There was a knock at the door.
Frank froze.
After a few seconds, another knock, this time a little more forcefully.
“Frank, it’s me, Detective Trace.”
Frank felt his chest tighten. He stared in the mirror. He was soaking wet, but at first glance he appeared to have rid himself of the blood. He grabbed a towel, dried his face, neck, chest and arms, then looked down at his shirt. Water splotches mixed with red stains covered it. He tore it off and threw it in the hamper behind the door. He wiped down the countertop with the towel, then tore open the shower curtain to throw the towel in the tub and screamed.
Like a little girl.
In the tub lay the body of another woman. And scrawled on the wall, in blood, was his name.
Now the knocking was more urgent. “Frank, are you okay?”
Frank stared at the body for a moment, then the towel still in his hand.
I’m not going to prison.
He closed the shower curtain, tossed the towel into the hamper, did a quick eyeball of the bathroom, then flushed the toilet. “Just a minute!”
The knocking at least stopped.
He took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Detective Trace, what are you doing here?”
Trace stared at Frank’s naked chest. “Jesus, kid, don’t you own any shirts?”
Frank blushed. “Yeah, well, you know, at home, comfortable.”
She looked down at his pants. “In slacks?”
Frank shrugged.
“May I come in?”
He shrugged again and stepped back from the door. Trace entered, giving the apartment a quick once over with her trained eye, careful to keep Frank in sight the entire time. As far as she could see, nothing was amiss.
“We were worried about you.”
Frank gulped. “Me, why?”
She stepped deeper into the apartment, keeping him in the corner of her eye. “Shakespeare was looking for you, something to do with the photo you were working on.”
Frank closed the door and followed her. “Was there a problem with it?”
This time Trace shrugged her shoulders. “No idea, he just asked me to come get you, said it was urgent.”
“No problem, let me get a shirt.” He rushed to the bedroom and closed the door.
Seems a little too eager to get out of here. What are you hiding, kid?
She glanced over her shoulder and noticed the cupboards were not the same design as their vic’s. Lie number one. The only other door besides the bedroom she assumed to be the bathroom. She covered the few feet swiftly, opening the bathroom door and looking in. Except for a slight fog on the mirror, everything seemed fine. She was about to leave when out of habit she pulled aside the shower curtain and gasped.
A noise behind her had her reaching for her weapon when she felt something hit her head, and the room turn to black.
Frank stared at his handiwork, and sobbed.
What have I done?
Trace was bound and gagged in his gaming chair with duct tape, still unconscious. The jade green sphinx statue he had hit her with lay broken, half still on the bathroom floor, the other half that had remained in his hand tossed on the living room carpet.
I hope I didn’t hit her too hard.
His phone vibrated and he jumped. Not again!
TICK TOCK
LITTLE TIME ON THE CLOCK
TAKING OUT A COP
IS OVER THE TOP
He paused for a moment. How does he know what I just did? He spun around, searching the apartment for who, or what, he didn’t know, but the hairs standing up on the back of his neck told him he was being watched. It made sense. In the other apartment he had received two text messages, too well timed, for someone to not have eyes on him. He looked at the large floor to ceiling window occupying one side of his apartment. The drapes were shut. There was no way for anyone to see in. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.
Think!
He hit Trace in the bathroom, tied her up in the living area. That eliminated the bedroom. Or did it? Had he opened the door? He searched back in time, through his jumbled, confused memories. Had he gone back into the bedroom?
No!
He opened his eyes. Sometimes you gotta think like a criminal. Shakespeare’s words echoed in his head, something he had overheard him say to Eldridge. And it made sense. You can’t think like a law abiding citizen when you’re trying to catch one who’s not. If I were a criminal—and I’m not!—how would I keep eyes on my victim? Curtains closed. No one else in the apartment besides him and Trace. Two different apartments, more than one floor separating them, but on the same side of the building. It couldn’t be a hole in the floor or ceiling, otherwise they would have to have two apartments in the building, and he knew that was almost impossible. Almost. He shook his head. Not a peep hole.
He looked at the curtains again. They were closed, as they had been in the other apartment, and a peephole on the outer wall would be useless to anyone but a window cleaner. His heart leapt. He raced for the curtains, threw them open, but found no one. He looked up and down, but no window cleaning rig was in sight.
Okay, so not a peep hole.
Camera! He spun, his eyes quickly taking in the room, looking for anything new, anything out of the ordinary, but could see nothing. It would have to be something he wouldn’t move, something hollow with a natural opening, something that gave a full view of his apartment, possibly including the bathroom. Possibly in the bathroom.
Trace groaned.
He whipped around to face her as her eyes fluttered open. It took a few moments for her to be fully aware of her situation, and she screamed against the gag, her eyes daggers. He stepped over to the chair she struggled against and knelt down. “I’m going to remove the gag, but you have to promise me you won’t scream.”
Tears rolled down his face as she nodded. He gently pulled at the corners, trying not to hurt her. He had a tight grip on one corner when she yanked her head to the side, ripping the tape from her mouth. She leaned toward him, her face only inches from his.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Frank fell back on the floor, startled at the vehemence. But would you be any different? He thought about it. I’d probably have pissed my pants then begged for my life. Trace was looking around, probably for some means of escape, when Frank stood back up, resuming his search.
