In the bleak midwinter asacm-1

by M. R. Sellars

  She chewed on her lip for a moment, staring down at the seemingly brilliant screen while still keeping an ear out for any noises other than the occasional moan of the wind outside, which had been prevalent all along. Her thumb hovered over the send button, gently caressing it then drawing back hesitantly before brushing against it again. After a moment, she shifted the digit over and tapped the back button to erase the words of affection, effectively reducing the message to a simple Christmas greeting with no expectations or strings. Only then did she finally hit SEND.

  Constance watched as the display flashed “1 MESSAGE SENT,” then she shoved the cell back into her coat pocket. It was set to silent mode, so she resolved to check it later for a reply. Surely he was still up. He was like a big kid when it came to Christmas.

  She noticed a dim afterimage brought on by the relative brightness of the LCD. It remained floating in her sightline no matter where she pointed her gaze. She blinked and then stared off into space, waiting for it to disappear as her eyes readjusted to the negligible illumination making it to the interior of the house. After thirty seconds or so, she was back to seeing blue-black shadows and shapes.

  The caffeine pills she had downed would probably be kicking in soon. After all, she had taken them on an empty stomach, which was probably not the best of ideas, but it was sure to get them into her system quickly. She felt a gurgle flutter through her gut as her body made an attempt to inform her of its displeasure with the aforementioned emptiness.

  Annoying as it was, Ben had been dead on the mark with his admonishment earlier in the day. She was pushing herself way too hard and ignoring her body when it told her as much. However, there were times when taking yourself beyond the limit was all part of the job. If she could make it through the next several hours, then she would finally be able to give in and let go. Until that time, however, she needed to stay focused on the task at hand, so since she was doing nothing other than playing the waiting game at the moment, heeding her stomach’s call might well be a good choice.

  With a quiet sigh, Constance slowly reached over and found the paper bag of sandwiches. Plucking it off the counter she began to carefully unfold the top. Egg salad for Christmas dinner, not exactly her first choice.

  Still, she had to admit, at least a sandwich should be easy to eat in the dark, and better yet, it wasn’t that MRE.

  CHAPTER 25

  4:47 A.M. – December 25, 2010

  632 Evergreen Lane

  Hulis Township – Northern Missouri

  Sheriff Carmichael was correct. His wife did make a good egg salad sandwich. In fact, it was excellent. Constance wasn’t sure if she had reached that conclusion because it really was that superb or because she was starving. She supposed it could be a little of both.

  Unfortunately, as good as it was, and even though she had eaten it almost five hours ago, the sandwich was still sitting heavy on her stomach. She knew it wasn’t the sandwich’s fault, of course. Most of the blame had to fall squarely on her growing anxiety. She had been waiting all night, and she knew that contrary to what a horror movie might depict, killing and dismembering someone with an axe wasn’t a trivial process. It wasn’t something that could be accomplished quickly. It required a little time and dedication to the task. Since there were only a few hours of darkness left to go before daybreak, she felt sure something should have happened by now.

  What was left of the guilty burden for creating the brick in her stomach surely belonged to the half dozen caffeine pills she’d taken over a better than eight hour span. Of course, the lack of sleep they were working to combat certainly wasn’t helping her situation either, so she was caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place.

  More than one, when she really thought about it.

  She was still sitting in the dark, perched on the kitchen counter just as she had been since Skip had left her here. After a while, the close-in stretching exercises had ceased to help much. She could almost feel her muscles seizing up, so she had switched tactics. Now, every fifteen minutes or so, she would slowly flex her knees and rotate her ankles, then stretch her arms to her sides and rotate her shoulders in shallow orbits while arching her back. The latter was the hardest part, given the constrictions of her Kevlar vest. At the very least the limited movement was keeping the circulation going. What she desperately wanted to do was stand up, really stretch, bend, twist, and walk around. She had been sitting still for far too long and she needed to loosen up. She was sure a bit of movement would do wonders for her stomach brick as well.

  It would warm her up too.

  While the house had started out like a deep-freeze, it seemed as though it only became worse as the night wore on. She could feel the prickly fingers of the coldness clawing at her joints with each passing hour. She was chilled all the way to the core, and she imagined that at this point the only things standing between her and hypothermia were the insulated undergarments beneath her layered clothing and coat, the Kevlar vest, and the thick wool socks on her feet.

  Yes, moving around would definitely help.

  But she had to stop thinking about it. Moving wasn’t an option right now, so dwelling on it just added to the torture. It was almost like having a really bad itch in a place you couldn’t reach.

  Definitely, she had to focus her mind elsewhere. No matter what the sheriff had said, she was sticking to the stealth approach, and that meant sit here and moving as little as possible until it became necessary.

  Focus, Constance, she thought. Stay on task.

  She sent her eyes searching through the blue, black, and gray shadows, reassessing the status for the thousandth time. The back door was still secure; it hadn’t budged. The shadows in the hallway hadn’t changed, which told her the basement door was still closed, just as it had been all night. While the front door was well out of her view even if she had light, she hadn’t heard the hinges even creak, and all reports from the outside indicated the house was still secure. However, it couldn’t stay that way if this murder happened.

