The news broadcast ends and I use the remote control to switch the TV off. I lie back on the sofa and stare at the ceiling. It's all going so well. The huge pay off from the city, the money pouring in from selling the video recording and the story, Hollywood execs knocking on my agent's door, and a secretary who calls me ‘Mr Waller’ whenever my agent wants to get in touch with me. And as an added bonus, Ed Turner in court on charges of attempted murder. According to my lawyers, he'll probably plea bargain the charges down to assault but he'll spend up to three years behind bars and his career as a police officer is over. He's been selling his story to the tabloids, too, but for much less money than I got.
I sit up again, grunting as the cracked rib lets me know that it's not fully healed. There are two letters on the coffee table next to the gin and tonic. I went around to pick them up from the apartment that morning. Turner and Marcinko were right, of course. I did have somewhere else to live. A house, a big house in upstate New York, stone built, a slate roof, more rooms than I'll ever need, a two-car garage and the nearest neighbours more than a hundred yards away. I've had it for more than five years and Marcinko was right, my father's inheritance paid for it. It's a nice house, a good solid upper middle class home, but it's not the sort of place for a writer to ply his trade. Not one who's just starting out, anyhow. If all goes to plan I'll soon be moving out to Los Angeles. Santa Monica maybe. By the ocean.
The letters are from the Commissioner of Motor Vehicles. They tell me where Lisa Marcinko lives, how old she is, what car she drives, and the fact that she's not married.
I sit up and reread the letters. I was going to leave her alone, I really was. But on the way out of the apartment I almost bumped into her. I gave her the boyish smile but she froze me out, looked at me like I was a piece of garbage. I slipped the envelopes into my jacket pocket and asked her if it was a social call but she was in no mood for flirting. She told me to get out of town. I smiled and said I was going anyway but she wouldn't let it go, she had to keep on pushing. She told me she knew that I'd set Turner up, that I'd goaded him, knowing that the video recording would be all the evidence I'd need. I still tried to be nice, I told her that I knew that she'd kept me talking in the park while Turner went through my flat, that he'd trashed it to scare me, but that they'd picked the wrong one to try to frighten. Even at that stage I'd have been prepared to have let it go, but she kept on pushing. She told me that she thought I was a sociopath, that Turner had been a good cop and that I'd ruined him, and that if I didn't get out of town she'd come gunning for me. I kept on smiling, kept on trying to win her over, but she was like stone. I left her standing on the doorstep, staring at my back. I could feel her hatred burning into me all the way down the street.
I roll the letters up tightly, then take another drink of gin and tonic. I was going to leave her alone, I really was, but now she's made it personal. She's committed the worse possible sin. She's underestimated me. I hate that. I hate that more than anything.
* * *
You put the carrier bag on the kitchen table and take out the contents, one by one. You weigh the hacksaw in your hands and then rub a finger gently across the blade. The first time you cut up a body you used a wood saw but it soon blunted and from then on you used hacksaws so that you could change the blade as often as you needed. You take the pack of six replacement blades and place them on the table. It usually takes six.
You bought two knives from a hardware store in New Jersey, a large butcher's knife for cutting through tendons and a small peeling knife for flaying back the skin. You always buy new knives. Partly because you need them to be really sharp, but more importantly because you always get rid of them once you've used them. No matter how much you clean them, they'd always carry traces, minute fragments of blood and bone that could lead to you spending the rest of your life in a steel cell. Besides, there's something intensely pleasurable about buying the equipment. You smile as you remember the way the clerk in the hardware store had been so eager to please. If only he knew what you planned to do with your purchases.
There's a can of shaving foam and a pack of disposable razors. You're going to get her to shave for you, first. You're going to see her truly naked. The black garbage packs come in a roll of twenty. You won't need all twenty but it was cheaper to buy them in bulk and they came with metal fasteners to close them, more secure than the plastic ties. The aerosol of air freshener was pine-scented. You've tried the floral version in the past but it never really masked the smell. Pine was much stronger. You do most of the cutting in the bathroom but there's always some mess on the floor so you bought some tile cleaner and cloths. And a scrubbing brush.
* * *
Marcinko's house is in Brooklyn, a neat single story home on a small lot, surrounded by a chain link fence. Her car isn't parked in front of the house and there isn't a garage. It's just after five o'clock and I guess she'll be back some time after six. Maybe seven. Even later if she’s on a big case. I've got plenty of time.
