by T. D. Fox
“That slimy little thing burned the skin right off my back,” he said. “Let’s take her with us, Boss. I’ve got some things I’d like to do to her.”
Courtney couldn’t move. The man at her back chuckled. He looked toward the counter where Max and the other guy still stood.
“I think we’re done here. Thank you ever so much for your cooperation, Maxwell.”
The man holding Max slammed him one last time against the counter and let him drop. He exited the station.
“Go check out our mark on Stewart,” the unmasked man told him. The big guy nodded and left the shop, bell jangling behind him.
“Oh, and hey, Ritzo.”
“It’s Ripper. How many times do I have to—”
The man raised the gun and fired point-blank.
Courtney shrieked. As did everybody else. Ripper dropped like a stone, a crimson hole punched in the left side of his forehead.
“Thanks for the show, folks. Don’t do drugs.”
The man stepped away from her. Courtney almost toppled back at the loss of support, but she caught herself on her hands. She turned around to see him exiting the shop, whistling as he went. The bell jingled as the door swung closed.
A sob burst from under one of the tables. A man started screaming, one hysterical lady joining him as panicked voices filled the air. Chairs scraped as people got back on their feet. Phones whipped out, everybody dialing 911 too late. Someone snapped a picture.
Courtney sat frozen. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the body. The bullet hole leaked a dark pool down the man’s temple onto the wooden floorboards, spreading outwards. She felt nothing. She couldn’t be sick, couldn’t cry, couldn’t blink.
Finally, a burning sensation in her own forehead made her lift her hand. Her fingers skimmed her left temple. They came away wet. She stared at the crimson trail running down the back of her hand.
Her hand... wasn’t shaking.
Thirty seconds later, the blue lights showed up, as promised.
9. THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT
COURTNEY SAT ALONE at a table in the café. Officials milled around her, talking in hushed tones, sitting with the few customers who’d stayed to make statements. Blue and red lights danced across the walls. Though night had already started to creep in, it didn’t look like anyone was getting ready to leave.
Courtney sighed, and shifted her grip on the ice pack pressed to her forehead. Someone had given her a frozen bag of gel, probably from one of the ambulances, wrapped in a towel. She held it over the tape across her temple. Ripper’s boot hadn’t left a deep cut, but it was wide enough for two small stitches. The paramedics had taken care of the cut right there in the back of the EMT van. She was relieved they hadn’t carted her off to the hospital, but it appeared the cops thought she was in good enough shape to give a statement while her memory was fresh.
Officer after officer had approached her, some dressed smartly in the OCPD uniform, others in sleek business suits who introduced themselves as detectives.
“I don’t know anything,” she said again and again. I never knew Max was involved with drugs. I never saw the shooter before in my life. I didn’t see any signs of a drug stash. I don’t know, I don’t know...
She was glad that after taking pictures, noting position and location of the body on the floor, they’d zipped it up in a black bag and carted it off. It was gone. But there was still a large pool of blood on the floor, congealed and dark. She tried not to look at it. Whenever she did, she felt her stomach crawling up her throat.
They’d hauled Max away on a stretcher, shut him in the back of an ambulance, and zoomed off toward St. Barnabas, sirens blaring. Some kind soul had wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. She wasn’t sure if she hadn’t noticed when it happened, or was too exhausted to care. As the afternoon wore on into evening, civilians were released one by one, until Courtney was the last left in the shop, save one disgruntled old lady who insisted on recounting the event over and over with a harried policewoman.
Courtney pressed the ice pack more firmly against her temple. She winced, but held it. The burn of the ice was nothing compared to the dull throbbing pain that reverberated through her skull.
“Hey,” said a voice.
She looked up. A younger police officer stood before her, with kind blue eyes and curly black hair that glowed in the blue lights. He motioned to the seat across from her. “Mind if I sit down?”
She shook her head with a sigh. “I already told the detectives everything I know. There’s no more information you can get out of me.”
