by Bryan Smith
First, though, there was something else he had to do.
Pete went into his bedroom to put on some clothes.
NINE
A check of the alarm panel in the kitchen showed that Mary had not bothered resetting the system after leaving this latest time. This didn’t surprise Pete. She had reset the alarm the first time only as a means of confounding him. It had been a crucial element in the first part of this thing she was doing. This campaign of psychological torment.
After getting dressed, Pete had second thoughts about rooting through the handbags that had apparently belonged to the dead women. This was symptomatic of a larger overall pattern of indecisiveness. He was plagued by doubts about how to proceed at every turn. And every moment he spent alone in the house in the presence of the murdered women exacerbated the anxiety he was feeling. He started to feel suffocated in his own home and was soon consumed with a need to get out, at least for a short while.
He considered arming the alarm system again before leaving, but opted against it, deciding he didn’t give a damn if some hapless burglar came into the house and discovered the bodies in his living room. He still had no interest in voluntarily involving the authorities in this gruesome business, but if some other person informed on him, so be it.
He closed the front door as he left the house, but didn’t lock it. He stared at the door a moment before stepping down from the porch, thinking maybe he should reconsider. Not setting the alarm was one thing. Failing to secure the front door felt like a bigger step down the slippery slope of tempting fate.
Fuck it.
Pete turned away from the door and descended the steps to the sidewalk. After getting behind the wheel of his car and starting the engine, he took a moment to check his phone before backing out of the driveway. Mary had promised he’d get a text with instructions about what to do next, but there was nothing when he swiped the screen to bring it to life. No voicemails. Not a single text. Weird. Maybe she just hadn’t gotten around to sending the promised message yet. Or maybe she’d never actually meant to send a text at all. Telling him to expect one and then not following through might well have been nothing more than another way of fucking with his head.
Pete sighed and tossed the phone on the empty passenger seat.
Whatever.
He backed out of the driveway, changed gears, and began to drive out of his neighborhood. Within a few minutes, he was sitting at the intersection of Maplewood and Thorpe. A turn to the right and a drive of just a few more blocks would take him to the nearest convenience store. When it became his turn to move through the four-way stop, he cranked the wheel to the right and hit the gas. In another few moments, he pulled into the store’s parking lot and parked in a space right out front.
Pete had decided inebriation was the only way he could deal with the colossally fucked-up situation facing him. Under the circumstances, he couldn’t conceive of a more effective means of calming his jangling nerves. His usual commitment to moderation wasn’t something he would choose to abandon lightly. Too many of his relatives had been terrible alcoholics, which was why he’d always exercised such rigid self-control when it came to booze. He didn’t care about that right now, though. Tonight he would unleash that familial demon along with all its terrible potential.
Before he could get out of the car, his phone rang. He glanced at the passenger seat, where the phone still rested, and saw Mary’s number on the screen. Scowling, Pete got out of the car, throwing the door shut without locking it as he strode rapidly toward the glass doors at the front of the store. Yes, he would have to talk to the bitch again, probably very soon, but this one time at least he wouldn’t be her dancing monkey.
He banged through the doors in an aggressive way that wasn’t like his normal self at all, nearly knocking over a young black man with dreads in the process. Dreads Guy was on his way out of the store. He came close to dropping the paper sack in his hands as Pete pushed past him and kept moving at a fast pace toward the back of the store. The guy yelled something at Pete about how he should watch where he was going. For a second or two there, Pete feared he’d made a fatal miscalculation in his state of blind agitation.
He didn’t like to think of himself as racist, but he couldn’t help making a kneejerk correlation between this guy and pictures of young thugs he often saw in local crime news reports. His imagination, already in a state of feverish overdrive, supplied him with an image of Dreads Guy pulling a Glock out of his baggy pants and coming after him. A backward glance, however, showed that the young man had already left the store. Pete relaxed but felt a twinge of guilt for his thoughts.
