Wanted: Single Rose

by Skye, Mav

  Sir Sun felt good. Better than the last couple days for sure. He had a plan. He had food in his belly. And he was going to claim his woman.

  15

  Orchards and Graves

  Velva lit a white candle and placed it in the wrought iron birdcage hanging from an apple tree limb. She watched the sun lower into a deep crimson. Soon a hunter’s moon would rise. It was proper for Halloween eve.

  Darkness was coming.

  Her cell rang, a shortened version of Don’t Fear the Reaper. She fished her phone out of her purse and hugged it between her ear and shoulder. “Hello?”

  “He’s back.”

  “Good.” Velva swept her hair into a ponytail as she talked. “He’ll probably finish off his floor then go to the fourth. Did you get it ready?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Um—”

  “What?”

  “I just wanted to make sure… you’re waiving my rent this month, right? Did you check with Mr. Fiddler about this?”

  “Of course. I told you to trust me, Daniel. Don’t you trust me?”

  “Y-Yes.”

  “Good boy. Bye now.”

  She threw her phone back in her purse as she walked over to the garden shed. She plucked her black leather gloves from a nail and slipped them on while sliding off her heels. She grabbed a blue workman’s jumper and put her arms inside, shimmied up her short dress and then put her legs through the pant legs and zipped it up the front. She slid her bare feet into the black rubber boots wishing for the fourteenth time she had remembered socks. She grabbed the wheel barrel and pushed it back to her Cadillac. She angled the wheel barrel at the back of the car and popped her trunk. She wrinkled her nose at the stench.

  Grabbing the body below the waist, she hoisted it out aiming towards the cart. Only it missed and plunged its dead weight to the ground, she almost fell with it. “Damn.”

  She tipped the wheel barrel forward and grabbed the carcass by its arms and flopped it mostly into the barrel. She grabbed a fleshy thigh, then slowly pushed the belly of the barrel down until it was flush with the ground. The body slipped inside.

  Velva let out a breath of relief. She hated that part. Then she began whistling as she hauled the body to the prepared grave in the apple orchard. She dumped the corpse into the hole with a loud thunk!

  She saluted it, then turned and pushed the cart back to the garden shed, and came back with a shovel. It was work keeping up her orchard and graves, but hard work didn’t scare her. It never had.

  Neither did the bodies.

  Speaking of bodies, she still had work to do, and Velva was running out of time.

  She glanced at her mother’s grave as she shoveled dirt into the hole, over the corpse. “You don’t think he can? But he already has. I taught him.” Velva smiled, proudly. “He loves me, I think. He truly does.”

  Nothing but a harsh breeze replied, cooling the sweat on the back of Velva’s neck. She sternly gazed at her mother’s grave again and pointed a gloved finger at it.

  “Don’t worry, mother. I will win. I always do.”

  16

  An Alarming Interview

  Sir Sun jingled his keys in his pocket and whistled a tune. He strode down the sidewalk back toward Spindler’s Roost. After the heart to heart with Sara, he felt a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Pumpkin pie and cinnamon filled the night air, giving it a feel of magic. Sir Sun felt euphoric. Tiny scarecrows and Tinkerbells trickled down the street with pillow cases as makeshift candy bags. Ghost faces fogged up car windows as mothers bused their children to Halloween parties and trick or treating shindigs.

  Sir Sun felt he fit into the celebration of the dark. In fact, ever since the tragic mishap with Miss O’Hara, it was the one day of the year where he felt he truly connected to humanity as a whole, despite the dark secret buried four feet deep in the dirt.

  A large stemmed daisy walked down the street, a schoolgirl’s head filled in beneath the white petals. She walked with a little red devil. The daisy waved at him with a leaf, the devil with his claws. And as they passed by, the daisy’s lips moved,

  Killer.

  Sir Sun stopped and looked back after she and the devil had passed, but they were gone. Gone as if they had dissipated into a thin mist.

  You do realize, Sir Sun, I’m protecting you. From you. You are a very dangerous person. Velva’s words swirled and whirled in psychedelic waves within his mind. He thought of Ah Lam, Mrs. Chow, Duck, and Daisy. Perhaps Velva was right, perhaps Sir Sun was dangerous. But she’d forgotten something. Velva was a part of this, responsible even. If she had never responded to his personal ad, all those people would still be alive.

