by April Hill
She was feeling her way around the walls, looking for the last of the four windows, when the flashlight went out, and for a few moments, Beth stood completely still in the utter darkness, listening to the silence and afraid to move.
"Don't be an idiot," she whispered and wondered why she was whispering. "There's nothing down here but a lot of junk and sixty years of bug corpses." She moved her hand around in front of her, then back, and when she inadvertently brushed the top of her own head, she realized that she had a fair-sized collection of expired bugs tangled in her hair. "Okay," she whispered, "time to go back upstairs."
The slight creaking sound as the basement door closed was barely audible over her labored breathing. It wasn't until she heard the loud click of a lock that Beth started to panic. That's when the terrible sucking sound began.
* * * * *
Gurgling, Beth thought. It sounds more like gurgling than sucking. But water, definitely water. It started sucking again, and she revised her analysis. It sounded like a really gigantic plunger, trying to clear a gigantically big toilet.
She finally made her way to the basement stairs by feeling her way along the wall, inch by slimy inch, then scrambled franticly up the steps on her hands and knees, fully expecting to find Felix Kruger waiting for her at the top with a dripping candle—laughing. She was halfway up when the sucking sound stopped.
The basement door was locked from the inside, and not the hallway side, which precluded the possibility of a sinister force being responsible for the locked door. She had simply left the latch in the wrong position when she came down. It took her several minutes of groveling around in the dark to find the key, which had fallen out of the keyhole and bounced down four steps before coming to rest in what felt like a puddle of motor oil, and turned out, when she found another flashlight, to be a puddle of motor oil.
After showering and washing the dead bugs out of her hair, Beth found the half-bottle of wine Adam had opened the evening of the infamous over-the-sink spanking and downed it in three large gulps.
Adam wasn't in when she called. He wasn't in on her third call or on her fifth, and by that time, she had fallen asleep, with the bedroom door locked and all of the cats on the bed with her.
When she woke up later that night, she remembered something odd.
* * * * *
Beth had always heard that, after a bad night, things look better in the morning, and by the time she woke up that Sunday morning, she did feel better. Mildly hung over, but better. She still had no idea what the sucking sound had been, but nothing bad had actually happened during her foray into the basement. When Adam finally returned her many calls at six in the morning, she didn't mention the incident in the basement, or the sucking sound. Which left him confused.
"The dispatcher said you sounded scared," he said. "I'm sorry I didn't get your calls earlier, but there was a lot going on, and my personal cell phone was off most of the time."
"I'm fine. What was your emergency?" she asked sleepily.
"A case we've been working on and off for a couple of years. Most of it's in Norwood County's jurisdiction, but there's kind of an overlap."
"A murder?" she asked.
There was a pause at the other end of the line. "One, that they know of. They think the other suspected victims have probably just moved on. There's an ongoing problem with vagrancies up there."
Beth sat up in bed. "What kind of vagrants? Women?"
Another long pause. "No one up there thinks any of this is connected, Beth." His voice dropped lower. "To Kruger, I mean."
"But there are women missing, right? And one dead?"
A longer pause. "Maybe. A lot of the women involved are prostitutes, and tend to move around. No permanent addresses, no forwarding addresses when they leave. We don't even have last names on a lot of them."
"A lot?" she repeated. "How many are missing?"
"Another pause, but shorter this time. "The estimate is eighteen right now, but it could go higher."
"You're not going to tell me anything else, are you?" she asked glumly.
"I can't," he answered.
"Okay. Are you coming home soon, though?"
"Not until this afternoon," he said. "Sorry, babe, but I've still got a lot of phone calls backed up and a pile of paperwork to finish. Take a nap and find something filmy to put on."
* * * * *
Kruger always went out early Sunday morning, and he rarely returned to the house before dark. It was something Beth had learned from careful observation and meticulous recordkeeping over the nine-month period she'd been suspicious of Felix. She'd kept a log of his comings and goings for the same amount of time, on the chance that the information would eventually prove useful. She didn't know too much about what he did on his outings, because on the first two occasions she'd attempted to follow him, she'd gotten lost once and stalled in traffic the second time. Her third attempt was more successful, but nothing about his actions or destination on that day seemed particularly suspicious. He'd visited his mother's grave and gone to church, and on that day, she had a feeling he'd seen and recognized her. After that, she never tried again. Following someone without being seen was nowhere near as easy as it looked on TV. When your car was what was impolitely referred to as cat-vomit green, it was virtually impossible. Beth had purchased her little Honda secondhand and promptly had it repainted at a cost of eighty-nine dollars at an establishment she'd seen advertised on local TV. "Wally the Repaint Wizard" had optimistically described the color she selected from a paint chip as "a real nice sort of leaf green." The result was more on the order of neon, bordering on radioactive.
Today, fortunately, she wouldn't have to trail her suspect in a car in a hideous green car with a bad muffler. Today, all she would have to do is crawl over the shared back wall and pry off Felix's rear screen with a big screwdriver.
