by Tracy Ellen
The attic storage room has finished white walls and dark stained plank flooring. It’s an easy space to search and not your typical scary, cobwebby attic. It is possible to see over the entire space in a glance. There are the same original tall windows along three sides of the room as throughout the rest of the building. Covered only with light-diffusing, sheer curtains, the morning sunshine poured through the bank of east facing windows at the top of the staircase. When we reached the top of the stairs, it was bright and cheerful. The overhead lights I’d flipped on automatically were redundant.
At the opposite end of this very long attic, on the northwest corner above Division Street, is the turret room. It’s a three-sided appendage jutting out of the building with a wide, six-foot tall window set in each portion. The open, cross beam ceiling above the turret area soars high into the shadows.
Another reason the attic’s an easy space to search is because NanaBel’s not a hoarder. There are shelves built along the south wall on the left. The shelves are wide enough to hold a series of clearly labeled, small storage boxes. Aside from a few odds and ends of furniture stacked neatly against this wall further down, the space is entirely empty. I am more of a collector than my grandmother, but haven’t overflowed up into the attic yet.
Guns hanging loosely at our sides, we looked around. This space would make a very cool workroom for some of my future projects.
Reggie voiced echoed when he wondered, “How come we never did anything up here when we were growing up? This is an awesome room.”
“I was just thinking the same thing. I guess NanaBel kept us too busy down in the store.” I gave my brother a droll look. “Either that, or she was working our tails off cleaning something in the apartment.”
He chuckled as he walked further down the room, peering at the furniture. “Yeah, she’s a wily one. I’m thinking about doing a chore chart for my own work crews.” He pulled out an elaborately carved, heavy wooden chair. “Can I have this?”
“Sure, if I can have Miss Sexy here.” I answered, holding up the Ruger.
Reggie shot me a “get real” look, and I shrugged an “Oh well, then” look back at him.
He placed the chair back in position against the wall. Following him to the front windows, I ignored his pouting and asked his opinion on something I’d been thinking over.
“Do you think I should I cancel the dinner here tonight because of The Hammer?”
Reg scratched his head. “If everyone coming knows about this Hammershit loser, and they park in front where the streetlights are bright, there shouldn’t be a problem.”
He went on to say, “No asshole ass bandit is going to keep me from doing what we always do. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll go down and man the main doors around five.” He grinned and toggled his revolver. “Since I’m the one packing heat, baby.”
I laughed at Reggie’s confident swaggering. “Thanks, I won’t cancel then.”
My friends and family could always choose to stay home. With a swallow, I silently reminded myself I was bait. If it was The Hammer’s intention to specifically attack me again, the more coming and going he saw, the greater the chance we’d draw him out. He needed to think it would be easy to come after me.
I parted the curtain with the barrel of the gun and peeked down on Division. I noticed traffic was picking up and a few walkers were on the sidewalks scurrying to their destinations. It was sunny, but the balmy weather of yesterday was a distant memory. Today was in the low teens with a nippy wind. They were still predicting a big snow, but no way would I get Reg going on that subject again. Weather forecasters make him irrational.
Reggie meandered towards the turret room on our right. “Man, these are some amazing windows!”
About to reply, I noticed a man with a bald head wearing a bulky, light-colored coat across the street. I stiffened to attention and unconsciously tightened my hand around the gun. Nervously, I made sure my finger wasn’t near the trigger, and then looked out again. The guy was sitting on the marble park bench facing my building, and directly across from Bel’s front doors. He was much more focused towards the front entrance of my store rather than the newspaper in his hand.
Without taking my eyes off the man, I called out, “Reggie, check this guy out across the street on the bench. Does it seem weird he’s sitting outside today? I can’t say if he’s Hammerschmidt,” Frustrated, I had my face glued to the window trying to decide if the man could be the same dude I saw yesterday in the van and in the mug shot, “but should we do something?”
Reggie leaned down to look out the left turret window to get a view of the park. He teased, “Do something like shoot him? It’s a good thing I’m the one with the shotgun or you’d probably have the man in your sights. You mean the guy with the paper?”