  Would they? Velva whispered in the back of his mind.

  He ignored the question and shoved her words away.

  The sunset loomed a bloody red over Spindler’s Roost. It sang the ancient song of birth and death, of rising and falling, of light and darkness, the covenant between them all.

  Here and now, it was All Hallows’ Eve.

  Dagger points prickled up his spine and down his arms. He stopped jiggling his keys and folded his fingers over the plastic handle of the shears, the cold steel tip.

  He braced his nerves and headed straight towards the apartment entrance. He plunked in his code, the door beeped, and he walked in, heading towards the stairwell.

  Sir Sun heard it immediately: the loud woman’s scream from upstairs.

  “Velva?” He raced up the stairs taking two at a time. He slowed just a tad when he ran by the spot where the dead cat had hung, then flung himself through the third-floor stairwell door, pausing and listening. He glanced down his hall. Quiet. And then another scream belted again, but from higher up—the fourth storey.

  He dashed up the steps and when he emerged from the stairwell doors on the fourth floor. All was quiet.

  He tiptoed down the corridor, his hand on his shears, listening for the woman. She hadn’t screamed again. He didn’t think the screaming woman was Velva anymore, he was worried about her, sure, but she had always handled herself just fine.

  Mrs. Chow, perhaps?

  Sir Sun was unfamiliar with the fourth floor. Orange paint peeled off the walls, no doubt containing lead. All the light fixtures were out in the hall except one. Even that one was flicking off and on in the depressing hallway. He was surprised Mr. Fiddler hadn’t kept up the fourth storey as well as the rest of the floors. Why hadn’t one of the residents changed a bulb or two? Eerie.

  Then again, most of the residents were gone. The fourth floor smelled of mold and rot. Mr. Fiddler had put most of the cleaning effort into the first and third floors; perhaps he was afraid of the fourth floor. If so, Sir Sun could see why. Was there something Mr. Fiddler knew that Sir Sun didn’t? Is that why Mr. Fiddler was dead—or perhaps he wasn’t dead. Perhaps he was slowly being mutilated. A hand here, a thigh there.

  Determined to find the screaming woman, Sir Sun decided to knock on the door closest to his right—401, the apartment which had housed the woman and children who had been trapped in the elevator, now long gone.

  He lifted his hand to knock, paused and brought his ear to the door, heard nothing, and then went ahead and knocked.

  Soft footsteps approached the door. Sir Sun stood back as the locks clicked, and the door whispered open. “Yes?” A chocolate face eyed him tentatively. Her hair was wrapped in a loose French twist, and she wore a deep amethyst shirt.

  “Hi, my name is Sir Sun. I live on the third floor.”

  She nodded. “Kelisha. Is there a problem?”

  “I heard screaming and I was concerned someone’s been hurt.”

  “I see, well, I haven’t heard anything,” Kelisha considered him. “I can assure you the scream wasn’t from here.” She went to close the door.

  Sir Sun stepped forward. “No problem. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”

  “Questions? About what?”

  “There’s been an incident with Mr. Fiddler and—”

>   A death-defying scream shattered from within the tiny apartment. Kelisha turned from the door in surprise, just as another one belted out.

  Sir Sun snatched the shears out of his pocket and dove into the door, knocking Kelisha off her feet.

  “Hey!”

  He flew down Kelisha’s hallway; his momentum caught him off guard when he saw the little girls, one in a pumpkin costume, the other wrapped in an oversize olive green towel. His feet tripped up. He reached for the wall to steady himself, grabbed a painting—an Italian Villa at sunrise—instead, and took it with him, falling face first into the living room carpet.

  The girl wrapped in the olive towel pointed at the pumpkin. “I told you! I told you not to touch my Supergirl cape!” The little pumpkin held a red cape behind her back. When towel girl reached around her to get it, Pumpkin belted out another terrorizing scream loud enough to wake the dead.

  When Sir Sun fell into the room, Pumpkin’s voice slowly quieted. She pointed at Sir Sun and began to scream again.

  Kelisha ripped the painting from Sir Sun’s hands. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Knocking on my door, forcing your way into my house and ruining my favorite painting!”

