The Dragon at The Edge of The Map: A Crime Thriller Novel

by P. A. Wilson

  “I’m too tired to fight, Monique.”

  “Just say it, Rafe.” She waited for the words, knowing he was going to end their relationship, hoping she was wrong.

  “If you don’t get some help and learn to trust people – trust me – I don’t think I can go on like this. I feel like I’m always proving myself to you. Like I keep sitting a test I can’t pass.”

  Monique clenched her teeth, knowing that the first thing out of her mouth would be the worst thing she could say. If she said they should end it, she’d just prove Rafe’s point. And that might really be the end of the relationship. “You know I spoke to people after… after my dad did it.”

  “I know. And I know you think it didn’t help, but you need to keep trying.”

  “Rafe, please don’t make me do it again.” The last time they’d prescribed drugs that made her feel only half-alive. It made her singing dull. Even with the drugs, she had jumped at every loud noise. No amount of help was able to get the stench of blood out of her skin. Time had done that, if not all of the stench, at least some.

  “I can’t keep doing what we’re doing, Monique. I need you to give me something back.”

  “I think you were right. We’re too tired to talk about this. I’m going to bed.” She hung up before he could respond.

  Pain in her hand made her look. Her fist was clenched so tight her fingernails had broken the skin. She relaxed her fingers, surprised at the effort it took. Rafe might have a point, but right now, it seemed like letting people into her life just added more problems, and more pain.

  A few minutes later, Monique stared at the door to her apartment as though it was the only barrier between her and all the evil in the world. She was still trembling from the aftermath of her last visit to Alexi’s apartment, and the two phone calls. There was no way she could venture back into the bloody scene of his murder, not yet. The urge to find answers lurked below the shock, forcing her to go back, but not yet. First, she needed to get control of her fears.

  She leaned out through the window. It was still dark out but the promise of dawn touched the edges of the world she could see. There was a feeling of coming light rather than that deep night blackness. She retrieved her cigarettes from the living room and leaned out into the chill. She wasn’t sure why she bothered to go outside to smoke. It was only to keep Rafe happy and he wasn’t going to come over. Regardless, it felt right to be outside with her cigarette. It had been so long since smoking inside felt normal.

  The nicotine started doing its magic, her nerves calmed a little with every drag. Monique wondered if Rafe was right, did she push everyone so far away that they couldn’t connect with her. Did she just take emotional support? Did she really not care about other people? The anger she felt at Didi and Rafe for telling her what might be the truth, showed she wasn’t emotionally detached. She emptied her lungs of smoke at the thought that anger was probably not the best emotion to rely on.

  Was that how her father had finally broken down? She tried to remember a time when he laughed, when he was tender with her mother. But she’d sifted through the memories so much with the psychologist that she no longer knew what was real, and what she’d made up to keep the woman happy.

  Anyway, she felt more than anger. When she sang, she felt peace, maybe not an emotion, but at least not anger. And joy. When people loved her performance, she felt joy, or maybe happy. Was there a difference?

  Flicking her cigarette butt out the window and into the gutter, Monique stared at the empty street. If she didn’t care, why was she in so much pain? If Didi got clean would she be happy for the right reasons. Were there wrong reasons?

  She lit a second cigarette, knowing it was going to make her feel a little sick along with the rush. Tomorrow she’d get some food in the house, because now she was starving and there was no place to get delivery.

  Monique leaned against window sill and looked down to study the sad shrubs underneath. Holly bushes were great for security. No burglar was going to brave a thorough scratching just to boost a stereo or TV. The thing is that’s all the plants did. There was no joy in them, no color at this time of year. Was this how her life looked to others? Prickles and shades of black?

  She took the last drag and went back into the living room, curling up under the throw and closing her eyes. Maybe an hour of sleep would help her get perspective. She’d argued with Rafe and Didi before, they had always found a way to forgive each other. What she didn’t understand was this drive to solve the murder of a stranger. Even Snake was barely an acquaintance, so why couldn’t she let the cops do their work? Even if they really suspected her, it wouldn’t take much for a lawyer to get them to back off. She had a solid alibi for Alexi, and the fact that she’d called them about Snake should make them look harder for this Vincent guy.

