by Tracy Ellen
In my bare feet, I abruptly halted a few feet away. I screamed his name even louder when I saw his boots were still. I hesitated a moment going closer, scared I’d find his neck stuck through on a pike of sharp glass under the massive bulk covering his body from my view.
I quickly glanced upward, but I could see nothing in the rafters above him. When I looked back at Reg only a microsecond later, the comforter bulk on top of my brother’s still form was rising up. I was close enough to recognize the covering was some sort of down-filled sleeping bag, but the fact it was moving while my brother’s boots stayed still had me rooted in place in puzzled, growing horror.
The bulk turned my way, and I screamed out, “HOLY FUCK!”
The Hammer stood straight and flung off the unzipped sleeping bag.
Time stopped. My stunned, petrified impressions were that he loomed enormous. His head, his trunk, his legs—everything was gigantic. He had on a bizarre T-shirt that was so tight fitting across his over-developed arms and chest muscles, and so short over his hairy stomach protruding out like a watermelon, that it appeared he had put on a child’s size by mistake. His jeans were baggy and drooped low under his gut that looked hard as a rock even though it stuck out like he was nine months pregnant. A wave of the foulest smelling body odor hit me, causing me to gag as I breathed in frightened gasps. Even in my complete terror, the thought flashed it was unbelievable we hadn’t smelled him long before he jumped down from the beams.
I was paralyzed. I was staring into those malignant eyes that had horrified me in the mug shot. They were bloodshot red, bulging out of his head, and crazed with aggressive hate. The man was a monster. I could see a thick, snaking vein throbbing in his forehead. His pale face was mottled with purple. Then he opened his mouth wide and roared in fury. The raging echoes filled the attic and were the most terrifying sounds I have ever heard in my life.
He didn’t pause when flinging off the cover, but charged me.
He was twelve feet away, incredibly fast, and coming at me like a freight train.
I let loose shrill, ear-piercing screams as I backpedaled away, tripping over my clumsy feet and trying to stay upright.
My heart was beating so fast I thought it would burst from my chest. I was in a confused, mind-numbing panic over everything occurring so fast. One minute Reggie and I are talking, and the next moment my worst nightmare is a few feet away with my brother dead at his feet.
I fumbled to raise the Ruger in my left hand, and then my brain seemed to switch to slow motion like a slide show. I was seeing everything happening before me in sharply-etched detail. The rampaging man with widespread, enormously muscled arms inked with full sleeves of the crudest tattoos, the drops of spittle spraying from his screaming mouth fixed in a rictus smile of awful, yellowed teeth, and the sheer, linen curtain floating in the air current off to his side.
I was hearing the booming sound of a gun from far away. Each boom was distinct and hung in the air cloud-like, as if the deafening noise was manifesting itself physically. I was sure I was shot, but I felt no pain anywhere.
Just as suddenly as it had gone into slow motion, my mind snapped back into real time. My brain comprehended it was me shooting the gun. I swung the weapon up from my left side. Incoherent with frightened panic, I fired repeatedly. I was wildly out of control and reacting with no conscious thought. My arm continued rising higher after every shot instead of correcting. I was recklessly shooting without aim at the bellowing horror show bearing straight at me and now only a yard away.
Then Hammerschmidt was off his feet and flying through the air. His protruding, hairy stomach smashed into me first with bone-crushing force.
Instinctively, I flinchingly twisted away to my right while protectively throwing up my hands before he hit me. My body was flung backwards into the room from this massive body blow. I landed hard on my butt first, captured under his stinking, sweat-soaked body. Momentum from the smashing blow continued thrusting me backwards in motion. Upon my back’s impact with the floor, the wind was knocked out of me with a WHOOSH! At the same time, the spine-jarring landing caused my elbow to crack sharply against the floor. An excruciating pain screamed down my left arm, and my hand holding the gun went numb. An instant later, my head was forcefully bounced off the floorboards.
Everything went black.
Chapter XIX
“Fact and Friction” by The Nearly Dead
Sunday, 11/18/12
8:45 AM
I heard a voice gasping in a painful chant, “Oh, my head, my elbow, oh, my head, my elbow.”