  And, if and when the killer somehow managed to sneak past the eyes outside without being seen, and he was bold enough to come through the front, back, or even a window, he would still need to pass through the corridor in front of her to get downstairs. She had no intention of being duped, as had apparently been the case in the past. This was ending here, on her watch.

  Constance still had the volume on her radio tweaked to just barely above a whisper, but that shouldn’t present an issue. It was still audible as long as it was next to her, and besides, for the most part it was so quiet in the house she could hear her own heart beating in her chest. She doubted she would miss a call if something went down outside.

  She slowly lifted her arm, rolled it in close to her stomach, then slid her other hand over and pushed up her coat sleeve. Cupping her hand around her watch, she pressed a finger along the side. The dial instantly illuminated and glowed back at her. There were still a little over ten minutes left before the next radio check. Also, according to the calendar she’d referenced before leaving Skip’s office, sunrise was at 7:17. That meant only about two and one-half hours until it would start getting light out. Not much time. If something was going to happen, it would have to be very soon.

  This whole operation was starting to look like a total bust. Of course, to hear Carmichael tell the story it was as if the body parts simply appeared out of nowhere, so for all she knew they were already down there in the basement, arranged and waiting to be found.

  No, she thought. I don’t buy that. We must have spooked the killer this time…

  She was still staring at the digits on her watch face as they clicked from 4:47 to 4:48.

  That was when she heard the whimper.

  At first, she wasn’t certain that she’d really heard anything at all. The wind had been making a habit of sighing and moaning whenever it blew through the trees outside. Now and then the radio had quietly popped or chirped from random interference or someone inadvertently keying
up outside. She would always listen intently, but so far the events had amounted to nothing.

  That’s probably what this was too. Nothing.

  When she thought about it, what she had imagined to be a whimper had really been just a single thin peep, barely perceptible in an audible range at all. It could have easily been the tip of a blowing tree branch briefly scratching against the siding of the house. However, she had to admit that it sounded as if it was coming from somewhere inside, not outside. Of course, that was explained easily enough as well. It could have been a complaint coming from the countertop after having to support her weight in one spot for so long.

  Still, Constance held her breath and even tried willing her heart to pause so that no other noise could interfere, then she cocked her head and waited to see if she could hear the sound again.

  Nothing.

  She continued to wait, listening intently to the silence.

  When she could no longer hold her breath, she let it out in a slow, quiet stream, then shifted as carefully as she could. The countertop let out a single thin peep as she moved, and she softly sighed a measure of relief. There it was, and there was the source. No reason for alarm.

  She settled back into her motionless state and tried to relax. However, that unreachable itch was back, and she was once again feeling a desperate need to move. With the way things seemed to be playing out, she was now starting to consider throwing caution to the wind and going for a complete change of position. Maybe even standing up for a while. Her right butt cheek was actually starting to go numb from the cold, or maybe from the lack of movement. In truth, it was probably a combination of the two.

  Her heart was starting to settle from its sudden flutter brought on by the nothing noise. At least something good had come of it. The rush was leaving her feeling momentarily energized, and that wasn’t a bad thing. She drew in a deep breath, and thought about the sound, but more than that, her reaction to it.

  “You’re imagining things… ” She mutely chastised herself. “ You’re sleep deprived… You’re hopped up on caffeine pills… You’re …”

  The rest of the thought was unceremoniously truncated by an obviously male-sounding voice. However, it spoke no words. Its muted cry entered her ears as nothing more, and nothing less, than a surprised and pained yelp, coming up through the floor from the basement.

  The adrenalin dump was instantaneous. Constance felt a hot flush come over her as every muscle in her body tensed. She immediately launched herself from the counter, her feet thudding hard against the floor. Stealth had now ceased to be important.

  Her right hand went immediately to her Sig, thumb fluidly catching the quick release on the FLETCH holster as her fingers slipped firmly into position and she filled her hand with the weapon. She brought it up and reached back with her free hand, fumbling for a second before snatching the two-way from the counter.

  Keying the radio, she yelled, “Backup! Backup NOW! There’s someone in the house!”

  She didn’t wait for a reply. She dropped the radio, and it bounced from the edge of the countertop, then clattered across the floor. She was already in motion while pulling a small flashlight from her coat pocket. With a flick of her thumb it was on. Although her eyes had been adjusted to the dark, the powerful blue-white LED beam was now welcome as it bloomed to life.

  Holding it upside down with the business end at the heel of her fist, she brought her left forearm up in front of her chest, projecting the swath of light outward. She rested her right wrist atop the other in a stable firing position, cocking her elbows in close as she aimed her eyes down the sights of her weapon. Advancing out of the kitchen she paused at the archway, glancing right to check the front door, fully expecting Sheriff Carmichael or one of his deputies to come bursting through.

  No one did. Not from the front, nor from the back.

  “Dammit!” she muttered. Maybe in her haste she hadn’t fully keyed up the radio. She shot a rapid glance over her shoulder at the device lying on the floor, but there was no time to turn around for it and call them again. A weaker, but still audible, gurgling half-scream came up from the floorboards beneath her feet, and it was followed by a sickening, wet sounding thump.