  Sir Sun stood, forgetting he was holding the sharp shears. “I’m—I’m so sorry. I—” He pointed at Pumpkin who began to scream again.

  Kelisha grabbed Sir Sun’s arm and shoved him toward the door. “Get out, get out of my home, you freak, or I’ll call the cops.”

  “I’m so sorry. I thought… I thought someone was hurt, Kelisha. You see, Mr. Fiddler—”

  She paused, concern filling her face. “Mr. Fiddler what?”

  “He’s missing.”

  “What do you mean he’s missing?”

  “He hasn’t been seen,” Sir Sun gulped, “not much of him anyway.”

  “So? Maybe he’s found a girlfriend. It would be good for him.” Kelisha shoved Sir Sun towards the door.

  “No, no, something’s happened. And I’m trying to figure out what.”

  She shoved him out the door and into the hall. “And what? You’re gathering clues, Mister Sunshine?”

  Sir Sun frowned. “It’s Sir Sun.”

  “Whatever. Go play Sherlock somewhere else.”

  She went to slam the door and he blocked it with his shoe. “I’m just wondering if you’ve seen anything unusual. Seen anybody around here you don’t normally see. Perhaps, uh, creepy guys in sunglasses and trench coats?”

  Kelisha made an impatient face, shook her head and pointed authoritatively at Sir Sun. “The only person that’s creeping me out is you, Mister Sunshine. Goodnight.”

  Kelisha kicked his foot out of the door and slammed it shut. Behind the door he heard, “Tamika, get your Supergirl costume on. Pumpkin, give that back to your sister, sweetheart.”

  Another shriek. “But mom!”

  Sir Sun sighed. That had gone down real well. At least he knew they had nothing to do with screaming woman or Mr. Fiddler. Did Kelisha know Velva?

  He doubted it.

  Sir Sun tucked in his t-shirt, put the shears away, slicked back his hair and knocked on the apartment across from Kelisha’s, hoping this one would go better.

  It didn’t.

  17

  Closet Freak

  “I ain’t got no fucking candy!” The voice behind the door was husky and slurred like he’d been drinking too much. The TV blared a football game, probably the Seahawks.

  Sir Sun knocked again on 403’s door. “Sir? Can I speak with you one moment? It is quite urgent.”

  He heard the heft of the man’s weight as his feet stomped to the door. “I said, I ain’t got no—”

  Sir Sun heard him fumble with the door lock and finally, the door peeled back.

  “Who the fuck are you?” The bald guy was huge. At least six-foot-three, with shoulders as wide as the Grand Canyon. His beer gut popped out over the edge of his Levi’s. The jeans were supported by suspenders decorated with tiny beer cans. His eyebrows husked over his dark eyes.

  Sir Sun said, “Uh, I’m—”

  “I said, who the fuck are you?” The man’s eyebrows fused even more tightly together making his head look smaller, balder, and shinier than it already was.

  “This is about the Super, Mr. Fiddler, and—”

  “I didn’t ask you about the Super, I asked you about you.” Baldy opened his door wider and stooped down, meeting Sir Sun straight in the eye.

  “I’m Sir Sun.”

  Confusion bloomed on the guy’s face. “You’re a what?”

  “Uh, Sir Sun.” Not knowing what to do, Sir Sun decided the friendly route. He stuck his hand out for a handshake. “I didn’t catch yours?”

  The guy just stared at Sir Sun’s outstretched hand. Then he began to laugh, “I see. I see what you are Mister Golden Sunshine. Har, har, har! Get out of here, faggot. I ain’t got what you are looking for here.”

  Sir Sun’s first reaction was shock, then anger. He had had just about enough of that. “Yeah? Well, I think you might.”

  “If you want a boyfriend, faggot, I suggest you try 407.”

  Sir Sun tightened his hands around the shears in his pocket. “This is about Mr. Fiddler.”

  “Mr. Fiddler’s a faggot, too? Well, I never knew. Bet you blow him for rent.” Baldy roared again, amused at himself.

  Sir Sun grit his teeth. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. Check your closet, freak.”

  Sweat dribbled from the base of Sir Sun’s skull down his spine. Was Baldy the guy? His stalker? Mr. Fiddler’s murderer? He tightened his grip on the shears. “What’d you put in my closet?”