“Keep talking like that and I’ll have you in my sights. Yes, Einstein, I mean the guy with the paper, since he’s the only person sitting on a bench...”
I broke off giving Reg a hard time when I saw something go swooping by out of my right peripheral vision. I had the impression of a huge, black moth flying down from the turret’s ceiling. Startled, I turned. I let out a surprised shout of confusion when I saw what appeared to be a bulky comforter blanket land on my brother’s back and envelope him. It landed with enough force he was smashed against the glass of the window with a resounding CRACK!
The culminating crescendo of glass noisily splintering and shattering in the attic had me screaming Reggie’s name and instinctively running towards him.
I couldn’t see the top half of his body from this angle, but I saw his boots on the floor underneath whatever the hell had fallen from the beams and covered him. I was terrified it was his head that had broken the window and shattered the glass.
In my bare feet, I abruptly halted a few feet away. I screamed his name even louder when I saw his boots were still. I hesitated a moment going closer, scared I’d find his neck stuck through on a pike of sharp glass under the massive bulk covering his body from my view.
I quickly glanced upward, but I could see nothing in the rafters above him. When I looked back at Reg only a microsecond later, the comforter bulk on top of my brother’s still form was rising up. I was close enough to recognize the covering was some sort of down filled sleeping bag, but the fact it was moving while my brother’s boots stayed still had me rooted in place in puzzled, growing horror.
The bulk turned my way and I screamed out, “HOLY FUCK!”
The Hammer stood straight and flung off the sleeping bag.
Time stopped. My stunned, petrified impressions were that he loomed enormous. His head, his trunk, his legs- everything was gigantic. He had on a bizarre T-shirt that was so tight fitting across his over developed arms and chest muscles, and so short over his hairy stomach protruding out like a watermelon, that it appeared he had put on a child’s size by mistake. His jeans were baggy and drooped low under his gut that looked hard as a rock, even though it stuck out like he was nine months pregnant. A wave of the foulest smelling body odor hit me, causing me to gag as I breathed in frightened gasps. Even in my complete terror, the thought flashed it was unbelievable we hadn’t smelled him long before he jumped down from the beams.
I was paralyzed. I was staring into those malignant eyes that had horrified me in the mug shot. They were bloodshot red, bulging out of his head, and crazed with aggressive hate. The man was a monster. I could see a thick, snaking vein throbbing in his forehead. His pale face was mottled with purple. Then he opened his mouth wide and roared in fury. The raging echoes filled the attic and were the most terrifying sounds I have ever heard in my life.
He didn’t pause when flinging off the cover, but charged me.
He was twelve feet away, incredibly fast, and coming at me like a freight train.
I let loose shrill, ear piercing screams as I backpedaled away, tripping over my clumsy feet and trying to stay upright.
My heart was beating so fast I thought it would burst from my chest. I was
in a confused, mind-numbing panic over everything occurring so fast. One minute Reggie and I were talking, and the next moment my worst nightmare was a few feet away with my brother dead at his feet.
I fumbled to raise the Ruger in my left hand and then my brain seemed to switch to slow motion like a slide show. I was seeing everything happening before me in sharply etched detail. The rampaging man with widespread, enormously muscled arms inked with full sleeves of the crudest tattoos, the drops of spittle spraying from his screaming mouth fixed in a rictus smile of awful, yellowed teeth, and the sheer, linen curtain floating in the air current off to his side.
I was hearing the booming sound of a gun from far away. Each boom was distinct and hung in the air cloud-like, as if the deafening noise was manifesting itself physically. I was sure I was shot, but I felt no pain anywhere.
Just as suddenly as it had gone into slow motion, my mind snapped back into real time. My brain comprehended it was me shooting the gun. I swung the weapon up from my left side. Incoherent with frightened panic, I fired repeatedly. I was wildly out of control and reacting with no conscious thought. My arm continued rising higher after every shot instead of correcting. I was recklessly shooting without aim at the bellowing horror show bearing straight at me and now only a yard away.
