Scare Me

by Richard Parker

  He was about to dismiss it as coincidence, but the object’s presence prompted him to reconsider the memory for the first time since it happened. There were only a limited number of houses she could have exited from down that overgrown walkway. It also now seemed too coincidental she’d been leaving as he’d arrived. He remembered her face, lit by the streetlamp. He could see her pronounced lip and a hint of the expression there, but all he could recall in any detail was the purse she’d held against herself that matched the one in front of him now.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Will moved soundlessly to the first closed cherry wood door. He had no choice but to work his way methodically along the rooms. The gold handle felt cool through the glove as he gripped it and pulled it down. The interior was bathed in the cold light of day. It was the den with the pool table and bar. It was much bigger than it looked in the digital image. An old Wurlitzer jukebox was installed against the far wall, unplugged

  Will guessed the last open room had been an invitation, but a movement drew his attention to the L-shaped couch in the top left corner. A naked man was lying there, bound on his front but alive. He was middle-aged, his dyed, jet-black hair contrasting with the wiry grey covering his chest, arms and beer belly. Tape bound his hands behind him and to his ankles and his eyes were protruding so much they looked like they were about to eject from his head. His eyes locked on Will. He yelled through the gag.

  “Mr Frost,” a female voice stated, as if his name was an answer quickly needed.

  It came from behind him.

  “Mr Frost,” she said more imperatively. He turned in its direction.

  He walked back out of the room. It had come from the door opposite. He had to put himself between her and the man on the couch.

  Will crossed the hallway and pushed into the room. He anticipated assault or to be greeted by the sight of more mutilation. But all he saw was her profile and the whip of her long, dark hair as she left the room via a door at the back. She closed it quickly behind her.

  He speedily crossed the room and gripped its handle. It wouldn’t open. He tried turning it clockwise and anti. She’d locked it. He looked about, registering the circular bed and hurried back to the door he’d entered by. It slammed before he reached it and he heard the lock snap into place. She’d circled around.

  He realised what was about to happen before his shoulder was against the door. “Open this!” he yelled at the panel.

  He waited for a response, his face still ringing. She was there. He could sense her presence the other side of the door. “Open the door,” Will said levelly. He put his ear to the crack and listened, hearing only the wood brushing his ear. She’d moved away.

  He stepped back and held his breath, trying to pick up any footfalls in the apartment. All he could discern was the hum of the air con unit in the ceiling. Had she left? He doubted it.

  One note of masculine pain answered the question. One extended, animal-like protest. It vibrated through nostrils as it held its hopeless pitch. A choking followed, as blood drowned the cry.

  It was too late to save him. If they arrested her, he’d never see Libby again.

  Or would that outcome be the same whatever he did? He was incapable of doing anything except sitting by and allowing it to happen. She knew it as well.

  He tugged at the other door again, muscles wrenching against its solidity. He moved to the back window and yanked the nets along the rail. The glass was sealed and it was a sheer drop to a deserted, private parking courtyard below. He returned to the door he’d entered by and repeatedly booted the handle. He didn’t know what would happen if it gave. What could he do, even if he escaped? But he only stopped when the scream did.

  His exertions evaporated with the sound.

  “Mr Frost.” She was at the door again, her tone cordial. “If you break the lock, I won’t be able to let you out. If I can’t let you out, you won’t be able to finish the task.”

  “Am I going to see my daughter again?” There was no sharpened edge to the question. Will waited.

  No response.

  “Where is she?!”

  “Out of sight, out of mind,” she whispered.

  “Open this door!” His palms were against it, then the edges of his fists.

  Will could hear a strangulated vomiting sound coming from the other room. Then it was cut off.

  One glimpse of her had confirmed it. She was the woman he’d passed behind the house in Ellicott City. He thought she’d been a neighbour. Hadn’t considered she could have been leaving the Stricks’ home. But the same pout to her lower lip had been evident when she’d exited the room he was in now.

  She was the one who’d baited him on the telephone at home and when he called the family in Bel Air. He thought she might have had an accomplice, but it looked like this woman was mutilating and arranging the bodies herself.

  He registered the black-framed photograph above the bed. It wasn’t hidden amongst others, but screwed into a central position over the headboard. It was Carla.

  Carla couldn’t begin to speculate what the motionless red dot on her GPS map meant for Will. How long had it been since he’d reached the address?

  She speed-dialled his number and waited. Pope would have the location as well. How far behind was he? She knew she couldn’t trust him to maintain the distance he’d promised. Maybe he’d tried to get too close.

  “This is the answering service for William Frost. Please leave a message.”

  Had Will turned off his phone before he went into the apartment? A minute passed and she dialled again. Answering service. She repeated the process, but still he didn’t pick up. She called Pope.

  “Mrs Frost?” Pope sounded startled.

  Carla could hear the drone of people around him. “What’s happening there?”

  “There’s been a slight complication.”

  She became angry. “What the hell have you done?”

