by David Wood
“I--”
“No,” Dick said, “you are, man.” He sat back on the booth cushion. “You see something when you look at that guy.”
It was a statement, not a question, but Trey found himself nodding anyway. “Yeah, but I don't see what I used to see.”
“What do you see now?”
“Just eyes,” Trey said. “Not the same thing.”
“But still you see something.”
Yeah, Trey thought, but it's not the Closet Man or the Grubby Man. It's something else. “What do you see, Dick?”
“Just a guy,” Dick said, taking another sip of coffee. “I told you that. But I know people. I don't trust him. And I don't think it's a coincidence that all this is happening at the same time. A missing kid, Trey.” Dick rolled the cup between his hands and stared at the table top. “What if he's got something to do with that?”
Trey felt his stomach plummet. The image of Jimmy Keel's frozen, bloodless body in the bottom of a refrigerator, the face locked in a scream of terror, filled his mind. He shook his head. “Okay,” Trey whispered. “So you want to go check out his digs?” Dick nodded. “How are we going to know if he's even going to be there? Not like he has a phone number, does he?”
“Shit no,” Dick laughed. “We'll just show up at his warehouse. He came to your house without an invitation. I think we should return the favor.”
“You really are asking for trouble. If he's not there, what are we going to do?”
Dick's lips twitched upward into a maniacal grin. Trey felt his stomach drop. “We take a look anyway.”
Trey opened his mouth and then closed it. He'd been on the verge of yelling in the IHOP. Instead, he leaned forward, his face close to Dick's. “We break in?”
Dick nodded. “Fuck yes. We take a look around. We see anything hinky, we call the cops. If not,” Dick said, taking a sip of coffee, “I'll join you in the rubber room.”
“You are fucking crazy.” Trey leaned back. An old couple in the next booth looked over at him as he said this. Trey didn't return their stare. He cleared his throat. “The cops aren't going to like this. We should go see McCausland.”
Dick's smile faded into exasperation. “Trey, who's going to listen to a retired software developer and an insane one?” Trey said nothing. “Besides, McCausland's got no jurisdiction there.”
“Dick, this is nuts. What if we're right? What if--” He cleared his throat again, shaking off the image of the ghoul, the flesh that moved like a snakeskin, the talons jutting from its misshapen hands, and the drooling maw. “What if he's there? What if--”
The older man's fingers thrummed against the tabletop as Trey's voice broke off. The smile returned to his face. “I'm going to do it,” Dick said. “You can either come, or not. But I'm going.”
Trey shook his head. “I still think you're the one that's crazy.”
Dick nodded. “I've been called worse.” He took another sip of coffee. “You in, or what?”
James Keel. Poster board affixed to stop signs, yield signs, “slow children at play” signs. A mother walking through freezing cold to tape, staple, and graffiti the neighborhood with pleas for information. The Ice Cream Man with all his young customers. The screaming bells. Trey shivered. “Okay,” he said. “I'm in.” The roiling in his guts stopped. He gave Dick a grim smile. “A rebel to the end, eh?”
“Well,” Dick said as the waitress approached, “us old dope smoking hippies just have to keep fighting the system, bro.”
“You aren't a hippie,” Trey said with a smile. The waitress pulled out her pad to take their order. “You're just another dumb ass who got lost in the seventies.”
Dick opened his mouth and then closed it as the waitress laughed.
“Your tip,” he growled at her, “just got bigger, darlin.”
Chapter 48
The drive was silent. Neither of them spoke the entire trip into Houston. From time to time, Dick looked at him, but Trey didn't make eye contact. He was afraid that if they started talking, one or both would lose their nerve. But that wasn't the only reason.
The clock on the radio had changed rapidly twice. He knew what that meant--the freezes were happening again-- silent, absent seizures. He wondered if Dick had even noticed. If they started talking and he just froze, what would Dick do? Turn the car around? Panic? Trey was terrified enough already.
After their breakfast on Saturday, Trey and Dick had outlined a plan. Not much of a plan, but enough to get started. He went home and told Carolyn he and Dick were going disc shopping on Sunday.