Then Hammerschmidt was off his feet and flying through the air. His protruding, hairy stomach smashed into me first with bone-crushing force.
Instinctively, I flinchingly twisted away to my right while protectively throwing up my hands before he hit me. My body was flung backwards into the room from this massive body blow. I landed hard on my butt first, captured under his stinking, sweat-soaked body. Momentum from the smashing blow continued thrusting me backwards in motion. Upon impact with the floor, the wind was knocked out of me with a WHOOSH! At the same time, the spine-jarring landing caused my elbow to crack sharply against the floor. An excruciating pain screamed down my left arm and my hand holding the gun went numb. An instant later, my head was forcefully bounced off the floorboards.
Everything went black.
Chapter XIX
“Fact and Friction” by The Nearly Deads
Sunday, 11/18/12
8:45 AM
I heard a voice gasping in a painful chant, “Oh, my head, my elbow. Oh, my head, my elbow.”
A few seconds later, I realized it was me.
Another voice to my right said, “Your head and your elbow? My head is ready to come off!”
I didn’t want to open my eyes. “Reg, is that you? Are we dead?”
A third voice right above me stated, “Axelrods don’t die from getting their thick heads thumped.”
I recognized that low voice. I felt a gentle hand sweep the sweat-soaked hair from my perspiring face. I lifted my eyes open to see Luke glaring down at me.
I murmured, “Hello, Mr. Secretive. How was breakfast? Were they serving women on the menu?”
Again from my right, a fourth voice asked, “She concussed or what?”
My brother’s voice stuttered, “Of course she ca...can cu…cuss.”
I giggled and then winced. “Shit!”
“See.”
“Stop making me laugh,” I beseeched plaintively. “It hurts too badly!”
“No, I’ll tell you what hurts too bad. It’s searching a building with you that the cops have already searched- now that hurts bad.”
My brother and I both started laughing, and then groaning.
Holding the back of my head, I tried to sit up more. I gave up the attempt for now when a stab of pain pierced my skull. I settled back, closing my eyes. My left elbow really hurt, but I tested and could flex my arm and fingers. I didn’t know if that meant anything, but it made me feel better.
Giving me a slight squeeze, Luke’s amused voice answered the fourth voice, “No, she’s not concussed; she’s always this way.” He stated firmly, “You’ll both live.” To me, he murmured, “We’ll talk about the secretive comment later, in private.”
His tone was even and composed, but I opened my eyes and dredged up a tiny grimace of a smile to alleviate the anxiety I’d seen on his face. I stuck my tongue out about the talk later in private part. Having my brains scrambled regularly must be making me extra-immature, but it made me feel better, too.
I was on the floor in the attic. Luke was sitting with me in his arms. I was half in his lap with my legs sprawled out. My toes were pointing to the bank of windows in front of me.
Green eyes clouded with worry searched mine. Luke ignored my smart-alecky tongue and asked quietly, “How are you feeling? Should I take you to emergency? When I got here, you were unresponsive to my voice, but flailing to get out from under Hammerschmidt. Reggie said the bastard landed on you like a ton of bricks.”
“I’ll be fine. No hospitals are needed,” I assured him firmly. I had no basis in reality whatsoever for reaching that conclusion. But on general principle, I have a rule to avoid doctors and hospitals unless I’m at death’s door or stitches are involved. It tees me off so much to wait around forever to be seen, I’d rather cure myself or die first. I moved and wriggled various body parts. This was a close one, but I’d survive. My diagnosis was I’d be bruised up, but nothing a shower and a couple of aspirin shouldn’t fix right up.
I turned my head slowly to the right and felt a drop of sweat roll slowly off my cheek. Reggie was slumped on the floor several feet away from where I was lying. He was on his back, his legs bent at the knee, and feet flat on the floor. He was cradling his head, as if preparing to do a crunch. I was incredibly relieved to see it was still connected to his neck.
