Cause to Fear

by Pierce, Blake

  The apartment was freezing, which was good. He wanted to get himself used to the cold but knew he needed to do it slowly. He had already attempted one experiment last night, standing out in the cold, directly in a puddle of shallow water behind his apartment complex. He’d worn no shoes and this morning one of his toes was discolored and partially numb.

  He was moments away from another experiment. He eyed his materials on the kitchen table. The days of freezing hamsters and trying to bring them back to life were over. He had not been thinking clearly back then. He was not trying to resurrect the dead, after all. He was not trying to thaw frozen hearts in the hopes of understanding how to manipulate the effects of the cold—although that had been his plan at first. No…he knew better now.

  Now he knew he had to use the cold. He had to accept it for what it was. He was pretty sure he would no longer be able to capture the beauty of his victims. It might be possible, but minds such as his were not capable of such understanding. If he wanted to truly capture the beauty he saw in those frozen girls, he needed to be one with the cold. If he planned to one day reconfigure himself, to do away with the scarring and the horrible state of his face, he was going to have to embrace the cold. He’d have to love it. To become one with it. And then perhaps he could claim the frozen beauty of him victims for himself.

  As he sat down at the table, a moan of anticipation escaped his lips. He looked to the Yeti cooler on the table and slowly pried the lid off. Cold vapor rose up from it. He peered inside, eyeing the dry ice with equal amounts of longing and fear.

  He rolled up the sleeve of his sweatshirt, realizing that he was beginning to breathe heavily. I can do this, he thought. I can do this. Embrace the cold…be the cold…this is for your face, for your life…

  He placed his hand into the cooler. The cold was a shock at first but after several seconds, his flesh almost felt as if it was getting accustomed to it. He knew there would be a burning sensation but when it came, it was a bit harsher than he had expected.

  He’d read up on dry ice a while back and knew that it could be very effective for his experiments and for the ultimate plan. He had used it twice already, preserving the victims. Of course, that was back when he had hoped to resurrect them, to understand how to cheat death with the use of ice.

  He knew that you were supposed to use insulated gloves when handling dry ice. He also knew that it was much colder than normal ice, boasting an average temperature of -109.3 degrees Fahrenheit.

  Every muscle in his body begged for him to withdraw his hand. But he pushed through it, letting out a little hiss of pain through his teeth. When it got to its absolute worst, he picked up the mirror he had placed by the cooler. He looked at his reflection, staring at the scarring and his drooping mouth. He could still see traces of the man he had once been, a ghost of how he had once looked.

  He could be beautiful again if he could just make it through the pain. He had known from the start that it was not going to be easy.

  The burn continued. From what he had read, it took a while to pass. It would be replaced by numbness. After that, there could be nerve damage or complete uselessness of the digits. His body was shaking now. How long had his hand been in there? Six minutes? Seven?

  Slowly, he withdrew most of his hand from the ice. He left the pinky, though. If he lost that, it would not be that big of a deal. But he’d need the use of his hand. There was important work to do.

  Mind over matter, he thought as he started to feel nothing more than a slight twinge of pain and then minor discomfort in the pinky. You can do this, you can do this.

  “You can do this,” he said out loud, speaking to the image in the mirror. “You can do this…”

  Out of nowhere, another surge of pain rocketed through his pinky and catapulted into his hand and up his arm. The burning sensation was back tenfold and it came on so strongly that he could not help himself. He withdrew his hand and held it to his chest. He was crying now, choking back a scream because he had to be strong.

  He slammed the mirror against the table in frustration. How can you be so damned weak?

  The mirror shattered. Glass rained down to the floor but he barely even registered it. He looked at his left hand, the one that had been submerged in dry ice for roughly eleven minutes. The pinky had gone a deep shade of purple and the top portion of his ring finger was just a shade lighter. He attempted to move both fingers and found that the pinky was mostly unresponsive. He could feel it wanting to move more, but it was not obeying.

  Forget about this, something in his head said. It was a familiar voice, but one he did not like to hear…the voice of his mother. Oh, honey…forget about this. Turn the heat back on. See a doctor about your hand and that toe. Get out of this while you can. Don’t be a moron. Don’t fuck this up, too.

  “No,” he moaned. “It’s too late.”

  Besides, what did his mother know about anything? It was his mother who had put him in this situation. His mother had driven him to this.

  He looked down to the shards of broken glass on the floor almost lovingly. He could pick one up and slide it hard against his jugular. He could do that and it would be easy. He would bleed out quickly. It would all be over.

  It was tempting. But he had come this far. He had taken life. To take his own life at this point would be counterproductive.

  He looked down at the fingers of his left hand again. Trembling, he let out a shriek. He stormed out of the kitchen and grabbed his keys from the little board by the front door. By the time he reached his van, most of the feeling had come back in his left hand. As far as he was concerned, the pins and needles sensation he felt as the blood resumed its normal business beneath his skin was encouragement enough to carry on with his original plans.

  And that’s what he was going to do…his mother’s ghostlike voice be damned.