Getting the screen off was also nowhere nearly as easy as it looked on TV. The window screens in TV mystery dramas always popped off with a mere twist of the perpetrator's wrist, allowing quick access to the window. The taut metal fabric on Felix's window screen tore from top to bottom, but the wooden framework stayed securely in place. Crawling through the shredded screening would entail discomfort, a degree of pain, and a possible loss of blood, but tearing the remaining fabric from the frame would be time-consuming and noisy.
Beth swore, and revised the plan. She'd have to settle for the potting shed, which had no screens, and a small, high window that might well have permitted entry—had she been eighteen inches taller, and twenty-five pounds lighter. Beth revised the plan again. There was a glass skylight in the roof and a stack of large concrete pots at the rear of the shed that made an excellent ladder.
* * * * *
Adam's cell phone began vibrating just before noon, and almost danced off the desktop before he could grab it. A courtesy call from an Emergency Services dispatcher. Did he know a woman by the name of Mary Elizabeth Walker, at 285 Hazelwood Circle?
CHAPTER SEVEN
McCann was at the house in twenty minutes, and found Beth in the living room, arguing with two Emergency Medical Service technicians.
"She won't go to the hospital," the first EMT explained. "Said she had to wait for you."
"What happened?" McCann asked. The question was directed to the EMS personnel, but he was looking at Beth, who was sitting on the arm of the couch, evidently in excellent health but almost unbelievably dirty.
"Damned if we know," the first man explained. "Some neighbor called in and reported someone trying to climb over the wall out there. Told our dispatcher his dog was poisoned last month, so now he calls in everything that looks suspicious, no matter how minor. Said whoever was crawling over the wall kept falling back every time he tried, like he was stoned."
Adam nodded, and shot Beth a look that made her gulp.
"When we showed up, this woman here was sitting out there in the back yard, looking kind of dazed. Doesn't seem to be the one the witness called in about, thou
gh. He said it was probably a guy, dressed all in black like some of terrorist. This lady here swears she hasn't been drinking and that she's not hurt, but she won't let us check her out," the second EMT added. "You want to take over here—officially? "
"Yeah, I'll handle it," Adam said. "Thanks."
"No problem." The first man leaned closer, and whispered. "Is she okay? Mentally, I mean? She's been talking kind of …well, nutty, frankly."
"She's fine," Adam said. "That's just the way she talks sometimes."
The two men gathered up their equipment and left. A minute later, McCann and Beth were alone in the living room. "Okay, what happened?" he asked.
"Nothing," she said.
"Let me see you stand up," he ordered, not too gently.
Beth shook her head. "In a minute. I was down in the basement," she lied, telling herself that what she was saying was—strictly speaking—true. Or had been, the night before. "And I sort of tripped on the stairs. I just need to catch my breath."
He pointed to her right foot. "What's wrong with your foot?"
"Foot?" she asked, brightly.
McCann sighed. "Yeah. Your foot. It looks twisted. You can't walk, can you?"
"Don't be ridiculous, " she scoffed. "Of course I can walk." She struggled to her feet, took a tentative step and stumbled directly into his waiting arms.
Fifteen minutes later, he carried her into the emergency room at Merritt General Hospital, where they learned that the "great toe" of her right foot was broken—and badly dislocated.
When the doctor left the room for a minute, McCann leaned over and asked the question Beth had been dreading: "Okay, Batgirl, where'd you stash the black outfit?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," she hissed, and added a small moan for effect. "Can't you see I'm in pain?"
"Right now, it's only your toe that hurts. You want to add a blistered butt?"
Beth groaned. "Oh, all right! I stuck it under one of Felix's stupid flower pots."
After the toe had been realigned, Beth responded to the powerful sedative they'd given her by going out like a light. McCann stayed with her for a few minutes, then went back to the house—to do something held never before done in his long years as a cop. He entered Felix Kruger's property surreptitiously, specifically to cover up the evidence of a possible crime—or a botched one. The distinction was a small one, and not strictly legal, but it made McCann feel a little better.
Beth was awake when he got back to the hospital. Complaining.
"What a term," she growled. "Great toe. It sounds like a horror movie. The Attack of the Great Toe."
McCann touched the air-cast on her foot. "Does that hurt?"
She yelped. "Ow! Yes!"
"Glad to hear it," he said, cheerfully. "You deserve it. As soon as I find a wheelchair, I'm planning to haul you downtown and book you."
"For what?" she demanded.
"For criminal trespass—and criminal dumbness. And on the way home, I'm going to stop at a hardware store and get a couple of brand-new wooden spoons to wear out on your backside. You broke the law, and you could have broken your neck."
"But I didn't break my neck, "she said smugly. "And I got a good look into Kruger's potting shed—before I fell off the roof."
"And…?"
"It was kind of dark inside, so I couldn't see a lot, of course, but I pried up that little glass window in the roof, for a better look. He's got a couple of really big shovels in there, and a wheelbarrow, and lot of those really big black plastic garbage bags. Oh, and a hacksaw."
"That settles it, "McCann said sarcastically. "They'll give him the chair for sure. Shovels and a saw—in a gardening shed. What court wouldn't convict with that kind of evidence? Let me ask you something, Nancy Drew. What were you planning to do if Kruger caught you in the act?"
