Mr. Midnight

by Allan Leverone

  So he had waited across the street from Strange Dude’s tenement building, sitting on the sidewalk with his back propped against the stained red brick façade of a long-abandoned dry-cleaning establishment, smoking cigarettes and watching, waiting for his morning hangover to subside.

  Sometime after noon, Franklin wasn’t sure exactly when—he didn’t wear a watch anymore because time meant nothing when you had nowhere to go—Strange Dude had come out the tenement’s battered front door like he owned the place and turned toward Government Center. Franklin watched him walk briskly away, his form growing smaller and smaller until he disappeared from sight. Then he waited a little while longer before tossing his cigarette into the gutter and rising unsteadily to his feet. He circled the building and entered through the long-abandoned service entrance in back.

  Franklin arrived at the third-floor landing and slipped quietly down the shabby hallway. He expected to see no one and did not. A series of three doors lined each side of the narrow corridor and for a moment Franklin was stymied. It hadn’t occurred to him that there might be more than one possible apartment up here. It seemed obvious now, but he hadn’t given the situation much thought. Hell, he was just some homeless loser, not a fucking private detective.

  He stood still, a couple of steps inside the hallway, unsure of how to proceed. Then he smiled. Strange Dude had provided a roadmap straight to his front door. The entire building was understandably in poor condition. After all, it had been deemed unlivable years ago by some anonymous building inspector. But dirt and dried mud caked a path straight to one door—the door roughly one-third of the way along the hallway on the left. It had to be the one.

  Franklin reached it in a few steps and studied the cheap lock built into the punky wood above the tarnished brass knob. It was exactly what he had expected to find: worthless protection that would provide no challenge. He fished his lock-picking tools—he had liberated them from his mentor’s coat one morning after discovering the man dead as a doornail on a park bench—and got to work.

  Within seconds the tumblers clicked into place and the lock turned and Franklin was in.

  CHAPTER 29

  Cait was not one to be bothered by crowds. She liked people, enjoyed being around them, interacting with them, even when they were all strangers. Today was a different story, though. Today she felt out of sorts, thrown off her game by the terrifying Flicker she had experienced back at the hotel room. Seeing the young girl die right in front of her—experiencing the awful torture in a way that was as real as if she had been standing next to the killer—was a completely new and unsettling experience.

  The scene had been unlike any Flicker she had ever lived through, graphic and disturbing, and when she walked through the automatic sliding doors leading into the terminal at Logan Airport and saw the throngs of restless travelers, she was thrown for a loop. She shrank against Kevin reflexively, covering her mouth with her hand and gasping.

  “What is it, babe? What’s wrong?” Kevin held her tightly and his eyes bored into hers. “Is it happening again?”

  “No, I’m okay,” she answered with a nervous laugh, making it perfectly clear she was anything but. “I just don’t feel like myself. Everything seems a little…I don’t know…off, I guess.”

  “Well, that’s understandable. First you find your long-lost mother, then you discover you have a twin brother you never knew about, a man who, for reasons completely unknown, would like nothing better than to see you dead, then your newly located long-lost mother tells you she never wants to see you again. Then, to top it all off, you have to live through the worst Flicker ever—a horrific, bloody murder.”

  A young mother trudged past, pulling a wheeled suitcase behind her with one arm and holding a squalling infant with the other. She looked at them sharply as Kevin’s voice bounced off the walls of the terminal, magnifying the words “horrific, bloody murder.” She shook her head in disgust and leveled a withering stare at them.

  “Sorry about that,” Kevin said to the woman, lowering his voice to nearly a whisper. Then he turned to Cait. “But you get my point, right? Anyone would be feeling a little off after the kind of day you’ve had.”

  Cait started to giggle and a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob came out. “Yes, I get your point. So does everyone else here in Terminal B. We’d better buy our tickets back to Tampa before the TSA decides we’re terrorists, discussing bloody murders and the like. Much more talk like that and we’ll end up in a holding cell.”

  Kevin smiled and they walked to a row of uncomfortable-looking molded plastic chairs. He indicated she should sit and said, “Wait here. I’m assigning you the very important job of keeping an eye on our luggage. Just relax and I’ll get us on the first flight back to sanity.”

  Cait slumped in her chair—it really was as uncomfortable as it looked—and wondered how in the hell she could even begin to relax. She decided the chances were pretty good that she would never relax again. She watched Kevin as he waited in line at the ticket counter, fidgeting and glancing back in concern every few seconds. He was big and strong and overprotective and she had never loved him more than she did right now.

  Her eyes felt grainy and heavy and began to close, and then what seemed like a second later a hand clamped down on her shoulder and she was being shaken gently awake. Kevin smiled down at her. “Hey, sleepyhead. Some watchdog you turned out to be. I turn my back for one minute and you fall asleep on the job. Fortunately for you our fancy, expensive luggage is still here, otherwise you’d be out on your ass looking for a new job.”

  Cait glanced at the two worn duffel bags, still on the floor at her feet where they had been placed. “Ha!” she said. “Fat chance this ‘fancy, expensive luggage’ would ever be stolen. No self-respecting thief would be caught dead stealing our crappy stuff.”