His attention returned to the beer cooler in front of him. It was the wrong one. This one was full of a bunch of craft beers hipsters and many of his coworkers enjoyed. Maybe some of them were good. Pete had no real clue in that department. Because he drank so little normally, he’d always been a man of simple tastes when it came to beer.
He sidled over one door and saw cartons of Bud, Miller Lite, Pabst, and the like. This was the right door. It was stocked with what the beer snobs called “piss water”. He opened it and reached for a six-pack of Bud, but he hesitated when he saw the twelve-pack cartons on the lower shelves. He’d never purchased anything above a six-pack. Ordinarily he never had a need to have a higher quantity of beer on hand than that. But things had changed and he had a feeling a mere six beers wouldn’t cut it tonight.
The clerk gave him his total. He extracted some bills from his wallet and slapped them on the counter. After the clerk handed over his change, Pete grabbed his twelve-pack and got the hell out of the store. Outside on the sidewalk, he saw Dreads Guy again. He was leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette. Pete couldn’t help audibly gasping.
The guy gave him a curious look and said, “The fuck is your problem?”
On closer look, this wasn’t the same guy at all. It was just another young black man with dreadlocks. Pete smiled nervously and shrugged a wordless apology. He felt terrible for his kneejerk racial profiling, but at least he had a decent excuse. He wasn’t his normal self. No, not all. He felt on edge and perpetually on the verge of screaming.
Back in his car, Pete started the engine and reached for the gearshift. Before he could back out of the parking space, his phone rang again. He glanced at it and saw Mary’s name and number on the screen. His hand stayed on the gearshift a moment as he considered again ignoring her call. The spark of defiance that had propelled him out of the car began to fade as he realized she’d probably also tried calling while he was in the store. Repeatedly calling in such a short time frame implied a possibly dangerous level of irritation on Mary’s part.
He sighed. “Fuck.”
Grabbing the phone, he hit the answer button, and put the device to his ear. “What?”
“What a rude way to answer the phone. Where have your manners gone, Pete?”
He grunted. “Down the fucking drain, right along with the lives of the dead strippers in my house.”
A brief silence ensued. Then came a chuckle. “You’re a funny guy, Pete. Dead strippers. Such a morbid sense of humor.”
Pete reached over to the footwell in front of the passenger seat, where he’d set the beer carton. He ripped the carton open, fished out a can of Bud, and popped it open as he sat up straight behind the wheel again. The can was slippery with condensation and he had to grip it tight in his left hand to maintain his hold on it.
“Hmm. That sounded suspiciously like someone opening a beer.”
Pete took a big swig of cold Budweiser. “That’s because I just opened a beer. Congratulations. You’re a fucking genius.”
Dreads Guy number two had moved down the sidewalk and now stood directly in front of Pete’s car. He made no threatening moves, but he gave Pete the evil eye as he took another drag on his cigarette.
“Don’t get snotty with me, Pete. It isn’t a good idea and doesn’t suit you, anyway.”
Pete slugged back more beer and laughed. “Wha
t would you know about what suits me? Hell, what would you know about anything other than being a psychotic fucking bitch?”
Silence from the other end.
Pete met the gaze of the man eyeing him from the sidewalk and raised his can in what he hoped came across as a friendly salute.
Dreads Guy number two just sneered and shook his head.
The silence from the other end dragged on at least a full minute. Pete chugged down the entire contents of his first beer before Mary resumed speaking. He crushed the empty can and tossed it to the floor.
Mary sighed. “So … feeling like a tough guy all of a sudden, eh? I’ve cautioned you against addressing me in a disrespectful manner and assumed you’d gotten the message, but it seems your attitude could use some further adjusting.”
