by Hults, Matt
Tim Flemwad licks shit.
She counted twenty notes with Tim’s name, but the ink was faded and scratched, written over in some parts. The freshest-looking message lay just out of reach, but what little she could see of it told her that it promised to be the juiciest bit of info yet.
Tim Fleming Loves …
Mallory groaned, unable to read the rest.
“Who? Tim Fleming loves who?”
Due to the incline of the chute the last half of the message vanished into shadow. Even on her tip-toes, she couldn’t see what it said.
“Damn.”
She couldn’t help wanting to know the rest. It was like a sitcom at this point. And here, obviously, was the source of the whole conflict, teasing her like cliffhanger ending.
She rested her hands on the lip of the chute, testing its strength. She looked up. Obviously the metal was strong enough to hold the weight of those who had ventured inside to leave their tag on this makeshift bulletin board, and all the newer messages seemed to be farther up. Perhaps one of them would reveal the name of the mystery girl Tim loved and shed light on the reason for so many hateful comments about him?
After one last moment of contemplation, she climbed inside and crawled upward.
Up and up she went, getting closer and closer, but now her own shadow was blocking the light, and she couldn’t fully see the entire message until she was almost on top of it. Then, finally, mercifully, she discovered the final piece of the message.
Tim Fleming Loves … Fucking Donkeys.
Mallory rolled her eyes.
“I crawled all the way up here for THAT?”
She expelled her frustration in a single long breath, not wanting to think of how dirty she’d gotten, especially now that it was all for nothing. The upper opening of the chute waited just a few yards ahead, letting in a little more light, and she inched along toward it, searching the writing for more mention of Tim. She found plenty, but nothing that explained the anger behind the messages.
She reached the top of the chute.
Switching interests, Mallory wondered what the inside of the silo looked like, imagining it as a huge archive of spray paint and ink.
She leaned into the dank air of the silo’s interior, looking around to see what she could make out in the gloom.
The second she did, the foul stench of rot overpowered her senses.
She gagged and coughed with each lungful, involuntarily clutching her nose when she reeled away from the stink. With a moan of disgust, she twisted around to slide back down the chute, but with all her weight pressed on the unsupported edge at the opening, the sheet metal bent and the section she sat on tore away from the wall, spilling her backward.
Into the silo.
The world blurred into gray and black, rushing past her like a midnight wind.
I’m dead! I’m dead! I’m going to die!
She hit the ground before her fear transformed into a scream, landing on her back atop a carpet of moist soil and damp leaves.
She lay motionless, staring skyward. A brilliant beam of sunlight pierced the gloom from a missing panel in the silo’s domed roof, and she squinted her eyes against it, realizing she was unhurt.
No broken bones. No twisted limbs.
Groaning, she pushed herself to a sitting position.
The stench of death still polluted the air, and she slapped a hand over her mouth and nose to block it out.
Ugh! That’s sick, she thought. I have to get out of here!
She glanced up, searching for the chute opening, praying it wasn’t too high to reach, when she spotted something swinging in the shadows overhead.
Looking closer, she spotted a taut rope hanging from the highest reaches of the dome. Following the line with her gaze, she began to make out shapes in the murky chamber overhead: a pair of brown work boots hovering thirty feet off the floor; two legs dangling in the darkness; a hand sleeved in shadow.
Mallory’s hand dropped away from her mouth. Her body stiffened.
She saw where the rope ended in a noose, the frayed tether partially concealed behind a white face that gazed down with empty eyes.
A scream exploded from her throat. It bounced off the cold walls encircling her, amplified by the concrete. A flock of birds burst into flight, rushing from a hidden roost within the silo’s upper structure. The beat of their wings overpowered Mallory’s cry, and transient shadows darted across the dead man’s body as they flew out of the dome.
Mallory wailed again, pulling her knees up to her chest, miserably realizing no one could hear her.
Oh, God! The smell, that awful smell!
She inhaled to scream again when she spotted tufts of cloth and grass protruding from the corpse’s clothing. Her eyes adjusted to the light as she stared, and now she noticed wire secured around the dead man’s wrists and ankles, holding his boots and gloves in place. Duct tape bound a long and rusty kitchen knife in his right hand.
What kind of person would hang himself while holding a kitchen knife?
“It’s not real,” she whispered to herself. “It’s just some dumb prank.”
She stood up and took a second, longer look at the slack white face above. This time she saw a rubber mask instead of someone’s head, a stupid Halloween prop probably purchased for under ten bucks at any WalMart or Target store.
Shifting her gaze from the hanging dummy, she searched the floor and found the remains of a small animal—maybe a raccoon or a woodchuck—not far away, which had to be the source of the stench in the air. More importantly, she also discovered a small access hatch in the silo’s wall, outlined by glorious yellow sunlight.
“Thank God,” she whispered.
Wiping tears from her cheeks, she walked toward the door.
Overhead, a strong wind pushed through the hole in the silo’s rooftop and swirled down the concrete walls, turning the dummy just enough so that its hollow eye sockets seemed to track Mallory’s movements across the room.
