by K. R. Rowe
He entered her quarters without knocking. The odious stench of burning grease filled the darkened room, making his lunch churn in his stomach. Raising each arm, he sniffed his armpits. Patients often complained of his body odor; said he was disgusting. Many had even threatened to force him outside to hose him down.
Screw them.
They probably smelled their own asses. He didn’t stink, not this time, but he knew for a fact that something was cooking in this room. The old woman sat cross-legged on the floor, her body bent over a homemade candle, the crude cloth wick hanging over the edge of a small mayonnaise jar, the pork fat melted to nothing more than dark brown liquid. Her long gray braid hung down her back, touching the floor where she sat. Although he couldn’t see her face, he heard a mumbling chant pass through her lips. Oblivious to the world around her, she didn’t acknowledge his presence but her chanting ceased when he slammed the door. Her head whipped around, her sharp blue stare scraping like shards of ice down his body. For a split second, he couldn’t stop the shudder rippling down his spine.
“Damn it, Mrs. Isabella. You know candles aren’t allowed in here.”
“I’m a married woman. You do not call me by my first name. Now get out!”
Instead, he wiped the sweat from the folds of his bloated chin, and took a step toward her. “I know what you’re doing. Those stupid rituals won’t make you immortal, so stop trying.”
A low cackle rolled from her throat. “I already am.”
“Oh you are, are you?” His belly shook with laughter, straining the buttons on his sweat stained shirt. “What are you, some kind of vampire?”
“Don’t be stupid, boy.” She turned her back, dismissing him. “There’s no such thing as vampires.”
“I’m not your boy, and you’ll never bring your precious Noah back either,” he said. “Remember? Your grandma chopped him into itty bitty pieces and fed him to the rats.”
“I’m not trying to bring back a corpse.”
“You can’t bring back rat shit either.”
He chuckled, but his laughter died when she spun toward him, her unblinking eyes bleeding hate.
“What are you staring at?” Stepping in front of her, he kicked her candle. “You gonna hack off my head too?” The candle slid a few feet away, sloshing grease over the wick, putting out the flame. “Now get rid of that and don’t let me catch you with another one.” He turned away, sick and tired of the same shit day after day. Frustrated, he mumbled, “Someone needs to teach that old bat a lesson.”
His footsteps faltered and a smile twisted his fat greasy lips. She might be old, but if he took off her diaper and closed his eyes, she’d feel just like a twenty year old. The others did. The thought sent a tingle rolling through his groin. He figured he’d have to put her in a strait jacket, but that would just add a whole new level of excitement to the mix.
Stopping in mid step, he spun toward her, but the mayonnaise jar smacked him just above the eye. His vision exploded with stars, grease splashed his face, searing his skin. Taking a step back, he swore. “What the fuck!” Wiping his cheek with the end of his shirt, he pressed his palm against his fast swelling eye. “Shit! I think you broke my eye socket! You old bitch!”
He took a threatening step toward her, but a dull thud sent him staggering backward. Sharp cold pain sliced through his windpipe. A gurgle escaped when he tried to scream. Clawing at his neck, he wrapped his fingers around the homemade shank, pulling it free.
A gush of blood spilled from the open wound, pouring down his throat, and soaking his filthy white shirt. In disbelief, he stared at the spoon handle; the sharpened end painted crimson with his blood. His body swayed, his grip slackened and the shank fell from his fingers. His knees buckling, he slumped to the floor. Lifting his hand in a silent plea, he knew it was in vain. He’d get no sympathy from her. She stood silent, her eyes locked on his, watching the blood drain from his dying body and his lungs starve for their final breath.
“Pig’s blood is better,” he heard her say. “But yours will have to do.”
Chapter 22
The Stray
Allie stood by her window, searching the streets for any signs of Detective Lawrence. She hadn’t spotted him for a few days, but knew he lurked around, and he’d surely be back—especially after tonight. If she were in Noah’s position, perverts like Lawrence would be the first to go.
Shifting her gaze, she watched the homeless man she’d left waiting in the street. A slight man, not much taller than her, but his cheeks were sunken and his body withered from malnutrition. She outweighed him by a good ten pounds, if not more. Fifteen minutes had passed with no movement, other than a stray dog trotting by searching for scraps. The old man whistled, calling the animal over. He knelt, giving the dog a scratch behind the ear. Pulling something from his pocket, he fed the stray and chuckled when its rear end wagged instead of its tail. It could have been food, probably all the old man had, and it couldn’t have been much. The touching scene melted her heart and ripped a sharp pain of guilt through her stomach.
This man had a kind heart, and he could have a better life; a useful happy one, but she shook her head and pushed the guilt out of her thoughts. She was saving him from his own misery, just like the first one.
Wasn’t she?
She understood misery—had lived it for many years—but for her, the torment was beyond her control. But it was too late now, he stood outside, and she had no choice but to let it happen. She had to do this for Noah.
The man stood, backed a few steps further into the street and looked up at her building. “Hello? Are you up there? Hey lady, are you okay?”
Dang it! Where’s Noah? She twisted the curtains between her fingers and searched the street, careful to stay out of the man’s sight. Taking a few steps away from the window, she took a deep breath and then checked again. He was still there, but nothing was happening. She jumped when he called out again.