I walk down the path to the front of the house and ring the doorbell. As I wait to see if there's anyone inside, I check the outside of the house for an alarm system. I don't see one. I stand on the doorstep and check the street, keeping a wary out for neighbours. There's no need to worry, the only living thing around seems to be a black dog of indeterminate breed. My ring goes unanswered. I'm not surprised because I know she's not married and she's not the sort of woman who'd be living with her mother. I walk down the side of the house. I'm holding a plastic carrier bag containing a roll of adhesive tape, a screwdriver and a ski mask. I'm not carrying a knife, just in case I'm unlucky enough to be caught breaking in.
The rear of the house isn't overlooked so I can take my time as I check the windows. They all have locks but so far as I can see, no alarm. There's a mat in front of the kitchen door and I lift it up, hopefully, but there's no key there. I check around just in case Marcinko's stupid enough to leave a spare key lying around, but I don't find one.
There's just one lock on the back door. It'd be easy enough to force but I don't have to because there's a small window next to the door which is just perfect. I smile as I fix strips of adhesive tape across the glass. Lateral thinking, that's all any burglar needs. I'm wearing leather gloves so I break the glass with my fist. It makes a crunching sound and hardly any of the splinters fall to the ground, most remain stuck to the tape. I carefully pull out the glass and drop it into a garbage can by the back door. I lean inside the window and push aside the blinds. She's left the key in the lock and it's a simple matter to turn it. There's one bolt at the top of the door and I pull that back. Ten seconds later and I'm standing in the kitchen. I relock and rebolt the door and slant the blinds down in front of the broken window. From inside there's no way of knowing that the house has been broken into, and as she'd left the key in the lock it's clear that Marcinko enters and leaves by the front door.
My mouth has gone dry and I can hear the blood rushing through my head. I lick my lips and I pour myself a glass of water from the kitchen tap, drinking it slowly as I look around the room. There's some shopping on the kitchen table as if she couldn't be bothered to put it away, as if she had something else on her mind. I open the kitchen drawers until I find what I'm looking for. Her knives. I select a long chopping knife with a wooden handle, a solid blade with a sharp end. I weigh it in my hand. It's well balanced, perfect.
I take another look at my watch. Plenty of time. I put the glass tumbler back on the draining board and go through to the living room. It's scrupulously neat, like a mock up of a room in a department store window. Nothing is out of place, and there's nothing personal to be seen. No photographs, no mementoes, none of the normal junk that turns a house into a home. There are two sofas that look as if no one has ever sat on them, a glass and chrome coffee table and an expensive TV and hi-fi unit. There's a built-in bookcase either side of a stone fireplace, but its bare of books. It's not what I expected. Not what I expected at all.
On the othe
r side of the hallway is another room but it's devoid of furniture. I frown. Maybe she's short of money and can't furnish the whole house, but that doesn't feel right because what furniture there is in the rest of the house looks expensive. She's a strange woman, this Lisa Marcinko.
I climb the stairs, tip-toeing even though I know the house is empty. There are three bedrooms upstairs but there's only furniture in one, a single bed, two pine wardrobes and a dressing table. There are a few personal touches: make up on the dressing table, a white vase of dried flowers and a brass clock on a bedside table, but it's still as sterile as the rooms downstairs. The other bedrooms are empty, though they are carpeted. All the rooms in the house have the same characterless beige carpet. I open the wardrobes. Her clothes are hanging as neatly as soldiers on parade. I run a gloved hand along the hangers. There's something not right about the house, but I can't quite put my finger on it. Everything is too neat, too ordered. It reminds me of a show house, put together by an interior designer who wants to make it look as if it's lived in, trying to disguise the fact that it's an empty shell. Even the clothes look as if they've never been worn. There are no photographs, no teddy bears, no letters. Nothing personal, as if she's covering her traces.
I go back downstairs, feeling uneasy. When I went through Turner's apartment I had a strong sense that I was on his territory. There was clutter, there was his personality everywhere, and there was a feeling of intrusion, that I was somewhere that I shouldn't be, that I was seeing things that he wouldn't want me to see. There was a feeling of power when I broke into Turner's home, but I don't get that from Marcinko's house. I could trash the place and it wouldn't mean anything. And I know without a shadow of a doubt that she wouldn't care. There's nothing of her in this house.
I look around for somewhere to hide. I want to catch her unawares, but I have to be careful in case she isn't alone when she gets home. And I must never forget that she's a cop and that she carries a gun. I'm holding the knife in my right hand and it feels good. Lisa Marcinko is going to rue the day she underestimated me.