A few seconds later, I realized it was me.
I heard another voice to my right say, “Your head and your elbow? My head is ready to come off!”
I didn’t want to open my eyes. “Reg is that you? Are we dead?”
A third voice right above me stated, “Axelrod’s don’t die from getting their thick heads thumped.”
I recognized that low voice. I felt a gentle hand sweep the sweat-soaked hair from my perspiring face. I lifted my eyes open to see Luke glaring down at me.
I murmured, “Hello, Mr. Secretive. How was breakfast? Were they serving women on the menu?”
Again from my right, a fourth voice asked, “She concussed, or what?”
My brother’s voice stuttered, “Of course she ca...can cu…cuss.”
I giggled and then winced. “Shit!”
“See.”
“Stop making me laugh.” I beseeched plaintively. “It hurts too badly!”
“No, I’ll tell you what hurts too bad. It’s searching a building with you that the cops have all ready searched—now that hurts bad.”
My brother and I both started laughing and groaning.
Holding the back of my head, I tried to sit up more. I gave up the attempt for now when a stab of pain pierced my skull. I settled back, closing my eyes. My left elbow really hurt, but I tested and could flex my arm and fingers. I didn’t know if that meant anything, but it made me feel better.
Giving me a slight squeeze, Luke’s amused voice answered the fourth voice. “No, she’s not concussed; she’s always this way.” He stated firmly, “You’ll both live.” To me, he murmured, “We’ll talk about the secretive comment later--in private.”
His tone was even and composed, but I opened my eyes and dredged up a tiny grimace of a smile to alleviate the anxiety I’d seen on his face. Then I stuck my tongue out about the talk later in private part. Having my brains scrambled regularly must be making me extra-immature, but it made me feel better, too, and said it all.
I was on the floor in the attic. Luke was sitting with me in his arms. I was half in his lap, but my legs were sprawled out. My toes were pointing to the bank of windows in front of me.
Green eyes clouded with worry searched mine. Luke ignored my smart-alecky tongue and asked quietly, “How are you feeling? Should I take you to emergency? When I got here you were unresponsive to my voice, but flailing to get out from under Hammerschmidt. Reggie said the bastard landed on you like a ton of bricks.”
“I’ll be fine. No hospitals are needed.” I assured him firmly of this without any basis in reality whatsoever for reaching this conclusion. On general principle, I have a rule to avoid doctors and hospitals unless I was at death’s door, or stitches were involved. It tees me off so much to wait around forever to be seen, I’d rather cure myself or die first. I moved and wriggled various body parts. This was a close one, but I’d survive. My diagnosis was I’d be bruised up, but nothing a shower and a couple of aspirin shouldn’t fix right up.
I turned my head slowly to the right, and felt a drop of sweat roll slowly off my cheek. Reggie was slumped on the floor several feet away from where I was lying. He was on his back, his legs bent at the knee, and feet flat on the floor. He was cradling his head as if preparing to do a crunch. I was incredibly relieved to see it was still connected to his neck.
Standing next to him was the bald-headed man from the park. He was shifting from one foot to anot
her, nervous energy coming off him in waves. Our eyes met for a second. He gave a slight nod and an encouraging smile. Up close, I could see he was much shorter and really bore no resemblance to The Hammer at all, except for the shaved head. The man standing before me here could be Middle Eastern, complete with golden skin, dark, liquid eyes and a hooked blade of a nose.
‘Well, damn. Anna was so wrong; clearly I did need glasses!’
“The Hammer!” I cried out, feeling like an idiot I hadn’t asked immediately. “What happened? Where is he?”
Luke’s calming fingers stroked my cheek. “Relax, Anabel, he can’t hurt you. Hammerschmidt’s over there, dead. Shot about eleven times.” He added dryly, “I think it was Reg’s shot through the back of the head that might have finally decided matters.”
The bald stranger chimed in, speaking in a fast, clipped voice. “I don’t know, Luke. I’m partial to the nice grouping in the groin area myself. From the amount of blood gushed; the femoral must have been hit.”