The sight of it caused her bravery to vanish like a ghost.
She spun away, pushed the hatch open, and squeezed out into the warm daylight.
She didn’t stop running until she’d traveled beyond sight of the silo.
CHAPTER 10
Detective Melissa Humble pulled her car into the Pattersons’ driveway for the second time that day, arriving even as the coroner’s van departed with the homeowners’ bodies. She got out of the car and started toward the house in search of Dr. Otto Rictor, a former medical examiner and the senior CSI officer on the scene.
She opened the farmhouse door and stepped inside. The odor of decay had diminished, but the grisly display of dry blood on the far wall left the lingering impression of death, even without Mrs. Patterson’s body present.
Melissa found Dr. Rictor stooped over the kitchen counter, studying various Polaroid photos of the bodies and jotting notes into a ledger. Earlier, he’d led the photographers throughout the house and garage, making certain every detail of the crime scene got captured on film.
Rictor glanced up and smiled when the door springs announced her entry, an act that caused the lines sprouting from the corners of his eyes to triple in number. He pushed his half-lens reading glasses higher up on the bridge of his pudgy nose and said, “That was quick. You weren’t even gone an hour.”
After contacting and questioning the victims’ remaining family—two sons, both living out of state—Melissa had gone out to check the surrounding farms, searching for anyone who had either seen or heard from the Pattersons prior to their deaths. “Feels more like three hours,” she said. “How about you, having fun yet?”
He frowned but it didn’t change the amicability in his eyes. “Just the other day I was telling my wife it’s been a while since I’ve had a real challenge. I should’ve kept my damn mouth shut. Coffee?”
Melissa laughed and leaned against the counter beside him.
He handed her a paper cup from Starbucks. “One of Cocoran’s finest did a java run. I figured you cou
ld use it. Soy mocha latte.”
“You know me too well,” she said. “So, what’s the challenge?”
Rictor marked his page in the ledger and motioned her toward the blood-streaked wall. “Take a look at this first.”
She followed, sipping the coffee while he indicated specific areas of the scene. His pointing fingers darted from one detail to the next like long-necked birds pecking at breadcrumbs.
Various pins and labels now marked the rust-colored bloodstains smeared over yellow and white wallpaper, blotting out intricate little pictures of barns and hay bales. The labeled pins, Rictor explained, identified which holes had been made by each of the items that pierced the victim’s body and embedded in the plaster wall.
“We found thirty-two knives out of the total amount of utensils lodged in the corpse,” he said, “but only six of those were long and sturdy enough to penetrate the body and hold it in place. Now, look at where those knives were located.” He placed himself in a stance similar to the one in which Mrs. Patterson had been found. The reconstruction wasn’t perfect; unlike the victim, his feet remained on the floor.
“We have two blades in each arm, one through her left trapezium muscle in the neck, and the other in her right shoulder. None of those stabs would be instantly fatal, and you can see how much blood there is on the floor and wall.”
“So, you’re saying that she was alive when it happened, that her heart was still pumping?”
“Correct.”
“What about the other utensils?”
“Superficial anterior musculature damage. That many wounds would’ve killed her in time, no doubt, but the true mortal blow came from one of the cooking spoons in the eye sockets, which happened last, as indicated by the blood loss.”
“And there were no other traces of blood throughout the house?”
“None that we could find. We’ve used Luminal and ultraviolet light on some of the rooms, but nothing’s turned up. We’ll have to wait until nightfall to do the property, of course, but I’m not expecting to discover any new areas of interest.”
“Then this wasn’t just set up as a display.”
“No. I’d say this is where she died.”
Melissa stared at the blood on the wall, appalled by the brutality implied by Rictor’s findings. “Shit.”
“We still need to wait for the M.E.’s toxicology report to see if there were any chemicals or drugs in her system,” he reminded her. “It could be that she was unconscious before the killer attacked her, but somehow I doubt that anything will turn up. This looks like the work of good old-fashioned rage.”
“I have the same feeling,” Melissa muttered. “What about Mr. Patterson? Anything new?”
Rictor’s folded his arms in a contemplative posture.
“What?” Melissa asked.
“That’s the challenging bit,” he said. “Follow me.”
He led her out of the house.
Melissa had already surveyed the stage on which Mel Patterson’s final act in life had been played out, having come to its finale in the theater of the couple’s detached utility garage.
Mr. Patterson’s corpse had been found partially trapped beneath his green Ford Windstar, where he’d been crushed between the front bumper and the garage’s main door, thus causing the damage she’d observed when she arrived.
“There’s something a bit puzzling about the man’s death,” Rictor said once they were inside the building.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Well, if you remember, it appeared Mr. Patterson had been struck twice by the vehicle.”
Melissa nodded in agreement. “The first hit sandwiched him between the garage door and the minivan.”
“Which broke his hip, but didn’t have the force to kill him.”
“Then the killer backed up, collided with the workbench, and peeled forward again as Mr. Patterson tried to get out of the way.”