He didn't like lying to her, but he knew she'd try and talk him out of it. Or worse, she'd march across the street and tear Dick a new asshole for even suggesting it. Besides, Dick just wanted to talk to the man and see his warehouse-- no harm in that.
Still, he was nervous.
The Closet Man hadn't been real, but both the Grubby Man and the Ice Cream Man were real. The Ice Cream Man wasn't the ghoulish, fiend-thing that Trey's brain presented. But he was something. Something bad.
Dick's phone called out a street direction and he exited from 59 onto Jackson Street. They passed Minute-Maid Park, the Toyota Center, and the architectural horror known as the George R. Brown Convention Center. One quick turn beneath the high, concrete river of the 59 freeway and they were in the warehouse district.
The warehouse district had once been the heart of manufacturing in Houston. Instead, it was now filled with old buildings that had been converted into lofts, clubs, or artist collectives. Vietnamese restaurants and shops had popped up, filling damned near every remaining strip mall in the area. Most of the buildings were dank, old, and distressed. Even the refurbished buildings held to that look. Despite their age, he knew that some of the lofts went for upwards of 900k.
There were still some actual warehouses left in the area, places where small companies still produced, or distributed. Dick wound through the streets, turning in time with the phone's female voice. Trey felt his heartbeat rise. He tried to calm himself by tapping out the chromatic scale on the car door, but it didn't help. It was zero hour. The most terrifying thing about finding this place, about investigating, was the possibility that he wasn't crazy.
Dick pulled the Regretta into a well-weathered business park. The car bumped up the uneven, pothole-ridden driveway. Three story metal buildings sat on either side in long rows. Each building had a faded number written in orange on its side. “23-B,” Dick whispered to himself. “Ah,” he said, pointing with his free hand, “there it is.” He downshifted the car and slowed. Unlike the other buildings that had a sign on them, like CFC Distribution or FM Manufacturing, building 23-B had no markings other than the orange address stamp.
Car still running, Dick turned and looked at Trey. His eyes were wild. “We're here,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Trey nodded. “Yeah,” he replied. Trey cleared his throat. “You scared?”
“Scared?” Dick chuckled. “About to piss my pants.” Trey nodded again and Dick winked at him. “You okay, man?”
“I don't know,” Trey said. “Just keep an eye on me, okay?”
Dick laughed. “You keep an eye on me, buddy. You're the crazy one. You should be just fine.” He slapped Trey on the shoulder. “Ready?”
Trey shrugged and pointed. “There's a door right there. If he's here, let's just talk, okay?”
Dick shook his head. “He won't be here, Trey. I know it.”
“But if he is--”
“Yeah, I know,” Dick said with a nod, “if he is, we'll talk. We'll knock. We'll give him plenty of time.” Dick stroked his beard. “And if he's not in, we'll go in.”
“Okay.” Trey shivered. “I'm ready.”
Dick harrumphed. “Glad someone is,” he said and turned off the car. He paused for a moment, the door handle in hand, staring at the building. The huge metal overhead door was locked in place by a padlock. Next to it was a normal sized door to the building with a knob jutting from its rusted surface. “Okay,” Dic
k whispered and stepped out of the car.
Following suit, Trey slid out of the warm car and into the cold winter air. Forties. Trey had on a light jacket, something that would allow him to move, but did little to keep the chill from his bones. Trey closed his car door as quietly as he could. Dick did the same. Trey walked around his side of the car and stood next to Dick.
“Let's do this,” Trey whispered.
The two of them walked up onto the door's landing, Dick in front. Trey felt every nerve in his body humming with energy like an electrical wire. Dick rapped his knuckles on the door. Each hollow boom echoed like a distant thunderclap. Dick paused, turned his head, and looked at Trey. He frowned at him and banged again, this time with his fist. They waited; the only sound was their breath and the distant roar of cars on the freeway. “Fuck this,” Dick whispered.
He turned the knob on the door. It didn't budge. “Okay,” Dick said. He brushed past Trey and to the Regretta's trunk. He opened it, rummaged in the back, and brought out a duffel bag. He unzipped it, and pulled out a crowbar.