  It didn’t make sense to her. The fact that she became almost catatonic at the sight of blood should be enough to keep her away, but the drive to find answers overcame the horror. Even when she had to crawl away from the apartment, something in her head was telling her she was missing a clue. That she’d have to go back. There, that was another emotion, curiosity. Monique wished Rafe were right, because if she didn’t care, she wouldn’t hurt.

  Her thoughts slowed as sleep crept over her mind.

  CHAPTER 9

  Monique jerked awake. The sun was shining through the window, and she heard people talking on the street, and a car door slam. The world was up and at its business and she’d slept for an hour or more. Untangling herself from her wrapping, she stretched out the stiffness of sleeping on a too short couch.

  She brushed her teeth and decided to put her shower off until after she’d searched through Alexi’s apartment. The memory of the blood turned her empty stomach. Breakfast could wait too. In fact, she’d clean up and go out for a full breakfast when she was done, and get groceries. Her new life would start as soon as she satisfied this stupid urge to find a clue.

  All she needed was the set of picks and an ounce or two of courage, and it would be over. As she put the toothpaste back into the drawer, she saw a jar of mentholated ointment. Hadn’t she heard something about using that to cover up bad smells? Didi’s voice came into her mind. Yes, he’d taken great pleasure in telling her all the gory details of some cop show. He’d been ten, and she’d been fifteen, long before either of them had to cover up their own gory history.

  Monique smeared a dollop of the ointment on her upper lip. Breathing in deeply through her nose confirmed that she wouldn’t smell anything other than menthol for a long time. All she had to worry about was what she would see, and that was easier to control.

  She just needed the lock picks. They must be with her keys. She remembered putting them in the kitchen somewhere. Monique looked on the counter, no keys. She closed her eyes to try to force the memory of putting them down. Nothing came. She patted her pockets, even though she would have felt them digging in while she slept. Not there. Crap. She had been exhausted last night and this feeling of being rested wasn’t going to last unless she showered and ate soon.

  Turning to place her back against the door, Monique tried to retrace her steps from the time she staggered into her apartment. She moved through her home touching every surface, lifting every object until she got to the couch. Nothing flagged a memory of putting a handful of metal objects down.

  She shook out the throw that had kept her warm. Still nothing. Pulling the cushions off, Monique saw her key ring sitting in the middle of the couch. Keys, but there were no picks stuffed between the cushions. Had she dropped them in the hall?

  She rushed to open her door and scan the carpet. No picks. If she couldn’t get into the apartment, Monique wasn’t sure what she would do. Where did you buy lock picks? And did you need ID? Oh God, those were Didi’s picks. If the cops found them, could they be traced back to him? If he was involved with this along with Snake, she’d just left evidence to link them.

  A glance at Alexi’s door in front of her flooded her mind
with the memory of the panic from last night. She held onto her own door for support as the images ran like a movie.

  She’d fled the apartment without locking the door. The lock was like hers, you needed to turn the knob on the inside before you closed it. The door wasn’t locked. She didn’t need the picks, but she did need to get them back before anyone else went in that apartment.

  “Okay honey, I’ll get the car. Be down in a minute,” Mac’s voice broke through her thoughts.

  Before she could retreat behind her door, Mac opened his. “Hi, Monique, you look like crap. Did you hear about the Metal Head? I heard it was like something out of Kill Bill. Real Tarantino.” He reached out to her. “Are you okay? I was just saying about looking like crap. You probably just need to sleep. You’ll be your fine Vampira self if you get a good couple of hours in bed. I could help get you relaxed.”

  Monique laughed. He knew she wouldn’t take him up on the offer. “Don’t worry, Mac, I know I look like shit.” She turned away. “I think you’re right. I’m going back to bed.”