  Baldy’s thin smile widened revealing yellow stained teeth. “Mr. Fiddler, faggot.”

  Sir Sun knew that Baldy did it. He felt it, he could smell murder reeking from Baldy’s foul breath. He’d bet a hundred bucks that he had a dark trench coat in his closet, too.

  Baldy roared with laughter, hurling spittle in Sir Sun’s face.

  Sir Sun said, “You’re disgusting. I’m calling the authorities.”

  Baldy stopped laughing and clenched his fist. “What you say to me, old man?”

  Sir Sun could feel his face turning purple with rage. “I said you are dis—”

  Baldy’s fist connected with Sir Sun’s jaw, and Sir Sun went down.

  “You’re next, faggot.” Baldy went down on his knees and wrapped both hands around Sir Sun’s throat and slowly squeezed like a python.

  Sir Sun struggled for oxygen, throwing loose punches at Baldy’s mighty jowls. Baldy easily dodged the blows, squeezing harder, harder.

  Sir Sun could feel himself losing consciousness, he needed to act fast if he didn’t want to be the next victim on Baldy’s hit list. He jabbed his index fingers into Baldy’s eyes.

  Baldy yelped and eased up on Sir Sun’s throat, using his left hand to press against one of his eyes.

  Sir Sun seized the opportunity. He wrenched the shears out of his pocket, and before Baldy could get his fat left hand back on Sir Sun's throat, drove them deep into Baldy's ribcage.

  Baldy looked down in complete surprise at the blood dribbling down his t-shirt. His grip loosened. Before he could make another move, Sir Sun withdrew the shears and thrust again, he throwing his weight into it.

  Baldy managed to lift a fist and pound Sir Sun once in the nose before he collapsed to all fours, one hand gripping the doorframe, struggling for breath. Blood trickled down his chin, and he glared at Sir Sun like an evil King Kong.

  Sir Sun scrambled into the hallway, coughing—trying to catch his breath. But Baldy just glared at him, heaving.

  “Die, dammit!” Sir Sun placed his foot on the man’s shoulder and shoved him backward. Baldy fell hard. He stared at the ceiling, his body in shock. Sir Sun bent over him and yanked his shears out of the man’s girth. Baldy’s body made a slurping noise as the skin closed in. His lips moved. His words were strong, but his voice was weak. “I’m going to fuck you up, motherfucker. I’m going t
o—”

  “This is for Mr. Fiddler!” Sir Sun opened the shears and slashed at Baldy’s throat. Baldy lifted his heavy arm to stop him, but Sir Sun was smaller and quicker.

  He plunged the open shears into Baldy’s neck, then squeezed the shears closed. They sprang open and he closed again, making a rough scissor cut through Baldy’s jugular.

  Like Goliath, Baldy’s eyes expressed surprise. Not just at the tiny fella who had felled him, but at the quickly approaching moment of death and defeat. He fell forward in a slow, mighty heap on the floor. Crimson spurted in sprays and chunks from the deep gouge in his throat.

  Sir Sun panicked. What had he done?

  He had killed Baldy in self-defense, but would Baldy’s neighbors think that? Would the police?

  What would Velva do?

  Sir Sun leaped into Baldy’s doorway and attempted to drag him back inside the apartment. The guy weighed a ton of bricks—no ten of tons of bricks. At first, Sir Sun couldn’t budge him, but gradually Baldy’s body moved, inch by inch, leaving a deep cherry stain behind him.

  Sir Sun closed the apartment door and sprang to Baldy’s kitchen. It was scattered with ding-dong wrappers, chip bags, a half-eaten roast chicken sat on the cutting board with a fork beside it. Several Blimpee’s Pizza boxes lay scattered on the floor along with empty Budweiser cans.

  Sir Sun gingerly stepped around the mess and inspected the kitchen sink. No dish soap. He opened the cabinets beneath the sink and found a small trash can overflowing into the remaining space. If the man owned cleaner, Sir Sun would be surprised. Scrubbing the carpet clean at this moment was no option. He had another idea.

  He checked the bathroom and bedroom and hit pay dirt in the living room. In front of the balcony door was a weaved purple and turquoise carpet. It did not appear to be Baldy’s style—did he have a girlfriend? If so, Sir Sun would have to find somewhere to ditch Baldy fast.