by D. M. Pulley
The uniformed officer the Cleveland police had dispatched didn’t seem all that impressed. The name on his shirt read, Thompson. The impatient look in his eye told her this would be the least urgent call he’d get all day. “Any broken windows? Any evidence of attempted entry?”
“Well, no. But isn’t this harassment?”
“Vandalism’s illegal, but it’s not exactly a capital offense. We’ll fill out a report to make sure your landlord doesn’t ding you for the deposit. Besides that . . . there’s not much else we can do.”
“Are you kidding? What if there’s some lunatic serial killer out there?”
The man was busy filling out a form on his clipboard. He didn’t even look up. “Do you know how many unsolved homicides are on the books this week? How many stolen cars and physical assaults? I’m sorry for your plight, miss, but the department doesn’t have time to follow up on pranks.”
“This wasn’t a prank!” she yelled in his face. “A dead man is lying in pieces in a morgue! They think it’s my father! And now these Internet freaks are stealing police files and harassing me!”
“Well I’m sorry to hear that, but that’s a matter for the, uh . . .” He checked his clipboard. “Auglaize County Sheriff’s Office. Understand? I don’t have the access or jurisdiction to confirm any of that. All we’ve got here is some paint. I can’t go around and arrest every kid with a can of paint.”
“What about the website? What about my father? He may have tracked a killer to a spot right over there!” She motioned to the Harmony Press Building. “That building is full of vagrants! Did you know that?”
The officer glanced toward the old factory. “We have an ongoing concern over there. Jill Simon’s been cited multiple times for zoning violations and building code violations. They giving you trouble?”
“No . . .” She bit her lip and thought of Jimmy. He’d been nice enough to walk her home the night before. She studied the red star on her door. Jimmy would never have done it. If he’d wanted to scare her or kill her or whatever, he would’ve done it the night before. She could still feel his warm hand on her face. She gazed up at the dark windows down the street. “But anybody could be in there . . . There’s this crazy fortune-teller lady, Madame something. Maybe she did this to scare me. She said a bunch of weird stuff last night about how people are watching me.”
The officer seemed to consider for a fleeting second the possibility that she might be in danger. “We can’t spare the people right now to go chasing this down, but we’ll start a file. If anything else happens, call it in.”
“That’s it?” Her mouth hung open. He wasn’t going to help her.
“Here.” He tore the yellow duplicate from his incident report and offered it to her. “Give this to your landlord and have him call that number if he has any questions.”
“What am I supposed to do? Just sit here and wait for the crazy person to come back and kill me?” She ripped the piece of paper from his hand, no longer caring if she pissed him off.
“All I can tell you is what we tell every woman in these situations.” He leveled his eyes at her to deliver a full shot of contempt at her lack of composure. “And there are hundreds of women in this city right now in worse straits than this. You get me?”
Her rage deflated at his shaming. No doubt there were legions of women in Cleveland stranded in their homes, waiting for a deranged boyfriend or husband or stalker to come back and beat their brains in. “What do you tell them?”
“Vary your routine. If you have another place to stay, go there. Avoid being home alone. Avoid walking in the neighborhood after dark. Keep your eyes and ears open. If he’s lurking around here, try to get a look at the guy but keep your distance. That’s all you can do.”
It was a prison sentence. All her freedoms, all her peace of mind forfeited with just a few words. “For how long?”
The officer just shrugged and shook his head. His eyes sagged like he’d seen too much injustice, too much heartbreak, too much hopelessness to empathize with anyone, let alone some spoiled little white girl.
She glanced down at the scribbled form and then back at the red star bleeding down the front of her door. Lowjack taunted her from the computer screen in her head. They will never find the killer. “Thanks for your time, Officer,” she muttered softly.
Thompson tipped his hat and shuffled back to his squad car, leaving her standing by herself on the narrow one-way street. He hadn’t even taken a picture of it, she realized, staring at the dried drips of paint.