“Hello?”
“Please be quiet, please be quiet,” she mumbled. “I have to do something before someone hears him.”
She yanked the curtains shut and spun away from the window. A low whistle came from the street below. Unfortunately, he wasn’t just going to wander away. Forcing her to act, she slid a knife from a wooden block on the kitchen counter, crept out of her apartment and down the back stairs. Skirting the side of the building, she made it to the front and peeked around the corner. He stood just a few feet away; his back turned, features obscured in the evanescent moonlight.
“Psst—hey, mister.”
He looked her way. “It’s about time, what took so long?”
“I’m sorry; I couldn’t get the front door unlocked.” Gripping the sweat slickened knife, her fingers curled tight, almost numb around the dense oak handle. “You’ll have to come with me, around back.”
He shrugged and walked past her into the alley, but stopped and turned. “Ma’am, I really want to tell you how much I appreciate this. It’s cold tonight.”
A forced smile twisted her lips as she slid the knife from behind her back. “I just want to be sure that you’re taken care of.”
A startled grunt rolled from his throat, and she couldn’t look away from the agony etched across his face. Shock and terror spilled from his eyes before his gaze traveled downward to the small feminine fingers wrapped tight around the knife buried in his chest. She yanked out the blade and he coughed, splattering her face with blood and saliva. He exhaled a gurgling breath and fell against her, grabbing her shoulders. Caught by surprise, she stumbled backwards, losing her balance, sending them both crashing to the ground.
His weight pinned her beneath him.
The man’s body convulsed, heaving a stream of hot bloody bile down the side of her head. Taking his final rattling breath, he went still. With each beat of his heart, blood pumped from his chest wound, soaking her, running down her sides, and dripping into a crimson pool beneath her back. She had to get him off of her, before the stones took them b
oth.
The pungent odor of his unwashed body settled around her, but there was something else; an unmistakable scent. The dead musty stench assaulted her nostrils. The ground vibrated against her back and the grinding cacophony of stone against stone drifted into the alley. From the corner of her eye, she saw them. Shadows slid down the sides of the buildings and swarmed toward them.
The man’s weight pressed harder atop her, and she struggled, desperate to free herself before the shadows covered them.
Oh God! I don’t want to die!
They moved closer, swirling in circles around them. The body atop her shuddered, a violent spasm racking his corpse. His chest heaved, and when she thought he took another breath, terror took hers. Was he still alive? Her panic increasing, she pushed against his shoulders, but he barely budged. He was heavier than she thought, and her muscles burned as she struggled beneath him. He moved again, but this time, his head rose as if something had grabbed it from behind. Crimson dripped from his purple lips, splattering her face. Shadows clouded his hollow dead eyes and his forehead bulged with blackened veins.
“Oh God!”
She kicked, digging her feet into the stones, trying to break free, but his bulk pressed her to the street. When his weight finally shifted, she froze. Something took hold of his ankles, dragging him down her body, then yanked him off of her. It pulled him across the gravel on his belly, leaving a thick trail of blood behind him. She scrambled to her feet and backed further into the alley, trying to get away from the road. When the grinding ceased and the stench had gone, she peeked around the corner. The body lay sprawled in the street, untouched and intact.
“What’s wrong?” she murmured. “Why won’t it take him?”
“He’s diseased,” the voice said behind her. “And he was already dead.”
Startled, she spun toward the voice. “Mrs. Michaels?”
“Come girl, leave him,” she said. “Let’s get things cleaned up. No one can know you were here.”
Chapter 23
Be Safe
The radio crackled to life, pulling him out of his thick morning grog. The dispatcher’s voice, clipped and metallic, trailed off in a series of numbers. Fear and apprehension spiraled through Phillip, waking him up in an instant; the code, too familiar, as was the address—The Sandalwood Apartments—Allie’s building.
10-54—Possible dead body.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, but before he called, more chatter filtered through the radio. The body was male.
Thank God!
Slumping in the driver’s seat, tension drained from his body. Not realizing he’d been holding his breath, he blew out a long sigh. She wasn’t hurt, but another murder had taken place near her building, and he couldn’t take chances anymore. She was safe this time, but her luck might run out, and he had to get her out of that shithole until they caught the killer. A few minutes later he arrived on the scene and Tom met him when he stepped out of the car.
“How bad is it?” Phillip asked.
“Different MO,” the older man said. “Stab wound to the chest.”
“The body intact?”
“Fully, with no other marks, at least from what we can tell. We’ll know more once the coroner gets ahold of him.” Rush led him around to the entrance of the alley. “A blood trail starts just over there, and from all indications, the body was dragged from here to the street.”
“That’s bizarre,” Phillip said, following the blood back to the roadway. “Why would someone kill him and drag him out here?”
“Good question.”
“Maybe the killer was interrupted; didn’t have time to skin the body.”
“Or she’s getting sloppy,” Rob Lawrence chimed in, strolling toward them.
