Sirens in the Night

by Bradley, Michael;

  “You’re not. I’m putting my life at risk.”

  “No. No. No. I can’t take that risk,” exclaimed Samantha.

  Jack gave her a half-smile. “I’m not giving you a choice. I’m going in with you.”

  Samantha began to plead with Jack. “Please don’t put me in this position. I don’t need four deaths on my conscience.”

  The words had just slipped out, and the moment she said them Samantha wished she could reach out and snatch them back. But it was too late. He had heard them and responded immediately.

  “Four?” asked Jack.

  Samantha hesitated, hoping that something would happen to draw his attention away from the question, but nothing did. It was something she didn’t want to think about right now. It was something she never wanted to think about but she always did. She turned away from him and gazed out the window at the old house once again.

  “I’ve been responsible for sending three officers to their deaths,” Samantha explained. “Two died in the elevator on Saturday. I should’ve been with Faulkner and Anderson, maybe I could have stopped her.”

  “You might’ve died with them.”

  “Better that than . . .” Samantha’s comment trailed off into silence.

  Jack asked softly, “Who was the other?”

  “Brad Peterson, a rookie fresh out of the academy for only about three months. I’d been investigating a string of murders in Society Hill,” Samantha said, her voice quiet, almost a whisper. “You probably weren’t living in the city at the time of the Society Hill Serial Killer case. It was gruesome. Sadistic doesn’t even begin to describe the bastard. His name was Rodney Hillerman, and he was . . . a monster. He would kill his victims slowly, butcher the bodies, and then use a scalpel to carve messages in their flesh. We had already canvased the neighborhood twice, but I had some follow-up questions I wanted ask of the people who lived around the crime scenes. Our standard procedure is to always go out in pairs for that sort of thing, but we were shorthanded that day. I was too impatient. I wanted answers to my questions ASAP. So I bent the rules and sent Peterson out on his own. He never came back.” Samantha paused, feeling the emotion trying to push its way out from within her. She hadn’t spoken to anyone about this for a long time, and with all that happened over the past few weeks, Samantha had felt on the verge of breaking down. It had been a struggle in the evenings to keep from crying herself to sleep. Sometimes she lost the struggle. As a single tear rolled down her cheek, she managed to push the emotions back into the dark recesses of her mind and continue with her narrative. “We found him two days later. He became Hillerman’s fifth victim. The bastard carved a message in Peterson’s chest, which said ‘He asked too many questions’.”

  “You couldn’t have known—” Jack started to say.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Samantha shot back. “I broke protocol. I was too focused on solving the case . . . and proving wrong all the people who didn’t think I was good enough to be a detective. I sent him to his death.”

  Jack softly said, “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want anyone else’s death on my conscience. Three is enough.”

  “Look, you’re not ordering me to go in there with you. I’m going of my own free will. If I die, you’re not responsible,” stated Jack.

  Smiling, Samantha said, “That’s not much comfort.”

  The car fell into silence again as they continued to wait for the absent Peter Thornton. Samantha thought about her partner, wondering if she had perhaps been a little too hard on him over the past couple of months. Peter Thornton was a good cop. She knew that. Although a little raw and inexperienced around the edges, Samantha knew he was a good detective too. He asked a lot of questions and came up with dozens of theories, not all of them good, but after all, wasn’t that what being a detective was all about? Finding the theory that matched the evidence? Her mind drifted back to her first months as a detective. She wondered what her old partner, Eddie Murdock, had thought of her when she was a rookie. Was she just as impetuous back then as Peter was now? Samantha was still deep in thought when Jack broke the silence once again.

  “You married?” he asked.

  Samantha had been lost in thought, and the question took her by surprise. “What?”

  “Are you married? It’s an easy enough question,” replied Jack.

  “No. You?”

  “Me neither. Couldn’t find Mr. Right?”

  “No. My father was a cop,” Samantha explained. “He was . . . killed in the line of duty. It crushed my mom. I didn’t want to put anyone I loved through that. So I really haven’t dated much over the years. Tried not to get involved.”