  She forced herself to her feet. Her body felt heavy and slow, filled with a bone-deep exhaustion. All she wanted to do was get on the airplane and go back to sleep. She had no doubt she would be unconscious all the way back to Tampa. “How long was I out?” she asked, trying to stifle a yawn and mostly failing.

  “Almost half an hour. That was the slowest-moving line outside of the DMV I’ve ever had the misfortune of waiting in.” Cait could see the concern still etched in Kevin’s eyes. He was trying to keep the conversation light for her benefit but was clearly worried about her and she loved him for it.

  “Let’s get moving,” he said. “We have a date with two coach-class seats on the next flight out of this burg, but if we hurry, we might have enough time for a quick dinner first. Play your cards right and I might even buy you a drink.”

  “Ooh, big spender,” she teased halfheartedly.

  “If you’ve ever eaten in an airport restaurant, you know just how big.”

  “And you’re going to spring for drinks too? What did I do to deserve this?”

  “Drink, I said. Not drinks. I want you just buzzed enough to accept my advances but not so trashed you’ll fall asleep before we’re done. Again.”

  Cait burst out laughing, something she wouldn’t have believed possible even ten minutes ago. “As if I could ever fall asleep with you at the controls, lover-boy.” She hooked her arm around his and he shrugged both duffel bags over his shoulder. They moved through the crowd, weaving and bobbing, making slow but steady progress through the terminal until spotting a franchise steak house.

  Once again Cait thanked God for her boyfriend. She felt better already. Sure it had been a lousy day, one of the worst ever, but she was ready to put it all behind her. Things were going to be just fine.

  CHAPTER 30

  The neighborhood appeared bleak and deserted. Milo took his time walking toward the house. He wasn’t in any hurry, and as he meandered along the flagstone walkway he examined the homes flanking 7 Granite Circle. All of the yards were empty and so were most of the driveways, their pavement stained and discolored by leaking oil and other automotive fluids. This wasn’t the type of upscale area wher
e the homes had garages, so it was easy to tell that most residents were at work.

  All-in-all, Milo was satisfied. The area was relatively secluded, given its location in densely packed Everett. There were fewer than a dozen homes on the cul-de-sac, all probably constructed at the same time and by the same builder using a cookie-cutter approach more than a half century ago. It had the feel of a solidly blue-collar neighborhood, the kind of place where the husbands and wives both worked full-time, struggling to earn enough money to avoid falling behind on the mortgage. Milo felt there was at least a decent chance that the older lady from his visions was the only person at home in the entire fucking development.

  He climbed three chipped concrete steps to the tiny landing and rang the doorbell. He had no particular plan in mind, no elaborate ruse developed with which to gain the trust of the woman. The days were long past, if they had ever existed at all in a hardscrabble neighborhood like this, when an older woman, living alone, would ever allow a young man she didn’t know into her home unless she had set up a service appointment and the man provided adequate identification, none of which was the case here, obviously.

  So why waste the time and effort required to even try sweet-talking his way inside? Milo Cain believed in the straightforward approach. It had worked many times in the past and he had every confidence it would work again today.

  He waited after ringing the bell. Nothing happened. He waited a little longer, tempted to ring it again, but the last thing he wanted was to frighten the woman so badly she refused even to open the door. He had visions of her retreating to her phone and calling the cops.

  At last his patience was rewarded as the heavy storm door swung inward and an older, frail-looking woman regarded him suspiciously from behind her still-closed screen door. Milo recognized her instantly as the woman from his visions. “Yes?” she said, clearly not inclined to proceed any further without good reason.

  Milo put what he hoped was a harmless-looking smile on his face as he pondered how to proceed. The question he faced was a simple one: Was the screen door locked or not? If it was, getting inside was going to be a problem, maybe even an impossibility. He could break the door down, it was constructed only of flimsy aluminum, but he didn’t think he could manage it quickly enough to prevent the woman from slamming the heavy storm door closed and then locking it.

  But how likely was it that the screen door would even be locked? With the storm door closed and locked there would be no reason to lock the lighter screen door as well; it would accomplish nothing in terms of added safety and would be a pain in the ass for the homeowner when it came time to enter or exit. Milo tried to remember one single time his adoptive parents had locked the screen door in their home when he was growing up and could not.

  He concluded it was extremely unlikely this door was locked.

  All of this went through his mind in two or three seconds, but it was enough time that the woman’s demeanor changed from mild city-dweller suspicion to growing alarm. She opened her mouth as if to say something else—Milo had still not uttered a word—and then seemed to think better of it and retreated back into her house, stepping clear of the storm door and swinging it closed in his face.

  So the decision was made for him. It was now or never. Milo reached out and turned the handle and pulled on the screen door and thought, open sesame, and as he had hoped, it flew open, light as a feather and about as effective, security-wise. He slipped the steel toe of his left work boot inside the door frame and the storm door rebounded like a basketball off an iron hoop, clipping the woman on the shoulder and knocking her to the floor where she fell with a surprised “Oomph!”