  “Stay calm, nothing that would expose our presence. I just have to iron out a couple of things here.”

  “Are you at the apartment?”

  “No. I promised I’d keep a discreet distance and I am.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “A couple of blocks away.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Pope. If there’s anything you can tell me about what’s happening right now I need you to tell me.” She didn’t want to betray her distress to Pope. “He’s not answering his phone.”

  “OK, listen. Keep trying him and, if I have your permission, I’ll move in for a closer look.”

  The only dialogue Carla had wanted with Pope was to negotiate his silence, but with Will not responding he was her only way of finding out what was going on.

  “Call me back when you hear from him.” Pope hung up and put the phone down on the table between him and Weaver. “Frost’s not responding. She’s asking us to take a look.”

  Weaver still sat opposite him in the juice bar, arms folded and implacable. Pope had been working on him and hadn’t made any headway. Without a cameraman it was futile continuing.

  “Weaver, it’s fine if you want to get on a plane home afterwards, but this is a plea for help.”

  “Which would be very convenient for you.”

  Pope sifted the conversation he’d just had. “If you want to look at this cynically then at least helping the Frost family will make things easier for us in light of what we’ve been concealing.”

  “What you’ve been concealing.” But something registered in Weaver’s glare and his jaw began working his nicotine gum again.

  Pope took this as a good sign. “If we’re withholding from the police at the Frosts’ say-so as well as shadowing under her instruction then our motive is purely to protect their daughter.”

  Weaver eventually nodded then shook his head to signify that he knew Pope had got lucky. “OK, but wherever this story goes I’m in for fifty per cent.”

  “That’s a conversation for later.” Pope was already clambering down from hi
s stool.

  “Fifty per cent, Pope. Agree now or I split.”

  Pope nodded. He’d already used up his credit. “Agreed.”

  Weaver grabbed his kitbag and hefted the camera.

  5.10pm. Will estimated he’d been confined to the room for just over fifteen minutes.

  Whoever had been on the couch was dead. Slaughtering him while Will had been powerless was part of the design. Why? How were these people significant to him, or to her or to Libby?

  Again he examined the colour photograph of Carla. He knew when the image had been captured. It had been in June when they’d had an open day at Easton Grey. She’d invited the village residents to rally them for the protest against David Wardour and his proposed Motex Radials plant. Even though it was only a head and shoulders shot he recognised the suit she’d worn and could see the summer house behind her. She’d addressed the assembly from its platform and in the background were the fliers Libby had decorated it with. It would have been so easy for someone to enter with the crowd and slip away to capture the other pictures of the house that had been posted on the site.

  There was a scratch at the door beside the window. Will got to his feet and returned to it. He tried the handle. Still locked. He waited there, expecting to hear more whispered instructions. Realisation took him back to the first door. He depressed the handle slowly and it clicked open.

  He stepped cautiously into the hallway. She’d misdirected him to the inner door while she unlocked the other. He ran to the lobby, noticing her yellow clutch purse had gone from the bureau. The elevator was descending. He considered the exit to the stairs, but knew he’d never make it down seventeen flights to intercept her in time. And what would he do if he did? He turned back to the apartment.

  His own life had been spared, but he felt another part of himself collapse. He still had to collect something from inside.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Will was standing outside the den, the spotless hallway an anteroom to a grisly slaughterhouse. Whatever she’d done, he had to secure his souvenir with his fingers and his mind. The screams of the man’s death now only echoed in his memory. The silence from behind the closed door seemed bloated and ugly. He drew in some scented air through his nostrils and opened it.

  When he saw the body of the man who, less than half an hour ago, had been living and breathing and frantically trying to free himself from his bonds, Will immediately recalled the last words the woman had said.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  He was seated on the couch, but still bound, the black tape in place over his mouth. Blood circled him like a dark spotlight. His cheeks ran with it and thick streams had escaped from his nostrils and soaked into his moustache. His eyes had been carved out, the deep pits of shadow removing every trace of sentience from the shell of his head. But what made the dead man appear to be nothing more than a husk, a macabre Halloween ornament, was the fact the cap of his skull had been removed.

  Will knew where he was to find his prize. The man’s head had been emptied out so a substantial object could be concealed in the place where his brain had been.

  Will put the polythene parcel into his inside jacket pocket and made for the pool room door. He would take the stairs. He didn’t want to summon the elevator and breathe the same air as she had.

  “Anybody home?” It was a friendly, cautious male drawl of a voice.

  Will stopped dead in the doorway. Somebody had walked into the apartment through the open front entrance. He could hear tentative footfalls in the hallway moving closer. There was no way he could close the door and conceal his presence; his shadow had already fallen on the wall opposite. Whoever they were, they knew he was there. He had to seal the room from the other side and conceal the body.

