by Blake Pierce
DeMarco was holding a decapitated Barbie doll. Its entire nude body was wrapped in old piano string.
“Jesus…” Kate whispered.
As DeMarco neared her and they looked down into the basement, they both drew their weapons.
“If anyone is home, I need you to come out and make yourself known,” Kate said. But her voice had fallen on enough empty homes in the past for her to know they were alone in the house. Still, it made it no easier to descend the basement stairs without knowing what awaited them below.
At the bottom of the stairs, Kate took a moment to take it all in. She found herself standing in front of a makeshift aisle that ran between two rows of junked pianos. It reminded her of those shows like American Pickers where people scavenged old sheds and houses for hidden treasures. Kate didn’t know enough about pianos to know if any of these gutted pianos were treasures or not, but it was certainly interesting.
And a little creepy, if she was being honest.
“What the hell is all of this?” DeMarco asked as they made their way down the little aisle.
“His projects, I suppose. If he was tuning pianos, maybe he’s reclaiming them, too. Sort of like Barry Turner.”
“Maybe he’s been collecting piano wire for them…”
Kate had been thinking the same thing but the idea of speaking it out loud had seemed almost like a bad omen. Still, she sauntered forward, her eyes on the piano at the end of the row on her left. The top was opened and covered by a tarp. It seemed to be the only one of the piano bodies that had been touched as of late.
When she reached out for the tarp to pull it back, her mind’s eye pulled up several terrible images, preparing itself for the worst. When she saw nothing but piano wire and small fragments of dust inside, she was shocked.
DeMarco fell in beside her and when she did, Kate started to understand what she was seeing. She hoped to God she was jumping to conclusions but something inside of her—a part of her that had seen the worst in people, sometimes down to what she would call absolute evil—knew better.
The piano was missing many strings. She recalled from her brief introduction to the piano as a child that a piano had eighty-eight keys and more than two hundred strings inside. While this piano was far away from having all of its strings, the number she saw was alarming.
Not because of the number…but because each wire installed inside the body of it contained a single strand of hair.
“Twenty-three,” DeMarco said.
“What?”
“Twenty-three strings.”
“You see the hairs?”
“I wish I didn’t. Do you think they’re all from the three women in Frankfield?”
“I hope that’s the case,” Kate said. “My fear is that each hair is from a different victim.”
“But…twenty-three…”
The idea hung in the air like some poisonous chemical, making it hard to move. Kate backed away slowly, getting her speed and breath bit by bit with each step. By the time she got to the stairs, she was nearly running.
“Where are you going?” DeMarco called, still frozen by the piano and its secrets.
“We have to figure out where he is.”
“How?”
But Kate was already up the stairs and barely heard the question. She dashed into the bedroom DeMarco had already checked but found it useless—though there was another wired Barbie in the floor. When she ran out of the room and toward what she assumed would be the living room area, she nearly collided with DeMarco as she came out of the basement.
Twenty-three, Kate thought as she hurried into the living room. Twenty-three strings, twenty-three hairs…God, please don’t let my hunch be right…please…
She entered the living room and found it oddly neat. There was a single recliner and a loveseat, a coffee table, and a flat-screen TV sitting on a low entertainment center. There was an address book on the coffee table, and a wireless landline phone sitting on a small end table by the love seat.
Kate scooped up the address book, knocking off a few magazines in the process—Guitar Magazine, Orchestral, Entertainment Weekly. She thumbed through the address book, stopping at the H section. Little jolts of electricity coursed through her when she saw listings for Hopkins, Karen and Hix, Marjorie. Their addressee were written beneath the names in a very neat handwriting. There were two more names on the H pages but they were not local. One was from Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Another was from Engle, Ohio.
“Oh my God,” Kate said, as she started to understand that perhaps she had been right.
Twenty-three …
She handed DeMarco the book, letting her come to her own conclusions. When she did, a folded piece of notebook paper partially slid out of the back cover. Kate took it, unfolded it, and saw several names. Three were familiar: Karen Hopkins, Marjorie Hix, Meredith Lowell.
They were all crossed out. Above their names, two others were crossed out in harsh red marks.
The next name on the list was Anna Forester. Her number was beside it.
Kate wasted no time. She pulled out her cell phone and called the number. Even as the phone started to ring, her gut tightened as she was somehow certain no one would answer. And then another number started barreling through her head, one that made her feel sick.
Twenty-four…
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Anna Forester was folding her husband’s jeans when it occurred to her that in about a week or so, her daughter would be folding little onesies. Anna could barely remember what it was like to wash those tiny little baby clothes and part of her badly missed it. She decided right then and there that she was going to be one of those grandmothers who spoiled the absolute hell out of her grandchildren.
As she set the jeans on her husband’s pile of clothes and reached for one of her blouses, the piano tuner spoke up from the other room. Anna supposed it was her fault; she had been overly chatty at first and now he seemed to not want to shut up.
“They got any names picked out for your grandchild?”