  “What’s that on your lip?”

  Monique wondered how much ointment she’d smeared. “I’m getting a cold. This should clear my chest so I can sing tonight.”

  Before he could say anything, his door opened and a red-haired woman stepped out. She looked like she’d slept in her clothes, but Monique guessed that her clothes had lain on the floor while she’d slept with Mac.

  “Hey. You said you were getting the car.” Her voice was rough. “Who’s this?”

  “Sheila, this is my neighbor Monique. Monique, this is Sheila.”

  “My name is Shelly.” She glared at Mac. “If you aren’t going to get the car, call me a cab.”

  “No, come on, I’ll take you home.” Mac turned back to Monique, a sheepish look on his face. “I guess I’m getting old if I can’t remember a name. Listen, I’ll come into the club one of these days. It’s been a while since I heard you sing.”

  “Let me know when you’ll be there, and I’ll make sure you have a good table.” Monique waved to Shelley and slipped into her apartment.

  As soon as they left, she’d get herself across the hall. If she’d dropped the picks inside, the last thing she needed was the cops to show up and find them. Her fingerprints were all over them, and maybe Didi’s. Dropping them had been stupid, no matter how panicked she was.

  The stairwell door slammed and Monique cracked hers open. As she was about to step out, one of the doors down the hall opened. She dodged back into her apartment, not interested in engaging everyone in a good morning chat. The stairwell door banged again. There was only one more apartment on the floor. Mrs. Dowd. She worked from home and Monique had never seen her up before noon.

  She took a deep breath, feeling the rush of menthol clear her head, and dashed across the hall into the bloody crime scene. Leaning against the door when she closed it behind her, she realized that her hands were touching the wood. Monique jerked away and used her tee shirt to wipe, or at least smear, any fingerprints that might have stuck. She’d have to remember to wipe the knob outside before she left.

  Breaking and entering was more complicated than it had seemed when she first thought about it.

  This time she didn’t turn on a light, there was enough sunlight shining through the cracks in the blinds to let her see to search without highlighting the mess in the middle of the room. Maybe she could pretend it didn’t exist. The menthol was working. It was all she could smell. The picks were lying in the middle of the carpet. She scooped them up and slid them into a pocket. The bedroom seemed the best bet. If he’d kept the bag in there, maybe that’s where he’d kept all his valuables. And if she started in the bedroom, she would be moving toward the front door, and escape, as she searched the rest of the apartment. It might help her push aside any reactions, knowing she was on her way out of the apartment all the time.

  She had no idea what she was looking for. Perhaps a clue as to what might have been in the bag, maybe the identity of this mysterious man who scared Snake so much. She tiptoed around the edge of the room, careful not to touch anything this time, and stepped into the bedroom.

  How much searching had Vincent done? If he’d been interested only in the bag, or its contents, he might have missed something. She looked at the mess, and decided to start with the closet because she hadn’t looked there earlier. Wrapping her tee shirt around her hand to protect the knob from prints, she pulled the bi-fold doors open.

  There were a couple of shirts on wire hangers, and a leather jacket, but nothing else seemed to be disturbed. So, maybe, Vincent had stopped when he’d found what he was looking for. It didn’t help her understand what she was hoping to find, but it gave her some hope that she wasn’t wasting her time. She felt the shirts to see if anything was tucked up a sleeve, then moved to the leather jacket. As she reached for the pocket, she realized the leather might hold a print. Her tee shirt wouldn’t work for gloves unless she slipped it off, and she wasn’t willing to do that just in case the police came back. There was no way they’d finished with the apartment as a crime scene, no matter how many murders they had on the list.

  Pulling one of the shirts off the hanger, Monique buttoned the cuffs, and then slipped her arms into the sleeves with the body hanging in front of her. Folding the cuffs to keep her hands from slipping out, she carefully patted the front pockets of the jacket before reaching inside. A transit pass and five quarters were the only contents. She returned them. There were two inside pockets, but neither yielded any clues.