My brother’s voice was emphatic. “John, if you’re speaking of having a partiality that would definitely be Anabel’s work.”
Luke laughed shortly while I gave Reg the finger. Thankfully, I could manage that without too much effort. Introductions must have been performed while I was unconscious. Since John was the nasty man doing my nastier cousin Candy last night, and I was all ready feeling nauseated enough from the lingering stink of the dead Hammer, I didn’t mention their lack of manners when they didn’t introduce us.
I turned my head to the left. A few yards away lay the enormous body of Gustav Hammerschmidt. He was draped under the sleeping bag he’d been wearing when he jumped on my brother like Moth Man. My terror hadn’t exaggerated the enormous size of him, or the rank smell. I shuddered, bile rising in my throat.
It sunk into my brain that Reg and I had been moved away from the windows and broken glass, but it appeared the Hammer lay right where he must have landed on me.
Luke followed my gaze. “Jack will be here any second to take over the crime scene. You were only out for a minute.”
I nodded slightly and looked away from the dead man. In the turret room, the curtains on the shattered window were snapping to and fro in the cold, morning breeze. Crushed glass littered the floor.
Questions crowded my mind. Why were Luke and John here before the police? How had the Hammer gotten into my building without leaving a trace of breaking in? How come my brother’s head wasn’t sliced off, or at least bleeding? Most importantly, did the falling glass hurt anyone on the sidewalk below?
For once, I was too overwhelmed to ask. I was filled with relief Reggie and I survived the ambush. I was even more ecstatic the stinking, homicidal Hammer hadn’t. I lay back and nestled my aching skull into the warmth of Luke’s chest, letting his fingers lightly rubbing my temple do their magic. I hurt everywhere, but the drumline banging away in the back of my head was the worst.
The apartment doorbell starting ringing, the shrill, buzzing noise distinctly audible even up here.
Luke stated, “Circus time begins. You two ready for this?”
Reg and I groaned, but we both agreed we wanted to get it over with immediately.
John strode off quickly and went downstairs. The three of us sat quietly in the lull before the shit storm heading our way arrived. Over the last twenty four hours, I’d become an old pro at handling police investigation procedures.
A minute later, Luke’s cell buzzed. When he answered, Jazy’s yelling voice could be heard clear as a bell. “I don’t care who you are, you damn well better let me up these stairs. Anabel! Reggie!”
Reggie started laughing. My head rose and fell with Luke’s chest when he sighed loudly in irritation.
His response was a deep rumble against my ear. “It’s the sister. Let her up, but only to the top of the stairs so she doesn’t fuck with the crime scene.” I could hear John’s voice raised in question. “Yeah, it’s the friend. Let her up, too. Yeah, John, she’s gorgeous. Yeah, sure, like Zena, Warrior Princess is about right.” Luke ended the call on a muttered, “Christ.”
Reg snickered. “Tre J has that effect on all men, don’t worry.”
Luke gave a snort. “You’d better worry. He was talking about your sister, Reggie.”
Then we were all snickering and snorting, Reg and me interspersing our mirth with the occasional moan of pain.
Jazy and Tre were at the top of the stairs in no time. John had to use his body and outspread arms to ban them going any further towards us. Luke added his warning to the mix, and the girls settled down after seeing Reg and me in one piece, more or less, lying in the sunlight at the other end of the room.
I had to sit up and turn around to face them. Groaning under my breath, I made this slow maneuver. Actually, it felt better moving around. I carefully flexed my shoulders. Even with all the extra padding, my butt ached almost as much as my head.
Peering around the human fence, Jazy took in the scene before her. She glared at John accusingly and shouted, “What the hell? I thought you said she wasn’t hurt!” Jaz called down to me, “Anabel, are you shot?”
I reassured her quickly. ‘No, we’re banged around some, but only The Hammer got shot. He’s dead.”
Whistling in admiration, Jazzy sang out, “Hallefuckin’luelah!” Then her voice turned wondering. “Tre, take a look at Bel. That’s gotta be The Hammer’s blood and guts totally covering her. How cool is that!”