Kris shoved herself back through the door. The notion that she should call Ben passed in and out of her mind as she rifled through the drawers of her desk. She knew exactly what he’d tell her. Come home, Kritter. Let us help you. And he’d be right, but she’d be damned if she was going to let some graffiti-painting stalker ruin her life.
She yanked her camera off her desk and checked the film. The clunky Nikon had been a birthday gift from her father, and the memory of him holding it in his hands as he explained the user’s manual in irritating detail hovered over her.
She steadied her hand and snapped two pictures—one close-up and one of the entire south face of the little house.
The sound of a car door slamming half a block away made her jump. She brandished her camera at the noise and caught a glimpse of a little old lady hobbling down the sidewalk in front of one of the houses. The camera film advanced with gunfire clicks before she released her finger from the trigger. I’m going insane!
Kris dragged herself back into the house. She’d already missed her class. Any more absences and she’d be forced to withdraw. Pete’s door stood open and empty at the end of the hall as usual. She couldn’t very well ask him to come home and babysit her. He had a life and a girlfriend and would be moving out soon anyway.
She didn’t have any other friends.
She didn’t have enough money for a hotel.
Back home, Ben and Troy and everyone else would smother her with concern and questions and advice and demands. She could feel Troy’s hot breath whispering in her ear, Let me help you, baby. You don’t have to worry about a thing. It wouldn’t be long before he was climbing in through her window in the middle of the night again. The thought made her stomach contract. She’d barely escaped becoming Mrs. Troy Reinhardt the first time around. She couldn’t face crying herself to sleep again, worried he’d gotten her pregnant and trapped her there.
A terrible idea skittered through her head. She pulled open the blinds and looked out at the fortress of brick across the road. Jimmy’s smile resurfaced in her mind. If you ever need anything, come find me.
“That’s crazy,” she told herself and picked up the phone to call Ben. She didn’t know Jimmy. She didn’t know Jill the owner or any of the other derelicts holed up inside the old Bible factory. Although a part of her did want to confront the old fortune-teller and find out if she’d put a hex on her house.
The phone rang in her ear, and Kris nearly hung up. If David Hohman or Lowjack or whoever it was that had marked her door knew where she lived in Tremont, they certainly knew where her father lived. Her father’s house wouldn’t be any safer.
“Auglaize County Sheriff’s Office,” a woman droned in her ear.
“Yeah. Hi. Is Deputy Weber available?”
“One minute please.”
Soft rock strummed in her ear as she sifted through what she should tell him.
His voice cut in before she was ready. “Weber here.”
“Uh, hi, Ben.”
“Kritter! How you holdin’ up, girl?”
“Um. Okay.” Her eyes drifted over the police report she’d printed off the chat room on her kitchen table. “Have you . . . found anything new?”
“Nothing definitive just yet. We’re still waiting on that DNA. How you feelin’? Given any more thought to signing off? I know it’s hard, kiddo, believe me, but the longer we drag this out, the longer it’s gonna take to pull yourself together and move on.”
“I
’m just not . . .” She sucked in a breath. “Ben, have you ever heard of the Torso Killer?”
There was a long pause. “No. Can’t say I have. Why you askin’?”
“Did Dad ever say anything about it to you?”
“No.”
“Did he ever mention a guy named David Hohman?”
“No. Now lookit, Kris. I don’t have time for games. Is there somethin’ you want to tell me?”
Now was the time to confess about the business card left at Shirlene’s and all the odd things she found. She bit her lip hard, imagining what he’d say. Now dammit! That’s interfering with a police investigation! This is serious business. And you’ve just been chatting with these sons of bitches? I want you to unplug that damned computer and get your butt home! You hear me? It’s what her father would say. “Uh. No. Everything’s fine. I’m just catching up on school work and stuff.”
Ben let out a loud stream of air into the receiver. “When you plannin’ on coming back?”