“Catching him in the torso, ramming him into the door a second time,” Rictor said. “His legs were crushed beneath the van’s oil pan. We had to jack it up to get him out. The thing that troubles me is that it appears he’d been working on the vehicle moments before the attack occurred.”
“What are you getting at?” Melissa asked, wary of the doctor’s disconcerted gaze.
“Well, once we got him out from under the van, we found the vehicle’s battery beside him.”
Melissa gazed at the tape outlines that marked the areas where evidence had been collected from the floor and noticed an appropriately sized rectangle less than two feet from the body.
“When we looked under the hood, sure enough, it wasn’t there,” Rictor continued. “It seems he’d been working on the air filter’s mounting bracket and needed to remove the battery to get at some of the screws.”
Melissa’s stare returned to the vehicle. “Are you saying the killer pushed the van into him?”
Rictor took off his glasses. “With the gearshift in ‘park.’”
“Impossible.”
“All I can give you are the facts,” he replied. “There was no battery in the vehicle when it hit the man, and that was the only one we found.”
“What about fingerprints? Anything on the casing?”
“Just Mr. Patterson’s,” Rictor answered. “We’re still checking the house over, but if you’re suggesting the killer brought along his own car battery to carry out this specific act of murder, I’d say you’re stretching it a bit, even for you.”
Melissa smirked. “Thanks for the input, Doc.”
Rictor grinned. “I’m going to finish up in the house. If you need anything else, just holler.”
Melissa waved and gave him her thanks.
She walked around the garage, pondering what she’d learned of the situation so far: no forced entry in the house, no valuables taken, no fingerprints left behind, no witnesses to the crime. And the only motive appeared to be imitative lunacy, indicated by the letters etched in Mrs. Patterson’s forehead. In the end, it appeared her only hope of identifying the killer hinged on whatever clues the lab techs could harvest from his victims.
“Who are you?” she whispered to the empty garage. “And where are you now?”
CHAPTER 11
The Andersons’ house.
The Killer returned shortly before noon and parked in the garage, having spent the night and a good portion of the morning engaged in the tedious labor of covering up last night’s risky venture.
The gas station explosion forced the Killer to work against the response time of the area’s fire department, but also aided with eliminating certain evidence before police arrived and had a chance to collect it. True, only a handful of people could recognize the significance of Penelope Styles’ death and become alerted to the approaching carnage, but kingdoms had crumbled because of such minor oversights.
The Killer destroyed each vehicle in a rainstorm of fuel and flame.
Mutilated all the bodies and cast them into the blaze.
Due to the rural location of the store, the Killer managed to complete some of the work before the firefighters arrived, but most of it secretly took place in their presence, while they battled the flames. It was a painstaking process, operating covertly, avoiding detection, but essential to maintain anonymity. The Killer’s efforts would be rewarded with time. Proper identification of the victims would now take a matter of days, and the Killer only required one or two to complete the final preparations before Mallory’s death.
Tonight, the Killer would assemble the various components at the cemetery, the ones collected from Penelope and the others, then capture Mallory and her family the following evening. The end of five years of agony had finally crept within sight, and the Killer shuddered with anticipation, like a wild dog gnawing through a restraining rope, soon to be free.
Searching through the Andersons’ garage, the Killer collected rope, chain, and tape. Paul Wiess should cooperate nicely when shown his daughter bound and gagged, assisting with the one task the Kille
r cannot complete alone.
Along the back wall of the room, the Killer located a variety of lawn and garden tools and paused to select a weapon. The Andersons’ firearms remained in the van, but for Mallory’s death, the Killer preferred to use something that cut.
A chainsaw. Tempting, but too noisy.
An ax. Perfect.
The Killer loaded the items into the van then returned to the house to make sure there wasn’t anything else of use.
Someone knocked on the front door.
The Killer halted in the foyer, poised at the foot of the staircase not twelve feet from the sound.
The doorbell rang, followed by a voice. “Mr. Anderson?”
The Killer kept silent.
“Mr. Anderson, it’s Father Kern. I was wondering if we could speak?”
The Holy Man.
Despite the fact that his calls went unanswered, Kern remained on the step.
“I heard you weren’t at mass this morning,” he said in a grave tone. “It pains me to think I’m the reason you were absent.”
The Killer drew closer, moving with caution. A tall rectangular sheet of clouded glass in the center of the door revealed nothing of the priest but a foggy silhouette.
“I assume you’ve heard I’m leaving the church,” he added. “I can understand how hypocritical that might appear in light of what we discussed about belief, faith, and salvation, but please don’t let my own … uncertainties … influence your newfound interest in The Church.”
The Killer paused inches from the door, a hand above the knob.
“I think it would be best if you sought spiritual counsel through one of my colleagues. If you decide to, that is. I’ve already talked to Father Bachman about it. He knows I’ve blessed the house for you, but if you’d like him to perform a second—”
The Killer threw open the door, and Kern snapped his head up in shock. The man’s pupils dilated, his eyes focusing on what loomed in the entryway.
His face paled.
The Killer stared back, peering through ragged holes cut in the scarecrow costume. The dirty burlap face reflected in Kern’s eyes.