Standing next to him was the bald man from the park. He was shifting from one foot to another, nervous energy coming off him in waves. Our eyes met for a second. He gave a slight nod and an encouraging smile. Up close, I could see he was much shorter and really bore no resemblance to The Hammer at all, except for the shaved head. The man standing before me here could be Middle Eastern, complete with golden skin, dark, liquid eyes and a hooked blade of a nose.
‘Well, damn. Anna was so wrong; clearly I did need glasses!’
“The Hammer!” I cried out, feeling like an idiot I hadn’t asked immediately. “What happened? Where is he?”
Luke’s calming fingers stroked my cheek. “Relax, Anabel, he can’t hurt you. Hammerschmidt’s over there, dead. Shot about eleven times.” He added dryly, “I think it was Reg’s shot through the back of the head that might have finally decided matters.”
The bald stranger chimed in, speaking in a fast, clipped voice, “I don’t know, Luke. I’m partial to the nice grouping in the groin area myself. From the amount of blood gushed; the femoral must have been hit.”
My brother’s voice was emphatic. “John, if you’re speaking of having a femoral partiality that would definitely be Anabel’s work.”
Luke laughed shortly while I gave Reg the finger. Thankfully, I could manage that without too much effort. Introductions must have been performed while I was unconscious. Since John was the nasty man doing my nastier cousin Candy last night, and I was already feeling nauseated enough from the lingering stink of the dead Hammer, I didn’t mention their lack of manners when they didn’t introduce us.
I turned my head to the left. A few yards away lay the enormous body of Gustav Hammerschmidt. He was draped under the sleeping bag he’d been wearing when he had jumped on my brother like Moth Man. My terror hadn’t exaggerated the enormous size of him or the rank smell. I shuddered, bile rising in my throat.
It sank into my brain that Reg and I had been moved away from the windows and the broken glass, but it appeared the Hammer lay right where he must have landed on me.
Luke followed my gaze. “Jack will be here any second to take over the crime scene. You were only out for a minute.”
I nodded slightly and looked away from the dead man. In the turret room, the curtains on the shattered window snapped to and fro on the cold, morning breeze. Crushed glass littered the floor.
Quest
ions crowded my mind. Why were Luke and John here before the police? How had The Hammer gotten into my building without leaving a trace of breaking in? How come my brother’s head wasn’t sliced off, or at least bleeding? Most importantly, did the falling glass hurt anyone on the sidewalk below?
For once, I was too overwhelmed to ask. I was filled with relief Reggie and I had survived the ambush. I was even more ecstatic the stinking, homicidal Hammer hadn’t. I lay back and nestled my aching skull into the warmth of Luke’s chest, letting his fingers lightly rubbing my temple do their magic. I hurt everywhere, but the drumline banging away in the back of my head was the worst.
The apartment doorbell starting ringing, the shrill, buzzing noise distinctly audible even up here.
Luke stated, “Circus time begins. You two ready for this?”
Reg and I groaned, but we both agreed we wanted to get it over with immediately.
John strode off quickly and went downstairs. The three of us sat quietly in the lull before the shit storm heading our way arrived. Over the last twenty-four hours, I’d become an old pro at handling police investigation procedures.
A minute later, Luke’s cell buzzed. When he answered, Jazy’s yelling voice could be heard clear as a bell. “I don’t care who you are, you damn well better let me up these stairs. Anabel! Reggie!”
Reggie started laughing. My head rose and fell with Luke’s chest when he sighed loudly in irritation.
His response was a deep rumble against my ear. “It’s the sister. Let her up, but only to the top of the stairs, so she doesn’t fuck with the crime scene.” I could hear John’s voice raised in question. “Yeah, it’s the friend. Let her up, too. Yeah, John, she’s gorgeous. Yeah, sure, like Xena, Warrior Princess is about right.” Luke ended the call on a muttered, “Christ.”
Reg snickered. “Tre J has that effect on all men, don’t worry.”
Luke gave a snort. “You’d better worry. He was talking about your sister, Reggie.”