“I can’t just yet. I have . . . work and school.” The work part was a lie, and the school part was quickly crumbling, but the overbearing tone of his voice forced her to dig in her heels.
“I don’t think you understand, Kritter. We are dealing with a homicide investigation. The killer is still at large. Now you can either come back here on your own power, or I might just come out there and drag you back myself. I owe your dad at least that much.”
Her jaw dropped in protest. Her first instinct was to do whatever he said, but then the rest of her instincts kicked in. And they were furious. “You can’t force me to do anything. You’re not my father, Ben. I haven’t broken the law. You can’t just come here and arrest me! I haven’t done anything wrong.”
His voice softened. “I know this is tough to understand, kiddo, and I know you’ve been through hell. But it’s for you own good. Come home.”
“I will. As soon as I can get away. I promise, Ben.” She hung up the phone before he could argue with her anymore.
She grabbed a duffle bag from her closet and shoved several changes of clothes inside along with her toothbrush and her camera just in case she actually saw the bastard that marked her door. She grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper and left a note next to the police report on the kitchen table.
Pete, Went home to deal with some stuff. Told the police about the door, and they are investigating. Don’t know when I’ll be back. Will call soon.—K
As she jotted the words, she realized she wasn’t writing them for Pete. She was writing them for the creep who’d marked the door. She was writing them for Ben in case he made good on his promise to try and drag her back to Cridersville.
Outside, Thurman Avenue was empty. The yuppies had gone to work hours earlier. The students were either in class or inside somewhere sleeping it off. The older residents lurked behind yellowed curtains, watching their game shows.
The dark windows of the Harmony Press loomed overhead without the faintest sign of life. She stopped at the giant iron prison bars and gazed into the empty loading dock.
The gate Jimmy had opened for her the night before stood with its rusted chain wrapped tight around the latch. She glanced nervously up the street toward her car, knowing she should just follow Ben’s advice and head home. But the thought of her father’s empty house and Troy at her window stopped her.
She eyed the gate again. The padlock had been left hanging open.
CHAPTER 26
Kris closed the gate behind her. She carefully wound the chain back around the bars and left the padlock hanging open just in case she changed her mind. She wandered in through the darkness of the loading dock with its brick ceiling towering over her head, eying the row of closed doors for movement, retracing her steps from the night before into a courtyard and up a narrow set of stairs.
It all looked different in the light of day. Dead plants clustered together in pots over a bed of mud and fallen leaves. An antique bicycle leaned up against the wrought iron fence lining the stairwell. She spun herself around to get her bearings.
A fluttering curtain in one of the windows overhead caught her eye.
Up on the second floor, a tiny face peered down from behind a broken pane of glass. Black hair puffed out in a halo around the head of a little girl. Her dark skin looked ashen and sallow. Kris gave her a small wave.
With a nervous glance behind her, the little face disappeared.
“Hey!” she called up after her. She scanned the rest of the windows nervously, but they were all empty. What sort of monster would bring a little girl to a place like this? she wondered. Does her family know she’s here?
The door below the little girl’s window didn’t look familiar. She turned around, trying to find the door Jimmy had used, certain it had been a different one. She bit her lip and debated whether she had the nerve to wander through strange parts of the building alone, not knowing how many drunks and dope fiends were passed out inside. A little voice whispered inside her ear, What if he’s here?
After a moment’s hesitation, she went looking for the little girl.
The entrance opened into a long hallway that led away from the girl’s window. Kris scanned the rows of closed doors lining the corridor. At the far end, a narrow window looked out over Thurman Avenue. Around the corner stretched another row of doors.
One was standing open.
Kris glanced over her shoulder at her escape route and took a tentative step forward. A puddle of light collected on the floor of the dark hallway at the foot of the open door. She watched for moving shadows. “Hello?” she whispered.
Footsteps creaked across the ceiling over her head, and she froze as if they could see her. People lived here, she reminded herself. Little girls, artists, drug dealers . . . serial killers. The hall went quiet again.
