The Killing Hour

by Paul Cleave

  I close the door on everything.

  If only I had taken a different route home the other night.

  I tell myself not to think this way. I try not to tell myself that Luciana may have found somebody who wasn’t going to help and then kill them. I try not to tell myself any of this, but it’s true. What would have happened if I hadn’t come along? Would another game-show contestant have succeeded where I failed?

  “If you didn’t do this, Charlie, then it’s time to go to the police. There has to be plenty of evidence here.”

  I open up the door to my bedroom. The curtains here are closed. Everything appears normal. I start to close the door. “The only evidence here is that the place has been trashed. It doesn’t show by who.”

  “What’s in the box?” Jo asks.

  I push the door back open and I see it now, sitting in the center of my bed, plainly in view. I can only imagine what’s inside. The box makes me uncomfortable in a way I can’t describe. I know that whatever’s inside it will rock my world and shatter what small hope I have left, but if I don’t look then I can still hold on to the hope that it’s empty. It’s the Schrödinger Paradox. Schrödinger’s severed head.

  “Charlie?”

  “I don’t know what’s in it.”

  “The hell you don’t. You kept a souvenir, didn’t you? What is it? A head? A heart?”

  “I didn’t, it’s not mine, really, I. . I. .” I bite my lower lip hard enough to draw blood. “Let’s go back to the car. He’ll be back. If he looked for me last night he’ll look for me again tonight.”

  “What is it, Charlie? What have you done?”

  “Nothing. I promise you. I don’t know what’s in there.”

  “We have to call the police. It was already out of hand by the time you came to me, Charlie, and now look how much worse it’s gotten. Think about where we’re going to be this time tomorrow if you don’t go to the police.”

  “Let’s go,” I tell her.

  “To the police?”

  “No. We’re sticking with the plan.”

  “Charlie. .”

  “You said you’d give me the day,” I tell her.

  “Not all of it.”

  “I just need a little more time. An hour. Two at the most. We watch the house till midnight.”

  “That’s almost six hours away.”

  “Then I let you go. I promise.”

  “You promise?”

  “I just said I promised.”

  I close the house up. We head outside. Jo seems happy to leave. I’m happy to leave too. We pile into her car. I back out of the driveway. I drive fifty yards then do a U-turn and park against the curb. The shortest drive of my life. I kill the engine and we wait.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jo is starting to believe him. Charlie is still being a bastard, and there’s no excuse for what he did to her last night, but it’s really looking like this Cyris fellow exists. Would Charlie have done any of that crazy shit to his own house? She doesn’t think so. She doesn’t think he would kill anybody. And just what in the hell was in that box?

  Of course it’s been six months since she last saw him. A lot can happen is six days let alone six months. He’s not behaving like the Charlie she used to know. But she needs to play devil’s advocate here-she needs to follow the idea for a moment that perhaps he is guilty. Saving a body part is a good way of starting up an insanity defense. Which means she’s still in danger.

  Either way she’s in danger. Either from Charlie or from Cyris, doesn’t matter whether they’re the same person or not. She needs to stay calm and collect her thoughts because common sense, in theory, beats out insanity any day.

  “I’m sorry I doubted you,” she says, but she’s not sorry, and she still might be doubting him. She isn’t sure. What she is sure of is that there’s an escape opportunity here. This is what she’s been working toward. Thank God she didn’t blow it back at the motel by trying to cut herself free. She would never have done it in time.

  Charlie looks over at her and his face relaxes. “Really? Do you really mean that?”

  “I’m also sorry you had to bring me here to convince me. You didn’t have to hurt me, Charlie. I just wish you hadn’t hurt me.”

  “I wish that too,” he says. “I’m sorry, Jo, so sorry. I just. .” he says, but he trails off.

  “Just didn’t know what to do,” she says for him.

  “I think I knew what to do. I just kept doing all the wrong things.”

  “Listen, Charlie, we agreed you’d let me go at the end of the day. That you would show me what you needed to, and-”

  “I can’t let you go,” he says. “Don’t you see? Cyris is looking for me. And he might be looking for you too.”

  “I’ll be safe. I’ll go to the police.”

  “And then the police will come looking for me. They’re not going to believe what happened. No, we stick with the plan. And it’s a good plan. It’s your plan. We wait for Cyris to come back. I know he’s been here already, but he won’t know where else to look.”

  “Okay,” she says. So that didn’t work. She still has another angle. “So what about this. Cyris left the box behind for a reason, right?”

  “I guess, but I have no idea what that reason is.”

  “What if he’s planning on calling the police?”

  “What?”

  “He might be calling the police to tell them to come to your house. An anonymous tip. They’ll come here, find that box, and you’ll look guiltier than ever.”

  He shakes his head. “No, they’ll see the house was broken into. They’ll see all that damage. Surely they’ll know it wasn’t me.”

  “If you’re that sure, then why don’t you call them yourself?” she asks.

  “Shit,” he says again. He puts his hands on the steering wheel and tightens his grip. “So what are you saying?”

  “I think you know.”

  “We have to go and get the head,” he says.

  “How. . how do you know it’s a head?” she asks.