“Hardly subtle,” Trey said in a low voice.
“Uh-huh,” Dick agreed. “Stand beside me and watch the alley.”
Trey moved aside and did so. The road between the warehouses was empty and devoid of movement. Dick slipped the crowbar in between the jamb and the door and pushed, putting his weight behind it. The crowbar's sharp edge resisted the attempt as it tried to widen the slim gap. The metal sheet crumpled and groaned against the pressure. Dick cursed and put more force against it, grunting with the effort. He was rewarded with the sharp, crackling sounds of metal tearing. Trey watched the door cave inward as the metal gave. The dead-bolt slide screeched as it ripped free from the metal. The door fell open the slightest bit. Dick pulled back on the crowbar.
“Ready?”
Trey shrugged. Dick turned back to the door, raised his foot, and kicked hard. The door swung wide with a final screech of protest exposing a perfect rectangle of darkness. Dick bent down and put the crowbar back in the duffel, rummaged again, and came out with two flashlights. He handed one to Trey.
“Let's get inside fast,” he whispered.
Trey nodded, and followed him into the warehouse, flashlight on.
Chapter 49
The winter sky cast the world in twilight shades and even the wan light did little to penetrate the warehouse interior through the open door. Dick walked forward into the gloom with caution. Trey stumbled behind him, trying to match his steps.
“I'm going to look for a light switch,” he whispered.
“Why are you whispering?” Trey asked.
“Because this place is spooky as fuck,” Dick hissed.
Trey watched as Dick's flashlight beam stabbed through the darkness, lingering over the walls and reflecting off the metal sheeting. Holding his breath, Trey turned around and closed the door. It pro- tested, but closed, and with it, the last of the ambient light disappeared. Trey heard the hitch in Dick's breath. “You closed it, right?” he asked in a shaky voice.
“Yeah,” Trey said. “Didn't want anyone coming by and seeing it open.
Dick didn't reply, but took a few steps forward. His flashlight beam swerved to the right and he halted.
“Hey, Reggie? Where you at?” Dick yelled. There was no response. Dick took a deep breath and yelled louder “Archibald Simmons! Come out here, you sick fuck!”
Trey held his breath, feeling as though his heart would burst through his chest.
Dick chuckled. “Told you he wasn't here.”
He swung the flashlight toward the far wall. The narrow beam illuminated the cream colored van. It was parked on the right side of the building, its top barely visible over crates and boxes. He turned toward Trey, his flashlight pointed beneath his chin. His face was lit in a manic grin. “We got some time, I think.”
“Have to find a light switch, man,” Trey said.
Turning the flashlight away from himself, Dick pointed it toward the wall. “Ah,” he whispered and walked a few feet away. “Let there be light,” he whispered.
Trey heard the click of a switch. The single overhead fluorescent buzzed to life.
“Jesus,” Dick said. “Fucker likes it dark in here, doesn't he?”
Trey clicked off his flashlight. The glow from the high ceiling was barely enough to drive away the shadows from the building's interior. Boxes were stacked everywhere, stamped with the names of candy companies.
“He's got enough supply in here to feed schools for months.”
“Yeah,” Dick agreed. “Guess he buys everything in bulk.”
Trey split off from Dick, stepping through the maze of boxes toward the ice cream van. The large vehicle was cloaked in shadow, parked with its nose toward the roll up door. He tried to look through the tinted windows, but saw nothing but impenetrable darkness. With a sigh, Trey tried the door handle on the passenger side. Nothing. It moved up and down with liquid ease, but the door didn't pop open.
“Door's locked.”
“Not surprised. Hey,” Dick said, “come over here, man.”
Trey walked away from the van and wound back through the maze. As Dick came into view, Trey saw the impish smile on his face. “What?” Trey asked.
Dick pointed toward a row of dark rectangles standing against the back wall.
He looked back at Dick. “What are they?”
“Don't you hear the hum?” Dick started walking toward them. Trey realized he'd been hearing the hum for a long time.
“Refrigerators?”