Pete leaned over and dragged a second can of Bud out of the torn-open carton. He sat up straight again and popped open the tab, tensing for a moment when he saw a police cruiser pull into the parking space next to him. In that instant, he was convinced he was on the verge of being arrested. The police had discovered the corpses in his house and had somehow tracked him down in record speed. But that didn’t happen. Instead, the cop got out of his cruiser and stepped up to the sidewalk. Dreads Guy number two flicked his cigarette butt onto the hood of Pete’s car and approached the cop, engaging him in conversation.
Uh-oh.
Pete interpreted this development as his cue to finally leave. Setting the second Bud can in a cupholder, he kept the phone to his ear as he backed out of the parking space, got his car turned around and pointed back toward the street. He hit the gas and took off. “My attitude is just fine. In fact, I’d call it appropriate to the fucking circumstances. You know what? Knock yourself out. Do your fucking worst. I don’t even care anymore.”
Mary snorted derisively. “Your phony bravado doesn’t fool me, Pete. You’re feeling brave right now, but that won’t last. Sooner or later, you’ll start thinking in a more rational way again and be right back to your usual sniveling, pitiful self. Meanwhile, here’s some food for thought. Did you ever consider that leaving your house tonight of all nights might not have been the wisest idea?”
A chill went through Pete as he neared the intersection of Maplewood and Thorpe. Mary’s assessment proved accurate as he felt some of his bluster begin to leach away. “What are you talking about?”
He winced as he heard a shameful hint of whining creep back into his voice.
Mary laughed. “Oh, Pete. You poor idiot. Did you think I wouldn’t have someone keeping an eye on your house?”
Pete had trouble breathing for a moment as the fear rose up inside him again. He swallowed with difficulty and cleared his throat. “I don’t believe you. You wouldn’t keep Shane or anyone else lurking around outside all this time. A neighbor would notice eventually and call the cops to report suspicious activity.”
“Which is why he isn’t lurking around outside.”
Mary laughed again.
She knew he’d left the house. That much was indisputable. So maybe she did have someone keeping an eye on his place. Pete’s pulse quickened as an alarming alternate possibility came to him. He hadn’t conducted another thorough search of the house prior to his departure, which meant it was technically possible Shane or some other lackey had still been inside it. A belated shiver of dread coursed through him at the thought.
“Shane’s in my house, isn’t he?”
Mary chuckled. “He’s in a house. Not necessarily yours, though.”
Pete frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Now, Pete, you should know by now I have no interest in spelling everything out for you. I’ll just say this. You have some surprises in store once you get home, including possibly a clue or two. You’re not entirely stupid, despite frequent appearances to the contrary. You’ll be able to figure out some things. Goodbye, Pete. We’ll talk again soon.”
She disconnected the call.
TEN
Pete forced himself to slow down as he turned down his street, pumping the brake pedal and relaxing his grip on the steering wheel. He didn’t want to draw unwanted attention by roaring down the street and coming to a squealing stop in his driveway. His breathing evened out and his heart rate began to slow as he guided his car slowly down the street. Going out for the beer had been a mistake. This was a thing that should have been obvious from the outset, of course. He’d allowed the stress of the situation to get the better of him, something he couldn’t let happen again.
This brief period of relative calm ended the moment his house came into view. His breath caught in his throat and his hands clenched around the steering wheel when he saw what was on his porch.
He shook his head and whimpered. “Oh, my fucking god.”
Dead woman number two had been put out on his porch. The busty blonde-haired corpse was sitting in a slumped position with her back against the closed screen door, her arms hanging limp at her sides. Gripped loosely in her left hand was one of the tainted Budweiser bottles from his fridge. The porch light he’d left off when leaving had been turned on, making the corpse’s presence there difficult to miss for anyone who might happen by.
He goosed the gas pedal to close the remaining distance to his house a bit more quickly, turning into the driveway and shutting off the engine immediately. Getting the dead woman back into his house and out of sight was his top priority, of course, but instead of getting out of his car right away, he twisted around in his seat, craning his head this way and that in search of any nosy neighbors who might be in the area. Not seeing anybody, he got out of the car, eased the door quietly shut, and jogged up to the porch, where he stopped and turned around for another quick scan of the street. Still nobody in sight.