“Untie me now, Frank. You don’t want to add a cop to your kill list.”
Frank’s heart thudded against his chest. “I’m n-not going to hurt you.” His voice was a hoarse whisper, his throat having gone dry with the dismay his co-worker thought him a killer. What did you expect? You attacked her and tied her up, after she found a body in your tub!
“That’s good, Frank, that’s a start.” She looked from side to side at the duct tape binding her arms to the chair. “Now how about you untie me and explain everything to me. We’ll just talk, okay?”
He knew she was lying. She was trying to save herself from someone she thought was a killer. She’d say anything to get him to free her, then she’d use her cop training to kick the shit out of him. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that, not as long as you think I’m a killer.”
Frank resumed his search, but could find nothing. The apartment was sparse. After all, he was just starting his life. His chest tightened. I’m only twenty-six! My life can’t be over already! Another deep breath and a slow exhale. He looked up. And smiled. If I were a criminal…
He rushed to his desk, yanked open a drawer and pulled out a small black tool kit he used for working on his computers. He unzipped it as he rushed back to the kitchen then jumped up on the counter. Standing up, he was now eye to eye with the cold air return above his cupboards.
And he could see it.
He grabbed a Phillips head screw driver, and furiously removed one of the screws holding the grate in place. It fell to the floor and rattled on the tile as he
pried at the grate with his finger tips and bent it away.
Inside sat a small camera, hooked to a cellphone, a piece of tape over the red light that would have revealed its presence had he thought to look. He ripped it from the duct, and in his excitement, forgot where he was, stepping back in triumph to show his prize to Trace, only to find nothing under his foot. He fell backward, his head hit the island countertop, and the world around him slowly went black. He heard a voice as if off in the distance, just before he passed out.
“Well that’s just fuckin’ lovely.”
SIX
Sarah woke and rubbed her eyes. Her stomach rumbled slightly, but not as ferociously as she would have thought it should. It just felt—off. She wondered if she would ever get fed here. Just another part of my eternal damnation. She leaned against the wall, the feeling fading, but not completely, a dull reminder always there. Strangely she didn’t feel weak. She had no idea how long she had been here, but it felt like at least a couple of days. And it already felt like an eternity. How she would last an actual eternity, she couldn’t fathom. Already she felt herself slipping, her mind starting to feel crazed thoughts, thoughts of charging the door at the end of the chamber, and risking the horrors on the other side. Instead she prayed. She prayed for God to forgive her, to free her from her horror, to give her a second chance.
“Please, God, help me,” she whispered.
“God can’t help you here, my child.”
She screamed and pushed herself away from the voice before she had a chance to look. Halfway down the wall to her right, she glanced back and saw an old lady, smiling at her. Smiling at her from under a habit. What the hell is a nun doing in Hell?
The old woman smiled at her, as if she could read her thoughts. Maybe she can?
“I suppose you are wondering how a nun ends up in Hell.”
Sarah nodded.
The sister looked at the floor, her eyes sad, the corners of her lips turned down. “I was just a woman”—she looked up at Sarah—“like you in many ways, I suspect.”
Sarah gave her a slight smile of encouragement to continue.
The sister took in a deep breath of the hot, dry air surrounding them, and continued. “I wasn’t always in the Order, and during my youth I was, how shall we say, pretty wild?”
A chuckle almost burst from Sarah’s mouth, but she stopped it after the first sound. “Sorry.” But she wasn’t. It was the first laugh she had had since being here. “Continue.”
The sister smiled. “No need to apologize my child, I wouldn’t believe it if I were you either.” She arranged her robes as if to delay what she was about to say next. “My sin is I loved another man.”
“Huh?” Sarah couldn’t believe she had just said that to a nun. “I mean, pardon me? Another man? How is that even possible? I thought nuns weren’t allowed to, you know, have relationships.”
“Relationships. I like how you put that, my child.” Again she straightened her perfectly black robes. “All of those in the Order are expected to love only one man. Do you know who that is?”
Sarah nodded. “God?”
“Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. We love him with all our hearts, rejoice in his greatness, and his love for us and all mankind. But I loved another as well, and that is why I am here.”
Sarah was intrigued, to the point where she almost forgot where she was. “Who? Who was it?”
The sister lowered her head. “Father Carmichael.”
Sarah gulped. “You had sex with a priest?”
The sister’s head darted up. “Heaven’s no! How could you think such a thing?”
Sarah’s mouth went dry. “Umm, well, you know, you said you loved him, and, well, you are here”—Sarah waved her arms indicating their prison—“so I just assumed—”
“That the only way to love a man is to have sex with him?”
Oh, God, I wish I had had sex with Frank. To have died with that memory…
Sarah shrugged.
