backward and toppled off the platform. His head hit the ground hard, knocking him senseless.
Merissa struggled onto the platform, grasped the chain, and pulled on it. Her first few tugs did little, but she kept going, fighting the instinct to try and climb the chain like a rope in gym class, knowing she wouldn’t have the strength to make it. As the platform inched toward the hole, and freedom above, she never took her eyes off her captor. She heard him groan and roll over onto his back, his hand reaching up to touch the back of his head. “Come on!” she cried, furiously pulling on the chain, tears flowing freely, her heart pumping so hard she heard the blood pulsing in her ears like a drummer nearing the end of a tribal dance. She watched as he shook his head and when their eyes made contact, he realized what was happening. He struggled to his feet, jumped up and grasped the platform edge. “No!” she screamed as it rocked under his weight. She reached up and gripped the floor above. Pulling herself up, she swung her right leg over as he did the same on the platform below. She almost had her second leg up when she felt an iron grip on her foot pull her down. She grasped at the floor with her hands, desperate to find something to grab on to.
“Help!” she screamed, her partially crushed windpipe limiting the volume. As he pulled her further down, she flipped over onto her back, dropped her free foot below the floor and kicked with all her might. It connected and the grip loosened as she heard a groan of pain. Tearing her foot free, she rolled back onto the floor, jumped to her feet and ran into the darkened room. She bumped into a table and grasped around for something, anything she might use as a weapon, but found nothing. A grunt behind her caused her to spin around and watch as he struggled up off the platform, the light from her prison silhouetting his upper body, all semblance of humanity lost, replaced by the image of a beast crawling from a primeval pit in pursuit of its prey. Charging forward she ran headlong into a wall, then feeling along it she found a doorway and stumbled through. She raced down a hallway, screaming for help the entire time. There has to be a door at the end of this! She heard his shoes squeak on the floor as she hit the door at the end of the hall hard. She recovered and groped for the doorknob and after several precious seconds found it. It turned in her hand and the door loosened ever so slightly as she pulled on the knob, but it wouldn't give. He was in the hallway now. “Help!” she yelled again as she pulled on the knob with her entire body weight. She reached up and found a deadbolt. Turning it she tugged again at the door. It opened several inches before he hit her full force from behind, slamming her body against the door, forever closing it, the bolt’s clic
k, like the trigger cocking on a gun, signaled the end of all hope. He threw her to the floor and dragged her by the hair back to the platform. She grasped at his hand, trying to loosen the viselike grip. He tossed her like a sack of potatoes back into her dungeon. She plunged through empty space then the bottom half of her body hit the platform, now six feet off the floor, spinning her around so she fell headfirst. She hit the floor hard, her head bending back, snapping her neck, releasing her from the prison that had become her own personal hell.
THREE
Depraved Difference (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #1) Page 3