  “Is your mom still alive?”

  Samantha shook her head. “She passed away about a year ago.”

  Silence descended on the car once again. But, this time, it was Samantha who broke it.

  “What about you? Your folks still alive?”

  Jack nodded. “Yeah. They live up in Schenectady, New York.”

  “Do you get up there much?”

  It was Jack’s turn to hesitate. Her question was releasing a Pandora’s box of memories from Jack’s subconscious. He could see Emma’s face as clear as day, looking so young and beautiful. Those vibrant blue eyes were what he remembered the most about her. That and her shoulder length hair, which he thought shone like golden honey in the summer sun. He vividly remembered their first kiss and the unique way it had felt so innocent yet so passionate at the same time. Recollections flitted through his mind of what seemed like a million nights spent together at that little Mexican restaurant two blocks from the community college where they had met. Jack was reminded of the evenings holding her in his arms as they danced in the moonlight on her back porch with the radio turned down low. He thought of the nights she would come to the studio at his first part-time job in broadcasting, and she would stay up all night while he played music on the weekend overnight shift. Then, out of the darkest corner of his memories, he remembered the night he had told her what he had done. Even now, he could count the tears that had fallen down her cheeks when he begged her for forgiveness over his unfaithfulness. He had taken one misstep and had pushed away the best thing that had ever happened to him. And he would never forgive himself.

  “Jack? I asked you a question,” said Samantha.

  “Huh? Oh, no. I haven’t been back in years.”

  Puzzled, Samantha asked, “Why not? You don’t get along with your parents?”

  “It’s not that. I fell in love with this girl, Emma,” explained Jack, turning his face away from Samantha to gaze out the passenger window. “We met in college, and I was certain that she was the one. Still am. It was the kind of love that you yearn for, the kind that hurts when you’re apart. I’d asked her to marry me after only six months. She said she would after we graduated. We’d been together for a little over a year when I did something stupid. I had a one-night fling with someone else. The night I told Emma . . . we had met up at this little Mexican joint where we hung out. She was really upset.” Jack paused, holding back his emotion. “She stormed out of the restaurant, and drove herself home that night, and . . . a drunk driver ran a stop sign. She probably didn’t even see him coming . . . she died instantly.”

  Samantha frowned. “I don’t know what say.”

  “Ever since that night, I can’t help but wonder if she’d still be alive if she hadn’t left early . . . if I hadn’t said anything to her that night.”

  Samantha was silent. She knew there were never concrete answers to any of the proverbial “what if” questions. God only knew how many she had asked herself. She could have told Jack that it wasn’t his fault, that he wasn’t responsible for Emma’s death. Samantha could have cited all the things that her therapist had told her during two years of weekly sessions. But she knew that those were all just words that never really wiped away the guilt. It co
ntinued to linger and fester in one’s soul, never going away.

  Jack added, “That’s why all my relationships have been complete shit, I guess. It’s why I haven’t been back to New York. Her parents practically live next door to mine. I left for Allentown shortly after her death. I never told them what happened. They don’t know why Emma was driving home so early. I can’t bear to go home.”

  Glancing at her watch, Samantha said, “We’ve been here almost half an hour. I’m not waiting for Peter any longer.”

  Leaning forward, Samantha reached down toward her ankle. Jack heard the sound of Velcro separating and, seconds later, Samantha handed him a Colt .38 snub nose revolver.

  “Do you know how to fire one of these?” she asked.

  “I lived in Texas. It was mandatory for residency.”

  Smiling, Samantha said, “This was my father’s. Don’t lose it.”

  Samantha pushed open her car door and stepped out into the street. Moments later, Jack was standing beside her, both of them staring at the old house on the corner. Before they could step forward, a Dodge Charger came around the corner two blocks down from them. Samantha gently elbowed Jack in the ribs.

  “Just in time,” she said, gesturing toward the slowing car.

  The Charger pulled in behind the Mini Cooper, and Peter leapt from the driver’s seat to join Samantha and Jack.