“Yeah,” Dick said as he reached the long row. “I count seven of them. Freezers,” Dick's face was manic, his eyes wild, smile wide. Trey walked forward to stand next to him and stared. “Pretty ridiculous for ice cream, eh?” Dick asked.
The freezers were hardly industrial models. Most of them looked as though they'd been picked up at Sears on the cheap. Their faded and chipped surfaces were grimy with dust. Trey turned on his flashlight and swept the beam over the freezer in front of him. He took a deep breath. “This guy has an unhealthy fascination with cream colored things, doesn't he?”
“Who the fuck padlocks a freezer door?” Dick asked, pointing at the keyed square hanging off the side of the door handles.
“Someone who doesn't want people peeking?”
Dick nodded. “Wanna peek anyway?”
“How you going to get through the lock?”
The smile on Dick's face was no longer giddy, but grim. He turned on his own flashlight and swept it over the side of the freezer door. He smiled. “Hinges, baby. Hinges.” His light illuminated the hinge holding the left door shut. Three hinges evenly spaced. He clicked off his light and bent toward his bag. “Just need the proper tool,” he said. He pulled out a hammer and screwdriver.
“Um, were you ever a thief?” Trey chuckled.
Dick looked back at him. “Well, in Calgary there was precious little to do in the summer. So,” he said with a grin, “we improvised. I kind of stopped when my folks moved back to Texas.”
“Uh-huh,” Trey said, returning the infectious grin. The giddiness in his body was thrumming again. He didn't want to see what was in the freezer. But at the same time, he knew he had to. “Do it. I'll watch the master at work.”
Placing the screwdriver beneath the hinge, Dick slammed the hammer into its bottom. The ancient bolt holding the hinge together popped up and out. Dick repeated the action on the middle hinge, having to hit twice before the bolt screeched and came loose. The bottom bolt was much more difficult since Dick had to go from the top. When he couldn't get it to move, he shrugged, put the screwdriver sideways against the hinge, and pounded with enormous force. He completely missed the top of the screwdriver, the hammer smashed into the concrete with a loud thud.
Dick cursed. “Put your light down here,” he said.
Trey bent and shined the beam over the hinge.
“There ya go,” Dick whispered. He took aim and slammed the hammer home against the hinge. It popped off the
side of the door with a screech as the metal gave way under the pressure. The door shuddered and squealed. “Hand me the crowbar,” Dick said.
Trey clicked off the flashlight, picked up the wrecking bar and placed it in Dick's raised open palm. Dick stood on his toes, placed the fork end under the top bolt and pulled. The bolt shot up and out and disappeared into the gloom, jangling against the concrete.
“There we are. Hold the door,” he said softly and placed the wrecking bar's fork beneath the middle bolt. Trey reached forward and lifted on the handle. Dick pulled and the last bolt popped. “Now pull,” Dick whispered.
The door popped free. The sudden weight was heavy enough to send Trey backwards, but he managed to keep his balance. He felt the edge of a box against his heels and cursed. “Okay,” Dick said turning toward him, lean it against the edge here.” Trey stepped forward and put the door up against the edge of the freezer. Dick moved around and repeated the exercise with the other door. Once the hinges were popped, Trey lifted the door off and dropped it to the ground, the sound of metal against the concrete booming and echoing around the warehouse.
The freezer didn't have a light of any kind. Frosty air flowed out in a cloud of mist. Dick turned on his flashlight and poured over the interior. Boxes and boxes of ice cream sandwiches, popsicles and creamsicles stared back at them.
“Huh. Guess I was expecting,” he said through a sigh, “something else.”
Trey nodded. “That was anticlimactic.”
Dick gestured toward the other six freezers. “We ain't done yet.”
Trey cursed. “Fuck. I was afraid to look in this one.”
“Yeah,” Dick agreed. “So, let's play roulette. I don't want to do all these fuckers unless we have to.” Trey nodded. “So choose.”
Carrying his flashlight in his hands like a baton, Trey moved down the line of freezers. They all looked the same at first. Each a humming cream colored rectangle. At the fourth in the row, he stopped. He panned the flashlight over the freezer's front. Trey nodded to himself. “Bigger,” he said aloud.