"I'm not stupid, Adam. I made sure he wasn't home, first. He always goes out on Sundays. His car was gone, but I peeked in his back window—and even tried the back door, just to be sure. Before I went up on the roof of the shed." She paused. McCann was scribbling in a small notepad. "What are you writing?"
"I'm adding up all your felonies. If you keep this up, you'll be spending our honeymoon in the state pen. Do you know what a mess you made over there? Hell, you ripped his screen in half and tore up most of the grass behind his damned shed."
"What happens if the police catch me? That witness saw me crawl over the wall."
He sighed. "They won't catch you. The witness was pretty sure he saw a man, and I cleaned everything up at Kruger's. But don't be too surprised if I end up joining you in prison. I'm hoping no one saw me destroying evidence, but you never know. If the Good Samaritan neighbor doesn't squeal to Kruger, we're okay—I think. If he talks, we're screwed."
"How did you fix the screen?"
"I shoved a lawn chair into it, hoping it'll look like the wind did it. Not great, but it's all I could think of in a hurry. I didn't want to stick around long enough to be seen by some other nosy neighbor—like you."
Beth looked around warily, then dug into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out an object wrapped in a scrap of muddy paper. "And what about this, Detective?" she said, smugly. She thrust the parcel into his hand and waited while he opened it.
"Okay, I'll bite," he said finally, after poking at the object with the tip of his pen. "What is it?"
"Don't be such a wiseass, McCann, and try remembering that I did minor in biology in college. For your information, that is a human finger."
* * * * *
Not a human finger, a friend of McCann's at the police lab concluded, but a chicken bone.
"Tell me again," Adam asked, as they drove back to the house. "What kind of grades did you pull down in biology?"
Beth groaned. "Very funny. C'mon, though—admit it. It did look a lot like a finger."
But McCann was thinking. "Where did you say you found it?"
"In back of the shed. It's right against the wall, with just enough space to get back there. Which, of course, is where I ended up when I went off the roof—wedged between the wall and the rear of the damned shed. There are a lot of bushes back there, and that's where I found this. There were several bones, just lying there in a little pile, like someone was getting ready to bury them."
"Or had just dug them up," he suggested.
"Why would Kruger dig up a bunch of old chicken bones? Or bury them, for that matter? Why would anyone?"
"What if it wasn't a someone, but a something? Like a dog?"
"A dog?"
"I had a dog once that used to bury pizza. He'd steal the half-eaten slices out of the trash and bury them—saving them for later, I guess. Maybe you weren't the only trespasser on Felix's property. Maybe he gets them regularly."
Beth thought for a minute, then shook her head. "Okay, I don't get it."
"I checked. In the last six months, there've been five reports of dogs being poisoned in your neighborhood. And the city animal control department says they've found four poisoned raccoons and one opossum within six blocks of your place—in the same approximate time period."
Beth shuddered. "And you think Felix did it?"
"I think maybe he's got something buried in his yard he'd just as soon not have dug up."
"Are you going back to Kruger's to check it out?" she asked.
"No, and neither are you, so don't get any ideas. It'll still be trespassing."
"Big deal. What could happen to us?"
"I could get an official reprimand from the department, maybe even worse. And you will get an unofficial paddling—by me, with the biggest, meanest hairbrush I can find, and with no maybes at all."
"Then how are we supposed to…?"
"Knock it off, Beth. There's no we involved in this. Keep out of it and away from Kruger." Let the cops handle it. That's what we’re for."
When she didn't respond, he took her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. "A warning—me to you. Do something else like you did today, and the next spa
nking won't be cute, or funny."
* * * * *
McCann stayed at Beth's that night, partly to make sure she stayed off her feet and took her medication on time and partly because he wanted to be watching Kruger's place when Kruger arrived home. The "cover-up" operation had been done in haste, and McCann couldn't be positive that his clumsy efforts at repair would go unnoticed.
"How many times have you seen 'Rear Window'?" McCann asked, taking the binoculars away from Beth for the fourth time that evening.
Beth hobbled over from the window and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Maybe twenty times. It’s one of my favorites. I'll bet you didn't know that a lot of people say I'm a Grace Kelly look-alike."
"Well, then, Grace, I'm sure you remember what happened to James Stewart when he got too nosy?"
"That couldn't happen to me. The scene with the flashbulbs. I'm not really disabled. I can get around. I'm just clumsy."
"Okay, let me put it this way. The next time you try trespassing on Kruger's property, or even spying on him, I'm going to take my belt to your rump, then arrest you and toss you in the clink."
"Arrest me?" she cried. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!"
"Read my lips. Until we have something to prove differently, Felix is a simple college professor—medieval literature. That's your second warning, by the way."
"He may earn his living as a college professor, but his hobby is murder," she said, firmly. "And if you're half the detective I think you are, you’ll get out there and prove it."
He grinned. "That half's not on duty now, and the half that's lying here has other things on his mind than Felix Kruger." He patted the mattress.