  Keeping the shirt as her gloves, Monique looked under the bed, only dust bunnies. And no holes in the bottom of the box spring that might hide a file folder or something interesting. She pushed herself up and went to the mattress. The side facing her was whole, if stained and grubby. She lifted the corner nearest her trying not to let it fall. The cops would probably notice if the mattress was flopped onto the floor.

  There was nothing hidden in the mattress, so she moved on to the dresser. The drawers were all on the floor, broken. Unless Alexi had microchips stuck to them, there was no clue there. The frame of the dresser was clean. Monique tipped it forward, and something crackled. Pulling it further away from the wall, she saw an envelope attached to the back with tape. Carefully grasping the edge with the shirt still on her hands, Monique pulled it free. It didn’t contain much, but she slid it into her pocket and pushed the dresser back against the wall.

  There was nothing left to do, and now that she wasn’t searching, she felt the shakes starting in her gut and chest. Monique shed the shirt, and hung it on one of the empty hangers. She stood for a moment gathering herself for the walk through the living room.

  She opened the door to the bedroom and checked the living room in case anything else looked like it was a good hiding place for clues, forcing her eyes to track the whole room, even the, now dried, blood in the center. To ease the tension she could feel building she used an old technique she’d learned from the counselor, about the only useful thing she got from her. Wiggling the fingers of her free hand. It was supposed to give her mind something to do so it didn’t focus on the problem. It worked a little. At least she didn’t feel like running from the room screaming.

  Vincent had tossed the place. If he’d killed Alexi, why had he come back for the bag? Perhaps he was worried about overstaying his welcome the first time. She could relate to that. She was starting to feel the need to leave. Nothing jumped out at her as a good hiding place – at least nothing that wasn’t already tossed.

  Monique patted her pocket to make sure the picks hadn’t fallen out again. She started around the edge of the room. Keeping her hands tucked tight to her side. There was only the doorknob to clean, and lock, then she’d be done with this. As she slipped past the bathroom, the memory of searching the kitchen and bathroom sucked the heat from her body.

  She still had to wipe away any traces of her fingers, or DNA, on anything she’d touched, or might have touched. Would that leave the cops
with nothing to find? Not even Alexi’s prints? That would definitely set off alarms. But it was better than trying to explain what she’d been doing in here after she’d said they had barely noticed each other. Her tee shirt wasn’t going to be enough. Monique was going to need to get something from her cleaning supplies. A cloth she could throw away. One more trip across the hall, this time she would leave her own keys and the picks in her place. Without them, there would be nothing to lose, nothing to slow her down.

  A dash across the hall and back took less than a minute. She was grateful there were only a few apartments. She reminded herself that everyone was out – or was unlikely to be leaving their apartment, so she would have time to do what she needed to do. As she opened Alexi’s door, she heard a phone ringing. The sound so unexpected, she froze with her hand on the lock. The ring cut out and she heard Alexi’s voice ask the caller to leave a message, definitely eastern European. It was weirdly old fashioned for Alexi to have an answering machine.

  “Alexi, where are you? We need to talk. The Colonel thinks you stole something. If you don’t call me, I can’t protect you. If he kills you, I will find another way to collect on your debt. You have a sister, yes?”

  The message ended.

  Monique blew out a breath. She’d been worried that the cops would return and catch her, what if this guy showed up, or sent someone? Would he have the mystery man with him? Was this colonel the mystery man?

  She dashed into the bathroom and thought about what she’d touched. Thank god, it was so filthy, she’d only touched the medicine cabinet handle, afraid of getting anything on her hands. After wiping it clean, she returned to the kitchen. Now she was glad he kept his home dirty. It meant she’d minimized what she let touch her skin. Had she come in contact with anything other than drawer handles and cupboard pulls? Had she leaned against the counter? No, she remembered flinching away from the stained laminate. It only took seconds to wipe the handles and then she was done.