  Milo’s smile widened and he walked into the house, stepping over the body of his host, who lay sprawled on the floor, too surprised even to scream. Yet. He nudged her clear of the doorway with his foot and eased the storm door closed, making sure to lock it behind him. “So, how are you?” he asked.

  The woman came to her senses and began scuttling backward down her hallway, looking up at him with an expression of growing fear on her heavily lined face. And there was something else as well. It looked to Milo a little like resignation, as if she had been expecting his arrival but had been unsure exactly when he would show up. She moved surprisingly well for someone who appeared so frail.

  She continued crab-walking backward, apparently forgetting the hallway wall was behind her. She slammed into it with a loud crash and a small handgun toppled out of the right pocket of her sweater. It dropped to the floor next to her and her eyes instantly darted up to his, the fear that had already been etched on her face morphing into all-out panic.

  Milo leapt forward. The woman grabbed her gun and flicked off the safety—Milo could see it, plain as day, right on the side of the handle—but before she could bring the weapon to bear on him, he wound up like a football placekicker and booted it right out of her hand. It sailed through the air and then bounced into the living room where it disappeared. A second later, Milo heard a muffled thud as it came to rest against something hard.

  The fucking bitch was going to shoot me! Milo tried to wrap his brain around the thought that this old bat could have come so close to putting a bullet in his head. He would never have seen it coming.

  This was unacceptable. She would have to be dealt with, and in the strongest possible manner. But first things first. He had a job to do.

  “I already called the police,” the woman said, interrupting his train of thought, her voice unwavering and stronger than he would have expected, given the situation.

  “No you didn’t. Only the most paranoid of crazy bitches calls the cops just because someone knocks on their front door. And you’re not the most paranoid of crazy bitches, now, are you? You might be close, but you’re not the most paranoid.”

  She said nothing, slumping to the floor, taking the weight of her body off her arms and legs. Milo took a step toward her and she flinched as if expecting to be hit. Her eyes were locked onto his hands, growing almost comically wide. “I have no desire to hurt you,” he said, wondering whether the lie sounded as transparent to the old bitch as it did to him. “In fact, you have to do just one thing to ensure your safety and if you do it, I promise you will not be harmed.”

  “Wh-what’s that on your hands?” she asked as if he hadn’t even spoken.

  He glanced down at them and saw faded remnants of Rae Ann the Schoolgirl Hooker’s blood. He had scrubbed them conscientiously at the Y, but with the kind of close work he had been doing back at the tenement, it was damned near impossible to wash all traces of the incriminating stains away. And he had been in a hurry. He thought he had done a fairly decent job removing the worst of the blood, but maybe he hadn’t been that thorough after all, since it was the first thing the old lady had seen.

  “What is it?” the gun-toting bitch repeated as he stared down at his hands as though they belonged to someone else.

  “I’m a butcher,” he said, pleased with his little private joke. “Occupational hazard.”

  Now the panic exploded in the woman’s eyes, and Milo flashed back to his fun with Rae Ann. The expression on this old lady’s face was remarkably similar to Rae Ann’s. The bitch rose up as if to scuttle backward some more before clearly coming to the conclusion it was pointless.

  “Anyway, as I was saying,” Milo continued, “I want you to do one simple thing for me and then I’ll leave you alone. I can’t promise I’ll let you go, but I can tell you that you won’t be harmed. And that’s a hell of a lot more than you deserve after what you were going to do to me with that little peashooter you had in your pocket. If you ask me, it’s a pretty good deal. It’s certainly the best offer you’re going to get out of me.”

  “What do I have to do?” The woman’s voice trembled as she spoke and Milo felt a surge of excitement, the kind he always got when he demonstrated his dominance. The old bag wasn’t as tough as she seemed to think she was.

  “You’re going to call the young woman who visited you earlier
—”

  “—I can’t—”

  “—and you’re going to tell her to get her pretty little ass back here,” Milo finished, ignoring the interruption.

  “I can’t do that.” The woman was shaking her head obstinately. It was as if Milo had asked her to negotiate world peace. Or change the oil in his fucking car. Did this dim bitch not understand that he was in charge?

  “You can and you will.”

  Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes. “I don’t have her number.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “I SAW HER GIVE IT TO YOU!” Milo screamed, dropping to his knees next to her and shouting into her face, spittle spraying, rage bubbling up inside him.

  The woman groaned and buried her face in her hands. “I can’t do it.” She began to cry, obviously expecting to be hit or kicked.

  Milo nodded, saying nothing. This was ridiculous. Time was passing and he wasn’t any closer now to getting that fucking little whore back here than he had been when he walked through the old bat’s door. He shrugged his backpack off his shoulder and it fell to the floor with a metallic clank.

  The woman cringed like a dog that had been beaten its whole life and peeked through her spread fingers. “What’s in there?” she whispered.

  It seemed to Milo as if she had a pretty good idea what was inside his backpack and was simply awaiting confirmation, although how she could know was beyond him, and in any event he wasn’t going to play her little game. “You need to stop asking so many fucking questions and start answering a few. I’m running out of patience and if we don’t begin making some progress—and I mean NOW—I’m going to hurt you, and in ways you can’t even begin to imagine.”