  Will thrust his gloved hands into his jacket pockets, stepped forward and was confronted by a man in a tan suede suit with shoulder length, white locks and a solid potbelly poking his check shirt out of his belt. His facial hair was the same colour and wavering between stubble and a beard. Standing next to him was an emaciated, leather-clad teenager who would have been entirely androgynous if not for the pencil line sideburns that slit his gaunt cheeks. They stopped in their tracks just inside the hall.

  “Sorry. Who are you?” The man spoke first, bushy eyebrows like shutters of suspicion over his piercing blue eyes.

  He seemed strangely familiar, but Will could still see the butchered body out of the corner of his right eye.

  “I was under the impression that nobody would be here this weekend.” The man gazed past Will’s shoulder as if looking for other interlopers.

  A neighbour? Will was relieved they’d halted where they had. “Well, I’m sorry...you were misinformed.” If he closed the door in the middle of their surprise encounter it would look immediately suspicious, particularly if they saw he was wearing gloves. Should he be reacting more to the fact these people had just walked in unannounced? “Can I help?”

  “Jake gave you your own keys?”

  Nodding, Will looked from his inquisitor’s face to the teenager who looked sleepy, stoned or bored. “Yes.” He met the man’s gaze again, but resisted asking him who he was. The corpse waited to be introduced. “I’ll be gone in a couple of days.”

  The man looked at the carpet and waved his hand dismissively.

  “Do you have a message I can give Jake?” Will used the name he was expected to be familiar with. Did it belong to the victim?

  The man closed his eyes and sternly shook his head, like even suggesting it was foolish. “No, no, no – nice to have made your acquaintance, come on.” He hurried the teenager back out of the door and closed it behind them.

  Will waited, not allowing relief to relax his shoulders. The pair didn’t speak as they got into the elevator. As soon as he heard them descend he sealed the doors to the pool room and the apartment, grabbed the laptop and took the stairs.

  He felt as hollowed out as the man he’d left behind. His legs attempted to maintain rhythm as he spiralled down the stairwell but, after three flights, his feet became unsynchronised. He almost fell headfirst and had to put one palm against the concrete wall. He wanted to leap down to each level, but had to compose himself and take the steps one at a time.

  When he eventually made it through the exit into the foyer, he burst the front doors wide. The keen breeze played over the mask that had set into the muscles of his face. There was no sign of the visitors. The package was in his pocket, violet silk that had been compressed inside the sealed polythene. He peeled off the gloves, took the steps slow and kept walking.

  He headed down East Went Street, towards the glow of green water at the end. He didn’t know where he was going, he just knew he had to keep moving, not give himself any pause to contemplate. Suddenly police vehicles were pulling up behind him.

  He turned, pacing backwards. A white car with blue stripes had already ejected its pair of uniformed occupants. His heel slid off the edge of the sidewalk, but he managed to right himself before he toppled. Somebody was meeting them at the entrance.

  Had she called them again or was it the neighbour? The apartment seemed pretty well soundproofed, but if they hadn’t picked up the screams they might have registered the impacts when Will tried to kick the door down. He turned and strode faster, almost at the end of the block. The lake expanded before him, grubby malachite water on the shoreline extending to deep blue. As he reached the corner, he looked back again. There was significant distance between them now, but Will could see the blobs of their faces turned in his direction.

  Could they see his face? He felt as if testimony was tacked there. He took a few breaths and tried to squint their expressions into focus. One of the officers moved quickly to the car. Will hastily rounded the corner onto the busy street.

  He slid himself into the back of an available cab and turned to observe the police car exit the end of East Went and glide past. Distance seemed like the best option so he told the driver to take him to the East Side. The pe
nsioner in the front seat nodded his remaining wisps of silvery hair and peered over the wheel for an opening. They pulled out, overtook and quickly left the police car behind.

  As the taxi weaved through the rush hour, Will grazed the cursor on the next house. It was a cut-out of an institutional frontage – tan cinder blocks and a characterless grey door, a window to its right and above. It was not yet active. How could it be? She was only ahead of him by a handful of minutes.

  “You want me to take you over the state line?” The driver’s acid enquiry seemed to come only moments after they’d set off. But when Will glanced at the meter, he realised how far they’d travelled. The sign said they were about to hit the highway.

  “Where’s the nearest park?” Will didn’t want to incarcerate himself in another coffee shop or restaurant.

  The driver said nothing but hung a right. Soon they were on East Columbus Drive before taking a left at Donut Kingdom. Will spotted a phone shop. He got the driver to drop him outside and paid him off with his credit card. He bought himself a disposable mobile and then walked down to the entrance of Washington Park.

  It was bizarre to be suddenly surrounded by such a natural backdrop. The sun prickled his scalp and the sound of birds seemed surreal. Lone readers, sunbathers and small congregations of people had spread themselves over the rich green expanse in front of him. It reminded him of flying the Longranger over the parks in London, looking down at the pockets of civilisation. He wanted to be hovering above this place now, a divorced observer and the activity below only insignificant pinpricks of colour.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Pope and Weaver got out of the cab in East Went Street to an all too familiar scene.