“None yet,” she answered, having to raise her voice to a near shout to be heard from the laundry room. She had no idea why, but there was something off-putting about the fact that he was yelling at her from elsewhere in the house, even if it was to ask random questions. It almost seemed as if he was trying to make sure he always knew where she was.
“A boy or girl?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes, now good and tired of having this conversation in a borderline shouting match. “They want to be surprised!”
“Aww, that’s nice,” he responded.
Was it just her imagination, or did he sound closer now? She cocked her head, curious and a little upset. Was he seriously moving through her house? Was he some sort of thief? Was he some sort of—
Her thought was interrupted by the ringing of her phone. Her ring tone was the little catchy scale in Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds,” a reminder not to get pissed off when unexpected phone calls interrupted her day.
She reached for her back pocket as she stepped out of the laundry room. As she entered the kitchen, she pulled the phone from her pocket and was very confused for a moment. This made no sense. The name on the caller ID was something she had put in just a few days ago. It read: Piano Tuner Guy.
“Umm…” she said into the kitchen.
She was weirded out to the point of being a little scared. Was he actually calling from inside the house? She could hear him moving around in the office, probably thinking of some other question to ask. Instead of walking out to see what was going on, she remained in the kitchen and answered the call. As she did, some primal part of her brain kicked in and she reached for the laundry room door handle.
She answered the call. “Hello?”
“Anna Forester?” a woman asked. She sounded hurried and a little frightened.
“Y…Yes. Who is this?” Fear clutched at her heart until she found it hard to breathe. Something was very wrong; it was a realization that started to settle in
on her like drying cement.
“I need you to remain calm as I reveal this information to you and as I ask you some questions. I’m Kate Wise, an FBI agent here in Frankfield. With a simple yes or no, I need you to tell me if there is currently a man in your home that is there to tune a piano.”
The dread tightened around her heart and she felt the need to scream. She fought it back, though, and let out a croaky-sounding “Yes.”
“Are you in the same room with him?”
“No.”
“Good. Get somewhere where you can close a door between the two of you.”
“What is—”
“Just do as I say. I’ll tell you what I can as you move.”
“Okay…”
But just as she said that, the tuner appeared in the entryway to the kitchen. It was almost as if he knew the phone call was about him. He regarded her with a bit if suspicion, no doubt alerted by the look of terror on her face. He took a single step into the kitchen, the stern look on his face an indication that he knew something was up. He held a single length of piano wire in his hands, holding it like a piece of rope he was about to tie into a knot.
“Get into another room and close the door,” the agent said in her ear, though her voice sounded as if it was a million miles away.
Anna realized then that no matter which way she went, the tuner could easily cut her off. The kitchen island sat in the center of the room, the only thing between them. If she went to the left, toward the laundry room, he could easily cut her off. If she ran to the right, there was the hallway and three rooms to choose from: the master bedroom, the powder room, and the guest room.
“Are you okay?” the agent asked in her ear.
“No.” It came out shaky. As if she were a wounded lamb, the tuner took another step forward. The smile on his face spoke of his intentions and suddenly, Anna wondered if she would ever get to meet her grandchild at all.
Knowing that she had to move quickly, she started left, acting as if she was heading for the laundry room. The tuner bit hard and started in that direction, too. When she saw him moving, Anna reversed direction and headed to the right. She sprinted out of the kitchen and into the hallway. She heard the tuner let out a curse behind her and then the sound of him slamming into the kitchen island as he quickly changed course.
“Ms. Forester, are you okay?”
“He’s coming after me,” she squeaked, headed for the bedroom.
“Okay, you close the door and lock it. I’m on my way. Maybe two or three minutes. If you can—”
That was the last thing Anna heard. As she entered the bedroom and turned to shut the door, the piano tuner was there. He reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder. Anna reached out to slap his hand away but he blocked it easily. He frowned a bit as he darted out his right hand in an inexperienced punch. It caught her in the jaw and Anne’s head rocked back. As it did, the man reached out and grabbed her hair. He pulled her to him with such force that her feet came off of the ground. Her scalp felt like someone had set it on fire.
She screamed, dropping the phone to the floor. She watched it dumbly, as if through someone else’s eyes, while the piano tuner wrenched her around and trapped her neck in the crook of his arm. She fought against it and, for just a moment, thought she had managed to free herself.
But the pressure of his arm was replaced by something else—some thinner pressure that seemed to lightly sink into her flesh. She tried to scream but found that she could not get much of anything through her throat—just a little squeak of terror.
She started to choke right there in the doorway of her bedroom. She felt him trying to pull her back slightly, pulling her feet off of the floor. She knew if he succeeded, that was the end of it. She’d be dead. She flailed, feeling the wire around her neck tighten. She did her best to stay calm, but dread was flooding her mind. Somewhere in the flood there was the smallest little speck of reason, and it told her that she had only one chance to escape this. He was pulling slightly up still, but not back. The tuner seemed perfectly fine to strangle her right there in her doorway.