“Waaay cool!” was Tre’s enthusiastic reply.
I vaguely heard Tre in the far recesses of my mind. I was looking down the length of my body. I heard more yelling start from the direction of the stairs and my mind registered Chief Jack had arrived, but only from a far-off galaxy in another world. Woozily, I was staring in growing horror at the sight of myself. There was wet, gooky stuff on me everywhere I could see. I twisted painfully to get a better look. It was on my chest and stomach, and continued down the length of me to my bare feet. My slacks were dark purple-red with it. I could not begin to imagine the origin of what some of the slimy chunks may be.
I was dizzy and gagging in disbelief that I had been laying here oblivious to the effluvium of the bloody gore I was coated with while we chit-chatted about concussions and whatnot. I swiped my dripping, sweating forehead with a forearm. Glancing at the glob of bloody, gelatinous substance now smeared on my bare skin, I started making tiny, gasping, squeaking noises. Tingling and swaying, I was comprehending it wasn’t sweat or perspiration I had on my face, in my hair, and drenching my body. It was the brains and blood and guts of Gustav Hammerschmidt.
Everything went black.
Chapter XX
“Haven’t Got Time For The Pain” by Carly Simon
Sunday, 11/18/12
3:45 PM
I survived the police investigation…barely. The yelling I’d heard was Chief Jack kicking Jazy and Tre out immediately from the third floor. Under escort, they were allowed to deliver and put away my groceries on the second floor. Once the evidence techs checked out the apartment, the two girls helped fainting me into the shower.
Yes, I have to face the unbearable truth and admit I fainted. The men upstairs are lucky I did that instead of tearing them apart from limb to limb, and then beating them over their heads with their own arms. It is seven hours later, and I am still shaking my head over Luke or Reg saying nothing about the filthy crud covering me from head to toe. Jack doesn’t count. Luke let me touch him, and actually held me in his arms. He voluntarily touched my hair and my face. I may have to reexamine the whole concept of thinking I know men, much less like them.
After taking Advil, I sat on the ledge seat in the shower under the hottest water I could stand. Above the noise of the pounding water, I told Jaz and Tre about The Hammer, and about Cheryl Crookston’s murder. I needed to be distracted from the slime I swear was still circling down my drain while I compulsively washed my hair for the fourth time.
When I was done, the girls left. They gleefully promised to
contact Mac, Anna, Stella, Kenna, and Billy to share all the news occurring since last night. The store would be closed today, but. I was still planning on having our family dinner. I did beg them to tell everyone not to come over any earlier than four thirty this afternoon. I need to be alone and recharge my batteries. Then I’ll be ready to celebrate surviving another Final Destination attempt this weekend and give friendship support to Crookie; even if it kills me.
Happily, I was right about the shower diagnosis. After finishing scrubbing myself so shiny clean I squeaked, and after the pills kicked in, I was feeling more human. Then after repeated gargling, vigorous teeth brushing, and lavish applications of Japanese Peony body lotion, I finally got my sniffer back in order. I’ve discovered the hard way; actually not smelling death every second is necessary before you can start not thinking about it every second.
Chief Jack was ominously silent after shouting his orders at the girls, but anyone knowing him could tell he was in a towering, black rage. The cops and assorted personnel were busy on the third floor, but it was a solemn, carefully quiet busy.
In the organized confusion of the first hour after the police arrived; Luke and I were separated. With his special talent of observation, I knew he always had his eye on me wherever I was, even if we didn’t speak.
The County Attorney, Wade Patterson, showed up in my dining room to listen to Reg and I give our statements and answer questions on the shooting death of Gustav Hammerschmidt. Mr. Patterson is a high strung, anxious gentleman. When he saw Luke, a stranger leaning a shoulder against the wall and quietly listening, the head prosecutor of crimes in Rice County peevishly suggested Luke wait somewhere else.
Luke straightened up, pulled a chair out beside me, and quietly informed Mr. Patterson that he was representing me until it was determined conclusively that I didn’t need to hire a criminal attorney. This is how I found out Mr. Secretive has a law degree.