Phillip rolled his eyes and his shoulders dropped with dread. He didn’t have time nor was he in the mood for Lawrence’s crap. Tilting his head back, Phillip stared into the smooth cobalt sky and wondered; if there was a God in heaven, why could he not give him a break from this weasely little jackass?
His patience as short as his irritated sigh, Phillip finally responded. “How do you know the killer is female?”
“Where was your girlfriend last night?” Lawrence asked, ignoring the question.
“That’s none of your business.”
“I’m making it my business.”
“I’m just about sick of your shit.” Instant anger charged through Phillip and he took a step toward him and growled, “And you’d best back off.”
Lawrence didn’t budge. “What are you trying to hide?”
Phillip leaned close, fists clenched at his side, rage boiling at the insinuation. Control wasn’t his strong point, and it took every ounce of restraint to keep from punching this little shit between his eyes. Allie had been hurt enough in her life and she didn’t need this crap.
“I swear to God, if I find out you’re harassing her—”
Detective Rush stepped between them. “All right boys, let’s break it up. We’ve got work to do.”
Phillip stared hard at Lawrence, but relented, taking a few steps back. He said no more, but the glare he sent Lawrence spoke a thousand words.
“For fuck’s sake,” Lawrence snapped. “Why aren’t we searching her apartment?”
“This department don’t work on opinions,” Rush said. “And until you show me just cause, I don’t want to hear anything else about it.”
“She knows something and so does he. And you know as well as I do that she killed her own best friend!”
“I said that’s enough!” Rush bellowed.
Lawrence went silent, and if Phillip weren’t so angry, he would’ve chuckled watching him strain to keep his mouth shut. A straight, thin scowl tightened his lips, and he yanked a notepad from his back pocket, spun away and headed toward a crowd of onlookers lining the street beyond the crime tape.
Rush turned to Phillip, “Go check on that girlfriend of yours. Be sure she’s all right.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I was just headed that way.”
“Make it fast.”
* * *
The old woman’s door stood ajar. Phillip tried to walk past, but something stopped him. A high pitched creak screamed from its hinges when he pushed the door open and peeked around the edge. Shadows spilled from the room’s corners, swallowing most of the apartment. Sticking his head in, he ran his palm down the wall and flicked on the light switch. A feeble yellow glow chased dark into the corners and illuminated dust blanketing the furniture. It felt abandoned, like no one had been here for quite some time.
Stepping further into the apartment, he called out, “Mrs. Michaels?”
No response came, and for some strange reason, he didn’t expect one. On a table in front of the sofa, an old book lay open. Stepping closer, he traced his fingers across the photos clipped inside. The light flickered overhead, dancing across the book’s worn pages. The clippings were old, from the 1920’s, and he’d seen some of this stuff at the library, but nothing like this. Lifting the book, he cradled it in the crook of his arm and flipped through the articles. He thumbed through page after page, engulfed.
Young man missing … remains discovered … elderly woman decapitated.
Behind him, the door slammed. Startled, he spun, losing his grip on the book and dropping it.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted, but the apology died on his lips.
He stared at the door but saw no one there. A strange chill crept down his spine but he shrugged off the weird sensation. Everything could be explained, and this was no exception. A draft from the hall must have sucked the door shut. Deciding to ignore it, he scooped the book from the floor to return it to the table, but a newspaper clipping dropped from the pages. He lifted it to slide it back inside the book but noticed the clipping was in color, and more recent than the others. No headlines or article, just a newspaper photo of a young red-haired girl, a police officer by her side, holding her hand. Her gaze hollow, expression haunted, the girl looked like
a younger version of Allie.
A deep low sound reverberated around the room, starting from a closed closet door in the back of the apartment. It moved around him, coming from the walls, like the snarl of a threatened animal, but it didn’t sound like any animal he’d ever heard before. He folded the picture and crammed it in his pocket. Shadows moved in the cooling room and Phillip’s breath rolled out in bursts of white. He shivered, before dropping the open book on the table. He had no idea why he’d even come in there. This place gave him the creeps, and he had enough of it. Leaving the room, he clicked the door shut and headed toward Allie’s apartment.
* * *
It took Allie a while to answer the door, and when she did, she didn’t invite Phillip in. Over her shoulder, he saw Mrs. Michaels at the old wood stove, stirring a pot on the hot plate. He didn’t like this old woman. She filled Allie’s head with nonsense, and he wanted her out of this apartment.
Phillip leaned in and whispered. “What’s she doing here?”
“She’s teaching me how to cook.”
Allie’s bright smile disarmed him, putting him more at ease, until the old woman turned their way. “No need to whisper, dear.”
Phillip ignored her.
“Listen,” he said. “There’s been another murder.”
“What?” she said. “Another one?”
“Yes.”
“Well I saw them out the window but thought they were still investigating the other one,” she said. “I saw that Lawrence guy out there too, so I decided not to go out.”
“Is he bothering you?” Phillip’s anger boiled and resurfaced. “If he is I swear I’ll—”
“Oh no,” she said. “He’s not. It’s just—I don’t think he likes me.”
Phillip wasn’t convinced but he’d have to let it go for now. He looked up and glanced around the room. They’d pushed her living room furniture against the far wall and had a folding table open near the old stove.