Maybe he’d gotten lucky here and no one had yet spotted the corpse on his porch. He thought it was possible. He hadn’t been gone long, after all, and the scene on his porch had been staged in a way that made it look as if the woman had simply passed out after drinking too much. Someone might have come over to check on her if she’d been left out here for an extended period, but that appeared not to have happened yet. He wasn’t out of the woods yet, though. He needed to work fast to keep things that way.
The body slid slowly sideways as Pete eased the screen door open and unlocked the front door. Taking out his key and inserting it in the lock was pure muscle reflex. He did it because he always did it when coming home. Only after turning the key in the lock, however, did he remember that he’d left it unlocked when he’d gone out. The click he heard when turning the key suggested that had not remained the case for the duration of his absence. Shane must have locked the door after dragging the dead woman outside. It seemed an odd thing for him to have done under the circumstances. Then again, everything about the situation was odd.
To understate.
He glanced around again as he pushed the door open a few inches and was again relieved to find he still wasn’t being observed, at least not by anyone he could see. Reaching through the opening, he patted his hand along the wall until he found the light switches. He flipped one down and the porch light went out. The disappearance of the light afforded him a short-lived moment of relief. The dead woman would be harder to see now for anyone who might drive by, but any sense of being out of danger was illusory. A police cruiser on routine patrol might happen by at any moment. Shane was probably still lurking around somewhere out here. The extinguishing of the porch light made the deeper darkness outside his house feel creepier. He imagined Shane moving stealthily through the shadows with a knife in his hand, inching closer and closer and getting ready to pounce.
Pete grabbed the dead woman under her arms, opened the screen door again with the toe of his shoe, and grunted in exertion several times as he dragged the body inside. A sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead by the time he dumped the corpse in the middle of the living room floor. He stood there panting for a moment, his heart racing. The woman couldn’t have weighed much more than 120 pou
nds or so, judging from her height and build, but Pete was a slightly built man unaccustomed to hauling around 120-pound loads of dead weight. Maneuvering dead woman number one into her faux-sleeping position on the couch had been hard enough, but this had been much worse.
At least it was done now. He could relax a little and allow himself a few moments to think about what to do next. He was still very much at Mary’s mercy here and seemingly trapped, but that didn’t mean he should quit trying to brainstorm a solution. Inspiration might strike at any moment. He needed to be ready to act when—or if—it happened.
He went to the front door with the intention of closing it, but his hand froze on the doorknob as he remembered his twelve-pack of beer. It was still in the footwell of the front passenger seat. Leaving it there and resisting the temptation that had driven him out of the house in the first place was the obvious smart thing to do. He’d already accepted that his previous impulse to get shitfaced had been misguided, but maybe just another beer or two to calm his nerves a bit more would be okay.
He eased the door open and flipped the porch light on again. Now that the body was out of sight, having the light off wasn’t necessary. Besides, on the off-chance anyone was lurking around out there, having the light on might allow him to slip out of harm’s way faster.
He stepped out onto the porch and took a look around. There was still no one in the area. Deciding he didn’t want to be out here any longer than necessary, Pete stepped down from the porch and jogged back over to the passenger side of his car, hitting the unlock button on his key fob twice to unlock the door. The twelve-pack was where he’d left it, in the footwell. The second can he’d taken from the carton was still in the cupholder between seats. He grabbed the carton from the floor and retrieved the open can from the cupholder. After backing out of the car and bumping the door shut with his hip, he put the lukewarm open can to his lips. Before drinking from it, however, he thought about the tainted beverages in his refrigerator. It seemed unlikely in the extreme that Shane or Mary had opened his car during the brief time he was in the house, but there was no point in taking chances. He shouldn’t drink any open beverages he’d left unattended for even for the shortest amount of time.