  There was another soggy thump and then the ping of metal against concrete.

  She needed to get to the basement right now.

  Since she was wearing her vest, she prayed that if a deputy or the sheriff came through the door unexpectedly and fired without warning at whatever they saw moving, they’d stick to their training and go for center mass… Or preferably miss her entirely.

  Taking the chance, she advanced quickly. In a half-dozen long steps, she moved down the hallway toward the basement door, crossed in front of it, then turned and reached for the doorknob with her left hand while keeping her Sig Sauer poised in firing position with her right. Grasping the round, brass handle with her fingers and thumb while palming the flashlight, she twisted.

  It didn’t budge.

  She rapidly stuffed the still-illuminated flashlight into her pocket, wrapped her hand fully back around the doorknob, gripping as tightly as she could, and tried again to twist it in either direction. It remained frozen and unyielding.

  She suddenly recalled the last time she had been at the butcher shop while they were cutting meat on a block behind the counter and the sound of the cleaver hacking against flesh and bone. Then she remembered the metallic ping she’d created earlier, each time she had hammered the tire iron against concrete. Now, beyond the door, continuing at random intervals, she could hear the dull echoes of a hauntingly similar sickly thump and ping, and she found herself wanting to vomit.

  In between it all was a high-pitched whimpering. The screams, however, were now gone.

  She shouldered the door in an attempt to break it loose, managing to do little more than send a sharp pain running down her arm and across her back. Rocking backward with everything she could muster, she tried pulling at the door again, but it remained steadfastly in place and the knob still wouldn’t budge.

  Stepping back, she braced herself and cocked her knee, driving her foot against the wooden barrier. There was a hard, hollow thump, but no movement at all, save for the jarring vibrations radiating into her joints. She threw another violent kick but met with the same result.

  Panting hard, in a last ditch effort she backed up against the opposite wall and brought her sidearm to bear on the jamb where the handset met the frame. Just as she was about to squeeze the trigger, she heard a small shuffle then a quiet thump.

  It was a different noise than before-measured and deliberate.

  She relaxed her finger and listened.

  The noises repeated in tandem. This time the shuffle was followed first by a light but still sharp thunk, then by a quieter and softer thump.

  A pause; then they came again…

  Another pause, and then shuffle, thunk, thump yet again… Moving audibly closer with each repetition.

  Someone was coming up the stairs.

  Constance glanced quickly to the right and then slid her back along the wall until she hit the casing around a doorframe. Taking a quick step to the right and then back, she moved into the empty doorway that was diagonally opposite of the basement entryway itself. The basement door should swing out and to her left. Whenever it finally opened, whoever was coming up the stairs would be standing directly in her line of fire.

  The slow shuffle continued, followed by the sharp thunk and soft thump. Occasionally the odd rhythm was joined by the barest of a creak from the wooden stairs. Each time, the noises sounded closer, until finally they came to a halt immediately on the opposite side of the basement door. Constance watched on in the darkness, waiting.

  Eventually, a slow click and scrape sounded as the old doorknob began to turn.

  “FEDERAL AGENT!” She called out, her voice loud but still hoarse and rough. “STEP OUT SLOWLY WITH YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD! NOW!”

  Constance kept her focus straight ahead, looking
into the shadows with both eyes targeting down the sights of the Sig Sauer as she held it stiff-armed before her. The latch completely released with a languid pop, and she detected movement as the door itself slowly parted from the jamb.

  A wisp of air, colder than the already frigid house, brushed against her cheek, startling in its intensity. Steeling herself, she sucked in a deep breath and repeated her previous instruction.

  “STEP OUT SLOWLY WITH YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD!”

  With a long, low creak, the door pivoted open on its hinges. She sucked in another breath and held it, visualizing in her mind the top of the stairwell as it had been when she had ascended it earlier. Leveling her arms in a straight-on isosceles stance, she targeted at a point where she estimated an average-sized man’s chest would be as he came up and through the opening.

  Her aim was far too high.

  As the door swung wide, she found herself staring at the dark silhouette of a much smaller figure. In fact, it seemed to be the size of a small child. Moving her weapon down and training it on the shadow she barked, “FEDERAL OFFICER! DON’T MOVE!”

  The silhouette seemed to obey, remaining frozen in place. Leaving the Sig aimed squarely at the figure, Constance dug her left hand quickly into her pocket, withdrew the still burning flashlight and pointed it at the lower portion of the doorway.

  Staring back at her, unblinking in the blue-white brilliance, was a freckle-faced girl of around ten-years-old. Her mop of chestnut hair was tangled and matted. She was smeared with filth, and obvious tracks could be seen where tears had once streamed down her cheeks, but had now gone dry. What she could see of the rest of the child’s bare skin was splattered with blood, bruises, open wounds, and festering cigarette burns. She was partially clad in the ripped shreds of a plaid school uniform.

  Constance slowly lowered her weapon as she stared in disbelief, remembering Sheriff Carmichael’s description of Merrie Frances Callahan when he had discovered her on Christmas morning, 1975.