“I know.” He sat down opposite her anyway. “I wanted to see how you’re feeling.”
She shifted the ice pack. “The paramedic said I have a mild concussion. Other than that, I’m fine.”
“That’s good, but I meant... how are you holding up? That was a pretty intense ordeal.”
She shrugged. “I think I’m fine.”
“You’re probably in shock.”
“Maybe.” Actually, the adrenaline still burned. A steady undercurrent tugged her thoughts to a place they’d never been before. She wouldn’t say it aloud, but a certain thrill had buzzed in her veins that was now fading... and its loss left her hollow.
He was still watching her, so she said, “Once the adrenaline wears off, it’ll hit me.”
He nodded, eyes betraying his concern. After a moment’s pause, he cleared his throat and put out a hand. “My name’s Jasper. Detective Jasper Wade. I was wondering if I could potentially ask you some... different questions than the rest of the OCPD.”
“Uh, sure. Knock yourself out.” She felt at this point she’d pretty much heard everything.
He hesitated though. “Do you need me to get you anything? Like another ice pack, or a water or something?”
She smiled. “I’m all right, thanks.”
He cleared his throat again. His awkwardness was kind of cute. “Okay. You said one of them identified himself as Ripper, right?” She nodded. “Did you catch the names of any of the others?” She shook her head. “Okay, that’s okay. But one of them definitely seemed to be in charge?”
“Yeah. The only guy who wasn’t wearing a ski mask.”
“Hm. Interesting.” Jasper leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and folding his hands. He studied his knuckles. “That almost seems deliberate.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The man without the mask. Usually a perp hides his face so he won’t be identified. The two men in black hoods did that, but the one calling the shots didn’t seem worried about getting caught on camera. We have facial recognition systems. He must know we’ll catch him.”
Courtney shrugged. He flushed, as if realizing he’d started brainstorming the details of a case with a civilian. She wondered if he was a rookie; he looked young, maybe a few years older than herself.
“I don’t know if your recognition software will work,” she said. “Our cameras aren’t exactly up-to-date. The pictures will be fuzzy and smudged at best.”
“You were face-to-face with him.” He pulled out a notepad. “Would you describe him for me?”
She sighed. “Huge build, dark hair, dark eyes. Six feet or more. Big and beefy like the rest of them. No tattoos or anything, that I could see. He had a silver tooth I think.”
“A silver tooth?”
“Yeah. Or some sort of dental implant. I saw silver when he smiled.”
“You didn’t mention that in your earlier statement.”
“If you had my earlier statement, why are you asking me again?”
“I want to be thorough.”
“Then I guess you know I told those other guys I don’t remember anything else.”
He looked up. Her exhaustion must’ve shown on her face, because he closed the notepad and softened his voice. “You should know: that was a very brave thing you did back there.”
“I got myself kicked in the face.”
“You stood up for your friend, in front of a gun.
Twice. That takes heart.”
The sincerity in his blue eyes made her hackles flatten a little. Her every nerve was frayed thin from interrogations. To have a cop affirm her actions instead of lecture her on her stupidity—she felt her spine loosen, a fraction.
“Thanks,” she said.
Jasper paused. “Is there anything else you can tell me that we won’t catch on the CCTV? You said the man without a mask did most of the talking. Can you remember anything else he might have said? Anything to explain his reasons for shooting his own man?”
Courtney hesitated. Her memory of the whole thing was a jumble. Everything had happened so fast she’d seen no pattern to anything, let alone motive. Her brain kept circling back to the moment Ripper kicked her in the head. The explosion of pain in her skull. The mad scramble backward. Landing on the killer’s feet.
The haunting image, thirty seconds later, of Ripper lying face up in a pool of his own blood. She shuddered.
“That’s all right,” Jasper said. “You’ve had a very trying day.” He tore a leaf of paper from his notepad, scrawled something across it, and slipped it across the table. “If you remember anything else, give me a call. Thanks for helping us out. We’ll catch this guy. I promise.”