  ***

  He already knew who he wanted. He’d seen her several times before. She was a bit older than he was looking for but her beauty could not be denied. He had been watching this woman for seven months now, waiting and planning. He drove around the block for a while, making sure the woman’s car was parked where it usually was.

  He started to feel almost like a robot. Whenever he was so close to taking them, his mind seemed to slip into automatic mode. Everything was simple and fluid. Everything moved like it was on a track. He felt it and accepted it. He was no longer worried that he could still not feel anything in his left pinky. The only thing important now was getting the woman.

  He knew the woman lived alone. He’d studied and planned, as he had with the other two. He did not believe in chances or coincidences. It all had to be planned. He’d been working on this for two years now, waiting for this, the coldest winter in the last ten years.

  He parked four cars behind the woman’s vehicle and watched as she came out of a four-story office building and got in her expensive sleek black car. When the woman pulled into traffic, he followed.

  The drive home usually took twenty-one minutes but it took twenty-eight this afternoon because some idiot had run a red light and T-boned a dump truck. He nearly lost sight of the woman in the directed traffic around the accident but caught up to her two blocks from her house. He stayed two cars behind her the entire way, not wanting to be seen.

  When the woman parked at her home, pulling into her garage, she never noticed the red van passing by and turning left at the block.

  He went around the block, going through the woman’s routine in her head. In fifteen minutes or so, she’d come outside with her dog—one of those weird cutesy half-poodle breeds. That gave him plenty of time. He circled the block and parked behind the woman’s car. She never came out of the front door to walk her dog, so she wouldn’t see the red van parked behind her.

  Very carefully, he took the small squeeze bottle out of his coat pocket, along with the dishrag. He made sure to hold his breath as he soaked the cloth in the chloroform. When he had applied just a little but more than enough, he got out
of the van and started across the woman’s lawn as if he belonged there. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his right hand loosely holding the cloth.

  He’d scoped out the house before. He knew there was a perfect hiding spot just by the stairs along the back porch. He remained close to the house, hugging the side, just in case the woman decided to randomly look out of the window. When he reached the back porch, he hunkered down by the back steps, pressing his back against the latticework along the back of the porch.

  The machine-like feeling of working under a system that was out of his control allowed him to be patient and perfectly still. His legs were bent so he could spring up quickly when he needed to. His breathing was thin and slow. He was the picture of patience, waiting, understanding what was at stake here.

  Four minutes later, the back door opened. He could hear the clicking of the dog’s paws as the woman led it to the back porch. There was a notable change to the sound as the dog stepped off of the kitchen’s linoleum and onto the wooden back porch. The woman, he knew, would have her earbuds in, listening to her iPod (a blue one, he had seen as he had passed her on the street several times).

  When he heard the first footfall land on the steps, he sprang to his feet. The woman was shocked and scared, freezing for a moment. The dog was terrified too, breaking into a series of pathetic little yelps. He reached out and grabbed the puffy shoulder of the woman’s jacket. He slung her to the ground and was on top of her before the woman could let out a scream. When the woman did manage to finally open her mouth to shout, the washcloth was instantly stuffed into it. She made a slight gagging noise and stopped trying to fight at once. Her eyes grew wide with alarm.

  Beside her, the dog leaped on its owner’s attacker but did no damage. It was swatted away with one hard backhand and then seemed to lose interest, letting out a little bit of urine before cowering under the back porch stairs.

  It watched as its owner stopped struggling, her right arm going upward in a failed punch. She then went limp and the man that had attacked her caressed the side of her face in an almost loving way. When the man with the cloth in his hand stood up and struggled to get its owner up on his shoulder, the dog remained hidden under the porch steps, letting out one final little yelp.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Avery had to remind herself several times over the course of the afternoon that the case was, as of right now, out of her hands. Jimmy Daughtry’s alibis had indeed panned out, leaving them with zero leads once again. As it stood, the only hope they had was that Forensics could turn up some new piece of evidence.

  She hated feeling that she was sitting on the sidelines, but she also knew that it was the perfect opportunity to put her priorities in order once again. She was eventually going to have to learn that it was okay to have a life outside of work—and now with things going smoothly with Rose and her relationship with Ramirez at an almost too-good-to-be-true level, it seemed like a good time.

  After leaving the A1 at seven that evening, she and Ramirez swung by his place and picked up a few boxes. They were almost childlike with glee when they stowed them in the back of Avery’s car and drove back to her apartment together. It was a particularly special moment for Avery because she knew that Rose would be by later. She had not yet told Rose about the news of Ramirez moving in and was, quite honestly, a little nervous about it. But still…the two of them together was an idea that made her heart swell.

  It felt like it might burst when they arrived at the apartment and she saw that Rose was already there. She was waiting in her car, unable to be buzzed in. She got out and greeted them as they approached the front steps. Ramirez was carrying two boxes stacked on top of one another and Avery was rolling a suitcase along behind her.

  “Hey, guys,” Rose said with a knowing smile on her face and tone to her voice. “So…what’s going?”

