Tender Echoes

by Reily Garrett

  Chapter Five

  Faint shafts of moon glow stole across Lexi’s kitchen counter, the visual incentive urging her to close the laptop. She’d spent most of the day confirming research on her target, the neighbors, and the street. A second look never hurt. “If we can locate his books detailing his income and help our friends get out of town, at least that’ll be something.”

  Showtime.

  Once outside, she prayed for a safe return.

  Tiny frost crystals laid a thin, sparkling carpet on grass tips and bare tree branches, the ethereal picture an evolving denial of man’s brutality. Clouds were thickening along heaven’s floor, scuttling in the light breeze and solidifying her dappled shadow. Few were the times she regretted not owning a car, tonight being one of them.

  Though the temperature was mild enough for mid-March, she didn’t want to spend any more time than necessary in the neighborhood. Ticking off items on her mental checklist added a gossamer-type layer of security to narrow the chasm between anxiety and unmitigated panic. Maintaining her wits was the most important component of the night’s endeavor. Hoover’s modified backpack held a lap blanket for breaking in should her lock-picking skills prove rusty, which meant she’d hopefully thought of everything necessary.

  As if sensing the need for contemplation and strength, her canine padded silently by her side, ever watchful of their surroundings while sniffing the air. At a little after ten o’clock, he should be checking on his girls by now, and I should be able to sneak in and out before he returns.

  Lexi padded down side roads and back alleys, preferring small streets and less traffic. For the hundredth time, she questioned the sanity of breaking into a psychopath’s house with no gun, no weapon of any kind, just the determination to keep her friends safe and help them find a new life. If I just called the police, they might not find any evidence, or not enough to keep him from making bail. When he got out, he’d kill them all for the hell of it. Hoover’s soft chuffing commiserated her concerns.

  Thirty minutes after crossing the little bridge separating residential from quasi-commercial districts, the atmosphere thickened with tension as she closed in on the target house. Dodging light traffic on Vine Street had led her to Dutchman’s Lane, a sleepy-looking, middle-class neighborhood. Large oak trees lined the wide street, their graceful limbs interlocking to enclose the road in a living trellis. The closer she got, the more her legs trembled.

  On any other day, she might have found it beautiful, but now the ominous quality of her goal mobilized her mind and body in preparation of what might come. Did the surrounding neighbors know about the murderer squatting in their midst?

  Each house appeared well kept with neatly trimmed lawns bordered by flowerbeds, whose occupants would soon bloom in an array of soothing colors. House numbers arranged neatly on each mailbox brought to mind an idyllic neighborhood and made her search simple and direct. With a hand sifting through Hoover’s fur, she guided them toward the registered address with a prayer for fate’s help. If he owned other residences that stored the evidence she sought, perhaps she’d find some reference to them inside.

  The large oak behind which she now stood blocked the cool breeze while allowing her to study the target building. Super spy, she was not. Her black hoodie, pulled over a black turtleneck, accompanied her dark jeans and tennis shoes. Occasional ducking behind shrubbery to avoid a vehicle’s passing headlights led to wet sneakers, but it wouldn’t matter if she located his stash. He’d probably know she’d been there even if she removed her shoes. I’m a comic book hero. If she failed to find conclusive evidence, the butcher would kill anyone with damning knowledge if he wasn’t already doing so.

  A conspicuously plain, wraparound porch contradicted the obvious structural intent of the large Victorian house. Though it lacked turrets, the painted lady bore three different colors to highlight architectural details: colored patterns designed in the brickwork, stained-glass windows, and slate roof. No light poured through any of the front, latticed panes.

  Afraid if she hesitated any longer, a neighbor would spot her under the large oak, she padded beside the evergreen hedge bordering the property with Hoover by her side. Soaked tennis shoes slipped and squished on the wet grass while fear thrust her cunning imagination into overdrive. Yet the all-encompassing quiet challenged her mind to calm in the face of her impending perilous endeavor.

  The back of the home offered no visual evidence of anyone present inside, only large shade trees that blocked out most of the ambient light. “Okay, girl. You have to stay here. I should be back soon.” Withdrawing her lap blanket and a small pen light from Hoover’s backpack, she bent and gave the dog a hug before sneaking to the back door. Stealthy moves in pitch-blackness should’ve lent a sense of comfort. Her heart raced. Her breathing quickened. Sour liquid rose in the back of her throat. She swallowed hard.

  It’s unlikely he set up an alarm system. They were usually tied to a security company and he wouldn’t want anyone answering an alarm if he had anything to hide.

  A simple lockset proved no barrier to the breaking and entering skills learned long ago. She hadn’t needed to smash a window after all. With sweaty palms and trembling fingers, it took a minute to find the button on her pen light and then quietly open the back door.

  The small swath of illumination granted glimpses of the killer’s lair. A large kitchen with clean stone countertops bore several ceramic containers in graduating sizes along with a knife block set. A six-pack of beer sat near the end of the bar.

  Keeping the beam of her flashlight low, she erected a mental template of the open floor plan should the need of a hasty retreat arise. Her friends had taught her well.

  To the left of the living room, an open stairway led to the second floor. Farther left were several doors, perhaps a study and office. On the right, gaudy furniture bordering on ostentatious—a sofa and two wing chairs—made a sleazy grouping in front of the massive stone fireplace.

  Her heart rate doubled with the tick of an imaginary clock urging her to hurry as she made her way to the first door on the left, the quiet peal of rubber soles on hardwood reminding her she’d not wiped her feet. Shit. I’ll wipe the floor on my way out.