  “Jesus,” he says, turning toward her. “What, now you think I’m guilty again?”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “That was just a guess. It could be anything.”

  It’s a good answer. She believes him. “You need to hurry,” she says. “It’s already gotten dark. Cyris could show up at any minute, and so could the police.”

  “Me? You’re not coming back inside with me?”

  “No way in hell am I going back in there, not when there’s a box in there with a head in it, and not when-”

  “It might not be a head. In fact it’s probably not. Both women had them still attached.”

  “He left you something, Charlie. You think it’s a box full of cake?”

  “No.”

  “Then we’re in agreement.”

  “What am I supposed to do with it?”

  “I don’t know. Hide it somewhere.”

  “Hide it? The police are going to look everywhere.”

  “Well you’re not bringing it back to the car.”

  “Goddamn it, Jo, I have to. .”

  “You’ll figure it out. Now I suppose you want to tie me up, is that right?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

  “Just hurry up,” she says. “I don’t want to be out here alone.”

  He leans into the back and pulls out some of the rope he bought earlier. “Don’t make it harder than it needs to be,” he says.

  “I won’t,” she tells him.

  She tightens her muscles as he wraps the rope around her body and the seat, and she bites down on the gag. He reaches into the backseat and grabs one of the stakes. A moment later he steps outside, taking the keys with him. She relaxes and feels the rope give slightly. Charlie looks back at her and shrugs a little, some kind of apologetic shrug. He crosses the road and jogs toward his house. Her hands are down by her sides. She starts stretching her fingers toward her pocket where the b
roken piece of blade is.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  When Landry’s cell phone goes off it pulls him out of a dream that involved getting his cancer news from a hot-looking nurse in a tight outfit that made the news not seem so bad. He wasn’t even aware he had fallen asleep. His chin is covered in drool and his neck is stiff and he’s slumped down somewhat in the car. And it’s hot in here. He grabs his phone. It’s Schroder. He presses the answer button.

  “We found nothing useful in Douglas Person’s house,” Schroder says, “aside from a bedroom he’s turned into a hothouse to grow maybe twenty grand’s worth of cannabis. We’re still looking for the guy, but I’m guessing he’s gotten wind we’re looking for him so is lying low. How are you feeling?”

  “Not the best,” Landry says, which is going to sum up every day between now and the end of days. At least the end of days for him. He feels bad about not saving Schroder some time by telling him Person is not their guy. Still, Schroder will look back at this in the future and thank Landry for saving him some problems by taking care of the trash.

  “You should take tomorrow off,” Schroder says, not sounding like he means it.

  “I’ll be there,” Landry says. “I forgot to ask, but how’d you get on this morning with Benson Barlow?”

  “There are so many theories floating around and the problem is most of them are sticking. The way he killed them. . hell, I told Barlow about the scenes, he said he wouldn’t even know where to begin. I’m about to talk to the second victim’s husband,” he says. Luciana is the first victim and Kathy is the second victim. They know that not because of time of death, which is too close to really tell them apart, but from the blood transfer between the scenes. “Everybody keeps thinking it’s some kind of ritual, and I think-”

  “I have to go,” Landry says, “I’ll call you back.”

  “Bill-”

  “I’ll call you back,” he says. He hangs up the phone. Fifty yards away somebody is jogging toward him. But not toward him, toward the house. That figure goes under a streetlamp and slows down, tilts his wrist to look at his watch, and Landry gets a good view of him. It’s Charlie Feldman. He recognizes him from the photographs inside the house. Landry can’t tell what it is Feldman is holding in his right hand, but it looks like some kind of weapon. If Schroder hadn’t called. .

  But he did call. That’s all that matters.

  Charlie goes through the gate. Lights come on inside the house. Landry rubs his hands at his eyes. He’s never fallen asleep on a stakeout before. Never. Then again he’s never been on heavy medication before either. Jesus, the day turned warm and he got sleepy. What sort of detective is he? The worst, and one who’s tiring easily because he’s dying.

  He scrapes tiny pieces of wet gunk from the corners of his eyes. He starts the engine and slowly lets out the clutch, allowing the car to drift up the street. He stops outside the house. His anger is pulsing like a beacon in his mind as he walks over the grass verge to the sidewalk. He tucks his keys into his pocket. He can feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins and it worries him because he can’t afford to lose control of his emotions. He looks up and down the street. There are lights on in most of the houses, but nobody around. People have settled in for the evening. They’re watching TV and drinking coffee and the realities they face every day are different from his.

  He pauses outside the house and sucks in a deep breath, then another and another. He needs to stay calm. He can’t afford to make a mess of things. He straightens his tie and pats down his shirt, then wonders what in the hell he’s doing. He isn’t here to sell this man a jail sentence.

  He clenches his fists, takes in another deep breath, then walks up the narrow sidewalk to the front door. When he reaches out to knock he notices for the first time that his hand is shaking. Excitement? Or nerves? He hopes it’s one of those and not the alternative, because the alternative comes with nausea and vomiting. He turns his hands over and watches his fingers as he makes a fist then loosens it off. Something deep inside him feels different from the other times he’s come to arrest people. Something he can’t quite recognize. He suspects it arrived last week in his doctor’s office as he watched the minute hand of the clock on the wall shift six degrees closer to the end of his life.