  “Come on upstairs,” Avery said. “We’ll talk about it.”

  “OK…” Rose said.

  Something in her daughter’s eyes gave her away, though. Avery could tell that Rose had figured it out before they even reached the elevator. Rather than let it hang in the air and cause unnecessary tension, Avery grinned and said: “What do you think of this?”

  Rose looked to Ramirez and gave him a surprised look. “So you’re moving in?”

  He nodded. “Yes. But if it makes you feel weird for any reason, we can talk about it.”

  My God, Avery thought, her heart fit to burst. He actually means it.

  “No, I think it’s awesome,” Rose said. “It means I can stop worrying about her because there will be at least one responsible adult in her apartment.”

  “Damn,” Ramirez said. “You just got burned, babe.”

  “Yeah…she’s sort of like her mom in that respect.”

  “Ah hell,” he said. “I’m in for some trouble living here, aren’t I? Both of you around all the time…”

  “We’ll take it easy on you,” Avery said.

  “At first,” Rose added.

  By the time the elevator doors dinged open and they stepped on with the boxes, all three of them were laughing. It made Avery feel warm…safe. Something about this felt right, as if someone had been hiding the last piece of some huge puzzle and had just discovered it and snapped it into place.

  ***

  After a few slices of pizza were downed and Ramirez had slid his boxes into a corner in the bedroom, Rose brought up a question that Avery and Ramirez had somehow managed to dodge. She meant no harm by it—Avery knew that right away—but it was still a rather abrupt question.

  “So, if I may be so bold,” Rose said with a smile, “can I ask what this means? Moving in together is a step. Are there more steps ahead?”

  Avery and Ramirez shared a startled glance but they both smiled. “I think that’s a conversation we need to have together before we can discuss it with anyone else,” Avery said.

  “Mom, let’s face it, you’re not getting any younger. You better figure this stuff out before it’s too late.”

  Ramirez let out a laugh that was a little too genuine for Avery’s taste. She nudged him in the side and rolled her eyes. “You’re no spring chicken, either,” she reminded him.

  “It’s cool, though,” Rose said. “I’m happy for you, Mom. I really am.”

  It did Avery a world of good to hear that from Rose. Less than a year ago Rose had been badgering her to get back together with Rose’s father—to at least give him a chance. Avery wondered where the change of heart had come from. It occurred to her then that in all of the attempts to become a better mother and to make sure she was a permanent fixture in Avery’s life, they had not discussed Tom, her father, much at all.

  The night wound down and as ten o’clock approached, Rose made her way to the front door. “This has been fun,” she announced, “but the third wheel is now leaving. I’ll be happy to come help unpack when everything else is here, though.”

  “Honey, you’re not a third wheel,” Avery said.

  “She’s right,” Ramirez said. “If anything, I’m the third wheel.”

  Rose smiled and shook her head. “No sir. Bedtime is soon. Who do you think Mom would prefer be here when the lights go out? You or me?”

  “Rose!” Avery said, embarrassed and a little shocked.

  “Whatever, Mom,” Rose laughed. “It’s okay. You get yours.”

  Avery did not embarrass very easily but she felt heat flushing her face. “Goodnight, Rose,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “G’night, lovebirds,” Rose said and made her exit.

  When the door closed behind her, Ramirez said, “That girl’s got spunk.”

  “I know. And the better she and I reconnect, the more I’m seeing. I’d like to say she gets it from her father but I think you and I both know that’s not the case.”

  “That’s for sure,” Ramirez said. He was in the kitchen, straightening up the pizza boxes and dishes from dinner. “She’s smart, too. Wicked smart.”

  Avery n
odded. “I still feel like I’ve missed so much of her life.”

  “Well, let’s be honest,” Ramirez said. “You did. And that sucks. But you’ve made it right. You’re here for her now. And you can tell she appreciates it.”

  She joined him in the kitchen and approached him from behind. She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his back, just between his shoulders. “Thanks,” she said.

  “You okay?” he asked her.

  “I am,” she said. “And you know, she is smart. She knew when to leave. Maybe she could sense it in the air.”

  “Sense what?”

  Still holding him from behind, Avery slowly slid her hand down to the button of his pants and unclasped it. “That her mother wanted to be alone with her roommate. Or, as she put it, that her mother wanted to get hers.”

  “Told you,” Ramirez said, turning to face her with a devilish smile on his face. “Smart girl.”

  ***

  Afterwards, they sat on the kitchen floor, their backs pressed against the cabinets. Their clothes were in a pile on the floor beside them. The whole scenario made Avery feel about twenty years younger, like one of those excited couples that had made a pact to have sex in every room of the house.

  Maybe not a bad idea, she thought.

  “I think I’m going to like living with you,” Ramirez said with a smile, a little out of breath. He leaned over and kissed her bare shoulder.

  “Likewise,” she said.

  “I do feel like there’s something I should share with you, though,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, I haven’t been married, but I came really close one time. I know you and I have never really had that conversation. And if this is going to stick, I think it’s a part of my past that you need to know about.”