Courtney took the piece of paper with a sad smile. This guy really had to be a rookie. Cops didn’t promise to catch bad guys. Not in this town. But she said, “Thank you.”
“We’ll have a squad car escort you home, since you walked.” Jasper’s words reminded her of W and his offers to walk her home. The thought made her smile spread. This soft-spoken cop and W were worlds apart, yet somehow shared a chivalrous streak.
“No, that’s okay. I walk myself home every day, and nothing’s happened.”
“No offense, miss, but every time you came into work before today, nothing happened either. All it takes is one bad day.”
All it takes is one bad night, W had said, not too long ago. Courtney watched Jasper, half tempted to be stubborn, but the genuine concern in his eyes gave her pause. They held a different light than the other cops’ did.
“Alright,” she said.
“Annette!” Jasper called over a woman with a badge. “This young lady needs a ride home.”
The policewoman glanced at Courtney and nodded. “This way to the car.” Without another word, she turned and headed for the doors.
Courtney pocketed Jasper’s paper and followed her out of the shop, ducking the lines of caution tape now stretched over the door. Her shoes crunched on the snow outside. Her heart sank with the temperature. This morning felt like it belonged in a different universe. The holiday cheer in the air, the charming glow of fall, the upbeat spirit had all faded. She felt like a different person. Who knew so much could change in so little time?
Beside the police cruiser stood the maple tree she’d admired earlier. That morning, its branches still had a few bright orange leaves. In the glow of the streetlamps, she could see them now, scraggly and bare. A stiff wind must’ve blown through this afternoon.
Unwilling to face her empty apartment tonight, she gave the officer Dina’s address. Then she buckled her seatbelt and placed her head in her hands.
Her heart drummed the whole ride home. An electric, disturbing kind of drum that hadn’t ceased since the moment she’d stared down the gun barrel.
What disturbed her more, though, was that she wasn’t positive it was a bad feeling.
⬥◆⬥
Courtney lay wide awake, staring at the streaks of light on the ceiling. Pale silver-gold slithered through the blinds. On the second story, she caught the full brilliance of the streetlamps. Even with the blinds closed, light managed to sneak through in razor-thin bars.
Two nights had passed since the shooting at the café. Dina had urged her to pack some stuff and stay longer, but Courtney felt she’d stayed long enough at her friend’s place. She’d headed back to her own apartment, determined to put the incident behind her.
Tonight, she lay watching the ceiling. The red letters of the clock next to her read 3:45. Yet her eyes were wide open, not a wink of sleep in them.
She heard whistling.
It wasn’t real. It was in her head. She knew that, and she told herself, over and over. But it didn’t shake the prickles drifting up her spine. She tossed, and turned, but whenever she felt the weariness steal over her, the airy melody crept across her mind.
She’d sit up in bed, cold all over though it was hot under the covers. She’d stare at the window. It would stare back, and she would shrink deeper into the pillows. She was sure she could hear it drifting up from down below, seeping through the glass, echoing into her apartment.
But when she could stand it no more, wrested herself from the blankets, and dashed to the window to peek outside, there was no one.
There was never anyone.
3:46.
3:47.
It had to be her imagination. A memory, maybe. But where had she heard it before? It wasn’t like any tune she’d ever known. It was eerie, simple, a four-note-melody that lifted and dropped, lilting from lows to highs and down to strange in-between notes that left her shivering.
Growling low in her throat, Courtney ripped off the covers and jumped out of bed. She turned on the light. Standing there in the brilliance, at four in the morning, she felt foolish. She waited a moment. With the light on, she couldn’t hear it anymore. Scooping her blankets off the floor, Courtney hurled them at the bed. Then she turned and marched out into the kitchen.