The old lady chuckled. “Oh, you kids today. You know, I fear for the future of mankind with the attitudes I see displayed by the youth. Have you actually read the lyrics of some of these rap songs they play on the radio? Disgusting! When I was younger I used to listen to rock and roll. Beatles, Stones, Kiss. But what they sang about was nothing compared to what the kids are listening to today.” She jabbed her finger at Sarah. “Do you know that songs they play now talk about gangbangs, killing cops, raping women?” She sucked in a lungful of air. “And these are the hit songs. These are the songs playing on the radio.”
Sarah wasn’t sure what to say. She wanted to know how loving a priest would earn a nun a seat at Hell’s table, but was also enjoying just listening to someone else’s voice. “How do you know this?”
“Because I’ve been helping Father Carmichael do a study on the decay of our youth, and we have linked it to rap music.”
Sarah frowned. “Sounds rather simplistic to me.”
The sister nodded. “And it is. Think about this. Kids can’t see a movie at a theatre if it’s meant for adults because the movie theatre won’t let them in. At home, parents can set a password to stop kids from seeing TV shows and movies they shouldn’t see, and when watching shows or movies at home, they usually do so as a family. But music? Parents can’t stand their kids’ music, so they don’t listen to it. The kids listen to radio or songs they download on their iPods, and the parents just assume the government is monitoring what is being sung about. People don’t realize that the government only responds to complaints. If parents knew what their kids were listening to, they’d be horrified.”
“So working on this, is that how you fell in love?”
She nodded. “Yes, we had decided we needed to start a campaign to inform parents of what was going on.” Sarah sighed. There seemed to be no stopping the woman’s tirade. “We were going to give parents a list of the top ten worst songs, all of which were in heavy rotation on the radio stations, give them the lyrics, and then ask them to check their children’s iPods to see if they had these songs.” She smiled and looked at the ceiling, as if remembering something. “It was his idea,” she said, almost wistfully. “It was a brilliant plan to save our children. Fight back against the radio stations by getting legions of parents to phone in complaints, encourage parents to go on the Internet and type the word ‘lyrics’ followed by the name of the song, and read for themselves what their kids were listening to, and then stop them. If the songs stopped selling, then these so-called artists would stop making them.” She sighed. “It was a brilliant plan. It would have been a long, hard fight, but in the end, I think we would have won. We might have saved the next generation of kids.”
“But what happened?”
“I fell in love.”
“I know that, but—”
“I fell in love, and told Father Carmichael how I felt.”
“Oh.” Sarah could read the pain on the woman’s face. “What happened then?”
“He chastised me for breaking my vows, and told Mother Superior he no longer wanted to see me.”
“What an asshole!”
The old lady lifted her head, shock written across her face. “No! No! Not at all! He was right; he reacted exactly as he should.”
“Seems to me he didn’t want you around because he’d be tempted.”
This time the sister looked uncertain of what to say. Sarah pressed on.
“Think about it. He knew you loved him. You were like the forbidden fruit, dangling there, day in and day out, that he could taste at any time, and if he had let you stay with him, working on your project, he may have given into that temptation, and broken his own vows.”
“Perhaps you’re right, my child,” the woman whispered.
“Damn right I’m right. I think he loved you too, but when you put it into words, he got scared, and like a little wimp he turned you in rather than face his own weakness.”
The woman nodded. “I wish I had thought of that myself, before…”
Sarah waited, but nothing came. “Before?”
The woman raised both her arms, her robe sliding up to her elbows, revealing her bare skin. “Before I did this.”
She slowly rotated her wrists, palms up, and Sarah gasped.
Both wrists were sliced open, their bloodless wounds revealing the sister’s ultimate sin.
“Aynslee!”
Aynslee jumped in her chair and stared at the room around her, a dozen faces seated at the table turned toward her. She searched her mind, trying to remember what was just asked of her, but she drew a blank. She in fact didn’t even know who had snapped her from her reverie, her reverie of horror, of pain, of sadness, of what could have been.
“What?” She looked at Jeffrey Merle, the news director for WACX News, the only one leaning forward with an expression indicating he might be waiting for an answer. She shook her head. “Sorry, Jeff, what was that?”
“I asked if you were sure you’re ready to go back on tonight.”
She nodded. “Definitely.”
“Hmmmm.” Merle didn’t sound convinced.
She leaned forward, pleading her case not only to him, but to her unconvinced self. “I’m ready. I need this. I need to work again. I’m going crazy just editing copy, twiddling my thumbs. I need to get back in the game.”
Merle grimaced then smiled. “Okay, you’re on.” He stood and began to clap. “Welcome back, Aynslee!”
The room erupted in applause as everyone stood to join him. Aynslee felt herself blush, and knew despite her slightly darker complexion there would be no hiding it. Tears filled her eyes and spilt down her cheeks at the outpouring from everyone in the room.
Except for that asshole Jonathan Shaw, who sat impassively staring at her with hate filled eyes. Get over it, I’m the anchor, you’re still the crime reporter. You got schooled by someone half your age. Live with it. His daggers gave her strength and she smiled, standing up to join the others as they surrounded her. Hugs and back slaps abounded. Merle came around the table and gave her a big hug, his beer belly pushing against her toned stomach. He whispered in her ear, “Good luck, kiddo!” and planted a small peck on her cheek.
Tick Tock (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #2) Page 10