  “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a nightmare getting across town,” he said.

  “We almost started this party without you,” said Jack.

  Glancing at Samantha, Peter inquired, “We?”

  Nodding toward Jack, Samantha clarified, “He didn’t give me much choice.”

  Glancing at the old house, Peter said, “Seems awfully quiet. Do we know if anyone is inside?”

  Samantha shook her head. “Been here for half an hour and haven’t seen a soul.”

  “What’s the plan?” inquired Peter.

  “We’ll knock and if no one answers—we’ll just play it by ear,” replied Samantha. “Did you bring them?”

  Peter nodded and then reached into the pocket of his overcoat, extracting two small, square, black objects that looked to Jack like small portable radios. Samantha handed one to Jack, saying “Body cams.”

  As Jack turned the object over in his hand, he could see the small lens on the front along with a small grill-like opening that he assumed was the microphone. The outer shell appeared to be constructed from an industrial strength polymer which, Jack thought, could probably withstand a bullet strike. The back contained a large black clip which Peter was already using to attach his body cam to the collar of his overcoat. Handing the body cam back to Samantha, Jack watched as she followed Peter’s action by attaching the camera to her coat as well.

  The trio crossed the street single file with Samantha in the lead like, Jack thought, three gunfighters at the O.K. Corral. Their steps were slow and steady, and Samantha’s eyes darted right and left in a constant vigil for anything suspicious. Her hand rested on her hip, close to the bulge from her holster. Jack, who was bringing up the rear of the small parade, could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins with every step they took. He could feel the cold steel hammer of the revolver pressed against his stomach where he had slipped it into his waistband. The palms of his hands were sweating, and a brief wave of nausea passed through him. He wouldn’t admit it to his companions, but Jack had never felt so scared in his life.

  There were three steps leading up to the door, and Samantha mounted them in a single stride. She stood to the side of the door and rapped loudly on its white-painted wood surface with her knuckles. Jack stood silently at the bottom of the stairs, with his eyes alternating between Samantha and Peter. While Samantha rapped again on the door, Jack noticed that Peter kept glancing up and down the street, as if expecting something to happen. After her third knock on the door went unanswered, Samantha’s hand slowly reached for the tarnished brass doorknob. She grasped the knob gently and slowly turned. The trio was surprised to hear the soft click of the latch as it disengaged and the door started to swing open.

  “I don’t like this,” whispered Samantha.

  Beyond the doorway, they could see very little of the dimly lit interior; the only light source appeared to be from the open door itself. Samantha reached into her coat pocket in search of her flashlight, but she cursed when she found the pocket void of anything other than her keys. Gesturing back toward his car, Peter stated, “I’ve got a flashlight in the car.”

  Shaking her head, Samantha replied, “Don’t worry about it.”

  She glanced around the immediate area and then, finding no witnesses, drew her Glock from its holster. Jack, having caught sight of Peter’s firearm as it was withdrawn from its resting place on his hip, followed suit by pulling the small revolver from his waistband. Glancing over her shoulder at her two companions, Samantha said, “Let’s do this. Watch yourselves. We know what they can do.”

  Samantha moved through the doorway, and Jack watched as she was swallowed by the darkness. In two easy strides, Peter followed on Samantha’s heels and vanished as well through the darkened doorway. Jack made a quick glance around, and then shrugged his shoulders. He tightened his grip on the grip of the revolver, feeling reassured by its presence in his hand. Then he took three quick treads up the stairs, stepped through like his companions before him, and then pushed the door closed behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark, Jack remained still just inside the threshold of the house. He inhaled deeply only to find the air around him was dust-filled and stale. Faint strips of light shone through the edges of the heavily curtained windows, giving him his first glimpse of the room in which he was standing. Furniture was arranged around the room, each enveloped with a white sheet. Some held the distinct shapes of end tables, a sofa, and chairs, while one in the far corner resembled, Jack thought, a harp with its tall triangular form rising toward the low ceiling. Dark paneling covered the walls and surrounded the fireplace, and a rectangular area rug was centered in the room atop the hardwood floor. It looked like it was covered with two centuries of dust. Thick cobwebs hung from the walls and stretched across the covered furniture. Along the wall opposite the front door, Jack could just make out a narrow stairwell leading to the second floor, and next to that was a dark opening leading further into the house. The wall to his left held a set of oak double doors, which were closed. The room reminded Jack of an old set from almost any 1940s horror film.