Her hands shook as she took a mug from the cabinet. She gave herself an extra scoop of hot chocolate mix, filled the cup with milk and placed it in the microwave. She slammed the door shut and punched one-minute. The little light came on and the hum of the microwave soothed her nerves.
Hugging herself, she watched her mug spin around and around. As the seconds ticked down, her anxiety returned. She didn’t want to be alone in the silence again. As soon as she returned to bed, the haunting melody would start all over. She thought she might go insane if she heard it one more time.
And then, it clicked.
Wheeling, she sprinted back to her room. The microwave beeped behind her, but she ignored it, diving for her purse at the foot of her bed. She tore through its contents with shaking fingers. Wallet, keys, pepper spray, chapstick... Tipping the whole thing upside down, she shook everything onto the carpet. A torn slip of paper fell out. She snatched it up, then grabbed her phone.
She sat, listening to the incessant ringing and chewing her fingernails. What is wrong with me? Why am I calling him at four in the—
“Hello?” answered a groggy voice.
“Jasper! It’s Courtney. Courtney Spencer, from the coffee shop, you know the one with the shooting and the body—”
“I know which Courtney. Hi.” His voice was still deep from sleep, but it sounded lighter, like he was trying to wake himself up. “Are you okay? Are you trying to call the police?”
“No, no... I was trying to call you.” Why did she feel so stupid? This could have waited until morning. Her heart was hammering, and the quiet of the empty apartment around her felt like a physical presence closing in. What could she say? She’d called him to hear the sound of another human voice? To drive away these awful non-nightmares? Awake-mares? She cleared her throat, realizing she’d let an awkward silence hang. “You said to call if I remembered anything.”
“Yeah.” Now he sounded even more awake. “You sure you’re all right? You sound a little shaken up.”
“I think the shock wore off,” she said, trying to laugh. It sounded sharp and unnatural to her own ears. “Just can’t sleep, and started remembering stuff I didn’t say earlier. The guy without the mask. You asked if anything seemed different about him.”
“Yes.” So much concern in that one word—but not for the details of the case. For her. She felt even more foolish.
“He was whistling,” she blurted out.
Silence on the other end.
“Are you still th
ere?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry. Could you say that again?”
“He was whistling, when he left. I know it’s random, and probably doesn’t have to do with anything, but I thought it was weird, you know? He was so nonchalant. Like he shoots people in coffee shops every Tuesday morning.”
Jasper took a deep breath on the other end. “You’re sure it was him? Not someone else in the shop?”
“Um. I don’t think anybody else was in the mood to whistle.”
“Oh, gosh, yeah—I’m sorry. It’s four in the morning. Of course it wasn’t anybody else.” He futzed around with the phone for a moment, crackling through the speaker, and then returned, sounding wide awake. “Can you meet tomorrow?”
“What?”
“Can you meet, to talk about this some more? I need to ask you some more questions. Are you free at all?”
Courtney rubbed her eyes, a sudden weariness hitting her. She didn’t want to talk about this tomorrow. She wanted to talk about it now. She didn’t want him to hang up, didn’t want to be alone with the darkness again.
“Yeah, I can meet tomorrow,” she said. “My boss closed up the shop, just until everybody’s nerves calm down. Nobody’s coming into work for a bit. So I’m free all day.”
“Okay. Do you want to come down to the station? Or I can meet you somewhere.”
Courtney didn’t want to be surrounded by more cops. “Um. Would it be okay if I met you somewhere else?”
“There’s another café at the end of your street. Would you be okay going to another café? Or would it remind you too much of yours?”
She laughed shakily. “It’s not like I’m scared of cafés now. That’d be a problem as a barista. Yes, I can meet you there. Ten o’clock?”
“Yeah. I can make that.” He paused. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
She opened her mouth, but the breath caught in her throat. What could she tell him? Don’t hang up on me, I need to keep talking to someone until the sun rises and I stop hearing things that aren’t there. “I’m fine,” she lied. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
