by A.R. Wise
* * *
The concert was at a venue in Loveland, coincidentally just a few blocks from Becky Kyle’s apartment.
Arthur went to a Walmart that was open 24 hours and purchased the things he’d need. He got a tool belt and hammer, nails, rope, spackle, and canvas pants that he thought looked like something a handyman would wear. He bought the plainest short sleeve button-up shirt he could find, and a pair of new boots. Next he got a prepaid cell phone, and finally a gallon of water.
He drove to the back of the store, out of the security cameras’ view, and changed clothes. He opened the spackle and cursed before checking the label, frustrated. This brand was designed to appear pink when applied, and then change to white after drying. He tested some of it on his hand, blowing on the paste to see how long it would take to change color. The smear dried quickly, and he decided not to bother exchanging it.
This would have to work.
Before leaving, he checked himself in the rearview, confident he looked the part. The crusty spackle on his cheeks and clothes did an admirable job of disguising him as a lowly maintenance man, but his outfit still looked new. He took off his shirt and went out into the parking lot in search of a muddy puddle. After splashing the shirt, ringing it out, and then shaking off the debris, he put it back on and got in the truck.
His hands were shaking the entire way to Becky’s apartment. This was a momentous leap for him. He’d never hunted in the wild before. His former victims came to him, except for Betty, but that was a long time ago. With the others, he could almost convince himself their deaths had been an accident – just rough sex gone too far. Now there was no turning back. He was a killer. This is what he was born to do.
Arthur lingered in the parking lot, uncertain if he should make the call.
He got out of the truck and used the gallon of water he’d bought to liberally splash himself. He was soaking wet by the time he was through. Next he used his pocket knife to break open the plastic, clamshell case of the burner phone. He used his regular phone to look up Becky’s information, and then used the burner to call her.
It took her three rings to answer. “Hello?” She sounded groggy, as if he’d woken her up.
“Hi, sorry to bother you,” said Arthur, his voice shaking from nerves. “Is this Miss Kyle from 1209 Applewood, apartment 3-B?”
“Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Billy. I’m with the maintenance crew here at the complex.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Oh, it’s nothing serious. So this is Becky Kyle, right? I’ve got the right number?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Good, good. Again, I’m real sorry to bother you, but we’ve got a leak in the apartment below you that’s pretty serious. We think it’s coming from your bathroom. Could you check and see if you’ve got any standing water – maybe behind the toilet.”
“Sure, hold on a second.” He could hear her walking through her apartment and then opening a door. A moment later she said, “There’s nothing wrong up here.”
“Hmm,” said Arthur. “Geez, I’m real sorry about this, but I’m going to need to come up there and check around under the sink. There must be a leaky pipe in there somewhere, and the way they’ve got these walls built,” he grumbled and sighed. “I can’t get to the pipes from down here. Is it all right if I come up?”
She hesitated.
Arthur held his breath, waiting for permission.
“Sure,” she said, convinced there was no harm in letting a maintenance worker into her apartment. “Just give me a second to pick up a bit.”
“Great, thanks. I’ll be up in a minute.”
He hung up the phone and got the rope.