  Samantha was scanning the room a few feet from Jack while Peter took slow strides around the perimeter. She eyeballed the various shapes covered in white sheets and felt uncomfortable. Any of them could disguise an ambush. She cautiously stepped forward, and slid the sheet off of the nearest object. The antique rocking chair underneath softly creaked as it gently rocked back and forth. Peter returned to her side after completing his circuit of the room.

  “There’s no light switches,” he said quietly.

  Samantha replied, “There’s no power lines outside running to the house. I thought that was odd, but it makes sense now. No one’s lived here for more than two centuries. Why go to the expense of wiring the house for electricity?”

  Jack cautiously moved forward to join them, only half listening to their conversation. The extraordinary silence in the house seemed unreal, and he found himself straining to hear anything past the four walls. It seemed unbelievable to Jack that, in a world where there was always a hum or buzz from some form of electronics or HVAC, there would be utter silence in this house. There was not a single background sound to be heard, not even from outside.

  “Let’s split up. Peter, you check the upstairs. Jack and I will see what else is down here,” directed Samantha.

  Peter nodded his acquiescence, and turned toward the narrow stairway as Jack said, “In horror films, this is how everyone dies. They split
up.”

  Samantha frowned. “I wish I’d left you in the car.”

  Peter cautiously climbed the stairs, trying in vain not to cause the old wood beneath his feet to creak with each step, and Samantha led Jack through the open doorway into the dark room beyond. As they entered, Jack noticed a long table centered in the room over which hung, from four black chains, a black iron pot rack. From the curved hooks of the rack dangled an assortment of tarnished copper pots, each looking as if it had not been used in many a long year. To his right, a huge stone fireplace stood along the wall adjoining the living room, and Jack assumed that it probably shared a chimney with its companion in the other room. Thick cobwebs lined the interior of the fireplace, hung down from the pot rack, and even extended out from the fireplace to the center table. Along the far wall, underneath two shuttered windows, was a long row of old cabinets topped with a wooden butcher block, the wood cracked and split from age. Jack was surprised, at first, by the lack of modern day appliances, such as a stove, refrigerator, or dishwasher, but then he remembered what Samantha had said about the absence of electricity. Along the wall to his left was an oak door followed by an archway, which led into what Jack assumed was the dining room, based on the shapes of the objects covered in white sheets.

  Samantha stepped into the dining room long enough to give it a cursory survey, and then she returned to the old kitchen. She could tell that Jack was going to speak, and she gestured with her finger for him to remain silent. With slow, deliberate steps, she approached the oak door, tightening her grip on her firearm as she did. Gently grasping the black iron door latch, she slowly pressed her thumb down and heard the latch click. The hinges creaked as she pulled the door open and gazed at a precarious flight of stairs leading downward. Considering how dark the rest of the house had been, Jack and Samantha were surprised to find flickering illumination drifting up from below.

  Samantha guardedly made her way down the old stairs, which rocked and swayed beneath her feet. She was comforted to find that on her left was a stone wall, against which she could lean as she scanned the chamber below for danger. When she reached the bottom, she signaled for Jack to follow her down. They both stood in a cold, stonewalled cellar with an uneven, damp stone floor beneath their feet. Across from the stairs were four stacks of wooden crates each stacked five high. The lid of one of the topmost crates stood open. In the far corner of the cold cellar were half a dozen propane tanks, similar in size to those Jack would expect to find fueling a barbecue. The flickering light, which they had noticed earlier, came from lighted candles that hung from black iron sconces on the walls.