She inched her way forward until her shoulder was at the edge of the doorjamb and she could partly see inside through a dark, narrow foyer the size of a cramped closet into a larger room.
At first glance, it looked like a normal living room. A plastic-covered sofa with an ugly plaid print sat along the wall to her left. There was a flowered chair next to a round end table covered in old newspapers to her right. Kris stepped into the tiny foyer and peeked around the corner. A beer cooler sat propped near the door. The plaster under a broken window on the far wall was bubbled and water-stained shades of brown and yellow. The window looked out into the courtyard with the rusted bicycle.
“Norma? Is that you?” a shriveled voice called through a doorway in the far corner. A shrunken woman hobbled in behind it, wearing a fuzzy orange bathrobe. Her back was hunched into a question mark, and the remaining wiry strands of her hair were set in curlers. She startled at the sight of Kris in her doorway. “What are you doing here?”
For a second, Kris saw a flash of recognition in the woman’s watery eyes that left her unnerved. Then she realized it was the beggar she’d seen the other night down on Thurman. “Oh, uh . . . sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
A pleasant smile spread over the old woman’s face, and her eyes drifted until she didn’t seem to be looking at Kris but rather through her. “Have you seen Norma?”
“Uh . . . no. I haven’t,” Kris answered slowly, playing along.
“Why are you here? Where’s Norma?” the woman demanded and seemed to be searching the wall behind Kris for the answer.
“Uh—I’m sorry. I’m looking for someone.”
“If you’re looking for money or drugs, I don’t have a thing for you, honey.” The woman’s voice rattled with phlegm. “Try the others across the way.”
“No. I’m not. I was . . .” Kris studied the woman whose eyes flitted around the room but didn’t seem to register a thing. Cataracts maybe. A large cat wound its way around the old woman’s ankle and mewed at the intruder. “I was looking for a little girl. She lives upstairs. Do you know her?”
“Oh, my. A little girl?” The woman raised her eyebrows in surprise for a moment b
efore they fell as though reminded of something sad. “We haven’t had a little girl here in ages . . . What’s her name?”
“I don’t know. I was worried that she might . . . need help.”
“We all need help, don’t we?” She seemed to be asking the cat. The woman hobbled to the flowered chair. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit. These old bones can’t hardly hold me anymore.”
“No. That’s alright.” Kris surveyed the room more closely. It smelled of cat litter and spilled milk mixed with traces of urine and mildew. The old woman was nothing but eighty pounds of sagging skin and brittle bone. Her sunken eyes and gaunt cheeks pulled at the frayed nerves in Kris’s chest. The poor thing had probably been surviving on cat food. “Do you want me to call someone for you?”
“Call someone? Like who?” The old woman’s lungs rattled with a cough.
Kris grimaced. “I don’t know. Social services?”
“Why? So they can take me from my home?” She pointed a gnarled finger at the sofa. “Did that bitch put you up to this? I’ve lived here for twenty years, dammit. This is my home.”
“Wow. That’s . . . that’s amazing. Did you, uh . . . used to work here?” The math didn’t add up, but Kris didn’t know what else to say.
The woman hacked again and waved away the question. “You tell Jill I ain’t leavin’! Me and her, we had a deal. I ain’t goin’ anywhere!”
“Okay.” Kris nodded and backed her way toward the tiny entryway. “I’ll—uh—I’ll go see if I can find Norma.”
As she turned to head back out the door, she stopped dead in her tracks. An eight-pointed star had been carved into the wood of the innermost door. It looked almost identical to the one that had been painted on hers, only smaller. She blinked at the grapefruit-sized carving for a moment, then turned back to the woman slumped in her chair.
“I’m sorry, but . . .”
“What are you sorry about now?” the old woman rasped.
“Um. Why do you have this star on your door?”
“That? You don’t want to know about that.” She waved her hand, dismissing the thing and turned away to the window.