  He reaches up and gets ready to knock.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The clouds look like bruised cotton candy, the lights from the street and from the city making them glow. Night has arrived and with it my fears. I have to hold my watch up to my face and twist it to get some illumination from a streetlight flooding across the hands. It’s quarter past seven.

  I step past the gate and climb the two steps to my back door. I carved a weapon out of a broom handle and now it’s all I have to protect myself, and I point this thing ahead of me even though I know my house is empty. I’m not sure if I can get any crazier.

  The first thing I do is turn on the lights. I head from room to room switching many of them on. When Cyris arrives he’ll think I’m home. I try to put myself into his mind, subjecting myself to his dark thoughts. He’ll figure I’m thinking it’s safe to return since he’s already been at my house. He’ll see the lights on and he’ll want to come in and check it out.

  I head down to the bedroom. I look at the cardboard box and try not to feel intimidated by it-but fail. I need to check what it is. It won’t be a head, because both Kathy and Luciana had their heads when I saw their bodies. The corner of a piece of paper is sticking out from under the cardboard flap. I grab it. It’s covered in patches of dried blood. Written across it in Kathy’s handwriting is my name and number. I’d completely forgotten about this. I don’t know whether to feel relieved that it was Cyris who found it and not the police.

  A car pulls up outside and a door opens, then closes. I stand motionless, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. I’m like some mindless bunny caught in the headlights of a car, paralyzed with confusion and fear. A few moments later knuckles are banging on my door. I tighten my grip on the stake. Would Cyris knock? No, I don’t think he would. Then who is it?

  I shouldn’t have turned on the lights.

  I step into the hallway, but I don’t want to answer the door because my mortality is going to leave through it. Then the knocking comes back. I’m now Action Man, ready to defend my home and castle. I keep the weapon behind me. Cyris is here.

  Only Cyris wouldn’t knock. The police would knock. The police would want to know if I knew where Jo was. They wouldn’t be too thrilled with the way I looked, all beaten up and bruised. They wouldn’t be thrilled with the way my house looks, or with whatever is in that box.

  Action Man: hold no fear. Action Man: save the world.

  “Who’s there?” I ask, feeling nothing like Action Man.

  “Mr. Feldman?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Mr. Charlie Feldman? My name’s Bill Landry,” a small pause, then, “Detective Inspector Bill Landry. With the Christchurch Police Department. Mr. Feldman, I’ve a few questions for you. How about you let me ask them inside?”

  “I’m quite busy.”

  “I figured as much since you didn’t come to the door straightaway.”

  “Sorry about that,” I say, “but I didn’t hear the first knock.”

  I put the chain on the door, unlock it, and open it enough to look at him. The man standing there looking at me is around six feet tall and heavily built. He has the same build as Cyris, but is far better groomed. He’s wearing a shirt that looks like he’s slept in it, and a tie that is one of those unique items of clothing that will never cycle back into fashion. He’s standing on a slight angle that makes him appear as though he could pounce forward just as easily as he could jump back. He looks like he’s expecting me to do something. Maybe run. Maybe attack. He has one hand behind his back, perhaps reaching for a gun, or for some handcuffs. His other hand is holding out his identification. I take a look at the photograph. A good, long look. Same buzz cut graying hair, sam
e brown eyes, same strong jawline, same long nose. The sort of face you’d expect to see cast as the hero in some war movie. The sort of face you don’t want on your doorstep behind a policeman’s badge with the intent of arresting you. His lips have little or no color in the photograph, but even less in reality, just like the rest of his face. The dark smudges under his eyes make him look unhealthy and tired and remind me of the guy who sold me the broom handles. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him in the background on the news. I suddenly feel like I’m going to faint.

  I close the door, toss the stake into my bedroom, close that door, then take the chain off and hold the front door open, standing in the way so as to not invite him inside.

  “Expecting trouble?” Landry asks.

  “Huh?”

  “The way you inspected my badge, it looked as though you were expecting somebody else. Or maybe you’re just looking for an excuse not to let me in.”

  “I’m merely being cautious. Is that a crime?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Feldman.” His smile has about as much warmth as ice. “In fact I wish more people were as careful as you. Have you finished taking a look?”

  When I nod he closes the ID and tucks it into the back of his pants.

  “You look anxious, Mr. Feldman. Like you think half the world is out to get you.”

  “What half are you in?”

  “That depends on how you answer my questions. Perhaps we can step inside?”

  Before I can answer he tilts his head and gives me a direct look. “Unless of course you have something to hide?”

  “Come on through,” I say.

  “After you,” he says, and I realize he doesn’t want to turn his back on me.

  I walk down the hall. I can feel his eyes on me. I hear the front door close. I wonder what Jo is thinking. I lead him into the dining room. A light sweat has formed across my forehead, but I do nothing about it. I drag a seat from the table for him and sit opposite. He pulls out a notebook and rests it on the table before he sits down. He doesn’t open it, just slowly taps a fingernail against the cover. I rest my right elbow on the table, cross my legs, and don’t offer him a drink.