And that was the single mistake he had made. Anna, still flailing, kicked her right foot out and found the doorframe. She then kicked away from it, putting every bit of strength she had into it. It wasn’t very hard, but it was enough to cause the tuner to lose his balance just slightly. As he tried to compensate, Anna brought her knees up, allowing her weight to sag down. For just an instant, the tightness around her throat was immense but the tactic caught the tuner off guard. This displaced weight caused him to stumble forward. As he did, he lost his grip on her.
Anna knew she should probably lash out or attack or something…but the call from the FBI agent had clued her in to how dangerous this man could be—as if his attempt to strangle her just now had not been enough. So the moment Anna was free, she ran.
She darted toward the kitchen, intending to hit the back door, go down the back porch steps and to her neighbor’s house. Her phone was on the floor in the bedroom and while they did have a gun in the house, it was in a safe in the top of her closet—directly behind the would-be killer.
So she ran for the kitchen. She made it three strides down the hallway before she felt his weight slam into her back. Anna went sailing forward, catching herself on the island in the kitchen. Pinned between the tuner and the island, she felt an explosion of pain radiate through her chest. Undaunted, she grabbed for the drawer to her right, over the ledge of the island’s counter. In doing so, she knocked the cup of coffee she had been drinking from the island. It shattered on the floor, and lukewarm coffee soaked her left pants leg.
She had struck the island so hard that the tuner had bounced slightly off of her, equally jarred by the impact. This allowed her a split second to reach into the drawer she had managed to open, looking for the butcher’s knife. In the back of her head, she reminded herself that the stupid thing was dull; it was a complaint she made every time she used it, hoping her husband would show some initiative and sharpen it.
But as her hand fell on the handle, she figured it she stabbed hard enough, it would surely sink in. All she had to do was—
He grabbed the arm reaching for the knife and twisted it hard. She tried to wrench it away but he pulled her to him. As she slammed into his chest and he tried to wrap an arm around her again, she desperately threw her right hand out, clenched in a small fist. It landed right across his brow, not hard, but unexpected. He blinked as if he was trying to dislodge something from his eye as Anna yanked her arm free and ran for the back door.
He was on to her, though. He leaped up on the island and slid across it, nearly falling off. He had cut off her escape route, sensing what she had planned. With a scream, Anna ran for the laundry room at the far end of the kitchen.
She knew he was on her heels but if she could just get to the laundry room and close the door, maybe she could hold him off until the FBI got there.
She made it to the doorway, the smell of laundry detergent and dryer sheets sweeter than ever before. She entered the room and turned to shut the door, but he was already there, standing in the doorway. When she tried slamming the door in his face anyway, he simply batted it aside.
Anna tried to fight against him as he came in, but with nowhere left to go, she was easy prey. As he pushed her hard against the wall, all Anna could do was wonder what in the hell was taking that FBI woman so long.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
When DeMarco slammed on the brakes in front of the Forester home, Kate was nearly thrown directly into the dashboard despite the seatbelt. DeMarco threw the car into park and both women got out, sprinting directly to the front door. Kate was not at all surprised to find it locked and started to draw her foot back to kick it in. She then saw that the lock beneath the knob was an electronic one and decided she’d rather not dislocate her ankle or knee.
“Stand back,” DeMarco said, leveling her gun toward the lock.
Kate swiveled to the side and winced as DeMarco fir
ed off a single shot. The lock was obliterated and made a series of clicking noises. DeMarco drew back and delivered a harsh kick that sent the door flying inward, her second such attack of the day.
Kate flanked in, ducking down with her gun drawn, as DeMarco came in behind her. Right away, they could hear the sounds of struggle. It sounded as if it was coming from the very back of the house. Kate and DeMarco nodded to one another and headed forward, not bothering to be stealthy, as the gunshot to the front door had very likely ruined their cover.
As they came to the end of the hallway, the signs of a struggle were evident: a picture was knocked from the hallway wall; a coffee mug had been shattered on the floor, its contents splashed on the tile; several drawers were opened and silverware littered the floor around the edges of the kitchen bar.
A choking sound followed by a hollow thudding noise came from further back behind the kitchen. Kate sprinted forward, into what looked like a mudroom. To the right, there was a partially opened door. From inside, there was a commotion, a tangle of bodies and the wretched sounds of someone choking.
“FBI!”
Kate screamed this as she drew up her gun and kicked the door open fully with her foot. The door, though, would not swing all the way open. It was stopped by one of the bodies on the floor. It was a man, kneeling over a woman Kate assumed to be Anna Forester.
And the man, she assumed, was Darby Insbrook.
“Get off of her,” Kate said, not quite in a yell but in a voice that had some ice to it.
The tuner responded in a way that made no sense to Kate at first. He swung his head around and did, in fact, look to be obeying. But as he started to stand, his right foot kicked out at the door and it came rushing back in Kate’s direction. She blocked it easily but when it stopped, he was there.
Insbrook swung hard, his right hand connecting with Kate’s cheek. She tumbled back directly into DeMarco. Both women stumbled backward, Kate doing everything she could to stay on her feet. DeMarco, on the other hand, hit the mudroom wall and rebounded hard. She tried raising her gun to fend off Insbrook, but he already had the door closed again.