  The first room appeared to be a den, probably meant for relaxation as if the owner held a high-stress job. Dark maroon paint added gloom on top of the oversized, heavy furniture. A large plasma screen took center stage on the far wall. No desk. Leaving it for later, she moved forward into the small hallway. Gloves should’ve been a higher priority, but for now she’d used her lap blanket to wipe fingerprints from the doorknobs.

  Opening the second door, the slight, musty odor of books offered insight to the room’s use before she moved inside. A large desk positioned in front of the double window and framed by floor-length velvet curtains conceded its own revelations about the owner. Intermittent beams of moonlight filtered through the stained-glass window to highlight a wooden desktop uncluttered by books, papers, or pictures of loved ones.

  Who could love him? Pauly had once said he grew up on the streets.

  Beside the desk lamp, a small silver laptop provided the only deviation from a stagnant-appearing lifestyle. Bingo. Doubt niggled at the back of her mind. Was he the type to store sensitive information on a computer?

  The massive chair in which she sat could’ve held two her size with the soft black leather appearing decadent and out of place for the psycho. While the machine went through the boot and root checks, she opened one drawer after another but found nothing.

  Surely he keeps something to track each girl’s profits. Didn’t killers keep some type of souvenir? Her eureka moment came with finding an eight-by-ten, hardbound notebook. Each page listed a girl’s name with tallies of earnings and a list of johns, probably the more influential clients each one serviced.

  With that discovery temporarily set aside, she turned her attention back to the laptop. Maybe arrogance or laziness prevented him from password protecting its contents. Either w
ay, she was grateful as she began inspecting the files.

  A cursory look revealed no family photos or emails to friends, nothing to give insight into his past. What she did find chilled her to the bone, two videos whose contents would give her nightmares for weeks if not months to come. In each, a woman lay bound and gagged, remaining helpless as a masked man beat her with a whip. She recognized Otis’ form and couldn’t stomach watching them long enough to try to discover the women’s identity. That was a job for the police. In her heart, she realized the low quality of the video denoted its authenticity. She wondered what kind of twisted background produced such a monster.

  After retrieving a flash drive from her jeans pocket, she quickly installed a malware keylogger that would grant her access and give its location from the safety of her home. Considering his admission of past murders combined with the way he’d cut Charlie’s face, the dirtbag would no doubt own vomit-worthy videos of mutilation and other filth. She almost dreaded the thought of rooting through his downloaded digital files. What kind of family could’ve bred such hatred and careless disregard for humanity?

  A thorough wipe down of all surfaces would remove her fingerprints from everything she’d touched—not that he’d call the police or be savvy enough to track her in that fashion, but she’d learned long ago to be thorough. Except for remembering gloves.

  A long middle drawer doubled as a wrist rest for those preferring the use of a keyboard tray, its padded bar allowing the user a more comfortable working position. The drawer’s contents yielded no other clues she might exploit. Before closing it, a swipe along the underside of the desktop generated a triple-hammer heartbeat when her fingertips caught on a plastic sleeve haphazardly taped to the bottom.

  Ripping the treasured find away, she used her penlight to read the paper listing names and dates, some bearing letters beside them, others with monetary amounts. At the top, a series of numbers gave her the likely key to a combination lock. Where’s the safe? She figured most people just memorized the combination to their safes unless perhaps he had more than one. Maybe he owned more than one house, too.

  So far, she was two for two. Even if she didn’t understand the significance of the names, Ethan probably would. Tucking the coveted discovery in the ledger, she still needed to find his cash to distribute among the women he’d abused for so long. Despite the dirtbag’s moderately decent looks when not radiating hatred, he’d never pass for a nerd or techie type.

  Sudden tapping followed by a long squeak at the window induced a momentary hell where her colon threatened to leave an anal signature. Her gaze whipped around to see a holly tree, its pointed leaves screeching along the mullioned window. I am not cut out for this shit. In her mind’s eye, her darkly shrewd imagination conjured horrific images of disemboweled women from a horror show recently watched. “No more of that crap.” Murmured words filled the darkened room as she tried to ease the vise squeezing her chest.

  Pinpricks of icy dread washed up her spine, raising the hair on her nape and hampering her steps to search for his cache of money. Paranoid men wouldn’t file taxes on ill-gotten gains, hence paid cash to hide their income from the legal system. Where would he hide it?

  Years of running a stable meant he’d probably collected quite a bit. Whether he kept it here or another location remained to be determined. Her silent search led her room-to-room checking books in the den, potted plants in the living room, and the kitchen for false drawers or compartments in cabinets. No plastic bottles floated in the tank on the back of the toilet, or bags of money stacked in the freezer, or loose floorboards.

  The passage of precious time increased her desperation. Back in the room where she’d started her search, a glance around revealed several massive framed pictures bordering a wall cabinet, one bearing a blank expression, the other, some impressionistic hodgepodge only the artist could decipher and love. Her now clammy grip slipped twice when checking for envelopes taped to the backs of wall-mounted pictures.

  She gasped when a tug at the corner of the inscrutable man’s frame swung the picture on quiet hinges to reveal a combination safe that surely held more explicit and incriminating confirmation of the owner’s corrupt mind. It was the last place she could think to look. Padding back to the desk, she retrieved the paper with its numbers.

  A worried glance at her digital watch confirmed she’d spent too much time in the house. Her trembling fingers had taken two tries before the final click unlocked the thick steel door, but the result proved worth the effort when she found the beast’s treasure.

  Inside the safe, a black metal box rested. About fifteen inches cubed and hinged on one long side, it rested innocently inside. Flipping the clasp open revealed stacks of money underneath a sheaf of loose papers.

  After closing the safe and swinging the picture frame back, she retrieved the ledger and stuffed it in the box. She’d take her time deciphering the materials once she got home.

  A long squeak signaled a screen door opening.

  Oh God.