There's a walk-in closet below the stairs but it's too small and if I leave the door open she'll see it when she opens the front door. I don't want to hide upstairs because I don't know how long it'll be before she goes to bed, and the stairs squeaked when I put my weight on them. I go back into the kitchen. There's a door by the side of the stove and I open it to find a big larder, lined with wooden shelves which are piled high with canned goods. There's a light switch just inside the door and I flick it on. A fluorescent light kicks into life. The larder is huge, almost the size of the smallest bedroom upstairs. It looks like a survivalist's store, with enough food to last one person for a year at least. I frown as I stand looking at the stockpile, wondering why on earth a police detective would need so much food.
I hear a car pull up outside and my heart starts to pound. I don't want to risk going near the window so I decide to hide in the larder. I kill the light and close the door, leaving it open just a fraction. By pressing my eye to the gap I can see the door leading to the hallway. I swallow, my mouth so dry it almost hurts. I suddenly remember the ski mask and I take it out of the carrier bag and slip it on. I'm going to teach Lisa Marcinko a lesson she'll never forget.
I strain to hear the car door open and close, but all I hear is another vehicle drive by. I wonder if I missed her getting out of the car, but I don't hear footsteps coming down the path. The larder door swings open and I grab for the handle and pull it back. The hinges creak and the sound seems to fill the kitchen. I keep a tight hold of the door but my hand is shaking and I feel the door vibrate. I let it go but it immediately begins to swing open again. I curse silently. There's a noise outside, but I don't know what it is. It's not the car door, it's not footsteps, it's not a key being slotted into a lock. I don't know what it is. A vision fills my mind of squad cars lining up in front of the house, a SWAT team piling out of an unmarked van, neighbours peering from behind net curtains. I close my eyes and listen, but there's nothing. My hands are sweating in the gloves and the ski mask itches. The shaking in my hands intensifies and I swear I can see the door wobble. I pull it until it's almost completely shut.
I close my eyes then blink rapidly. It feels as if someone has rubbed sand in them. It's pitch black in the larder, but when I look down I realise that there's light coming up through the wooden floor. At first I think that maybe it's a trick played on my mind by my light-starved eyes, but after a minute or so I can clearly see four razor-thin strips of light forming a rectangle at the back of the room. I put my ear to the crack in the door, but there's no sound outside.
I pull the door shut and kneel down by the rectangle of light. My groping fingers find a small hole at one of the lighted oblong and I slip two fingers inside. I pull up and a trapdoor opens smoothly, so smoothly that there must be some sort of counterweight mechanism because the wood is thick and heavy. As I pull the trapdoor open, light floods into the larder casting eerie shadows on the walls. I stand and listen but still I can't hear anything.
A flight of metal stairs lead down into the basement. I swallow nervously but I've gone this far and I have to find out what the hell is going on. This isn't the sort of secret I can walk away from. I descend the stairs slowly, the knife held out in front of me, my nerves screaming that I should just get out of the house, my curiosity saying no, I have to go on, I have to find out what Lisa Marcinko is up to.
The stairs lead down to a white-painted corridor about twenty feet long, and at the end of the corridor is a door. I walk slowly towards it. All I can hear is my own breathing and the sound of the blood pumping around my body, faster and faster. There's a small peephole set into the door and on the wall is a numeric keypad, some sort of security entry system. The peephole is low down, almost at the level of my shoulders, and I have to bend down to put my eye to it.
What I see makes my mouth drop. ‘Oh my God,’ I whisper. There's a woman, a blonde woman, sitting on a large bed, a chain around her waist. The other end of the chain is fixed to the wall. The room is completely white, like a cell in an insane asylum. The woman is wearing a black silk dressing gown, and under it stockings and suspenders. Her head is bent down and she's rubbing her eyes with her hands, but then she looks up and stares at the door, as if she knows that I'm standing there, watching her.
The feeling that she knows I'm there is so strong that I jerk away from the peephole. I put my hands on the door and shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. When I look back, the woman is standing by the bed, her head bowed. She looks up, almost shyly, then averts her eyes again. The realisation of who it is hits me like a bolt of lightning. Sarah Hall. Then just as quickly I realise what it all means and the horror of it takes my breath away. I'm scared, more scared than I've ever been in my life.
That's when I hear the noise behind me and I whirl around, my eyes wide and my heart racing. I should have realised. I should have thought. I should have known. I've been so stupid. So fucking stupid. She's standing there, smiling. Her eyes have never looked bluer. Or colder. Her left hand is against the wall, as if she was leaning on it for support. And in her right hand is a large handgun. I have made one big fucking mistake.
* * *
You smile at Marvin as he takes off his ski mask and you shake your head sadly. In a way you're not surprised to find him in your house, but you never thought he'd discover your secret. There's only one thing you can do now, of course. He hasn't left you any alternative. You tighten your finger on the trigger. The noise will startle Sarah, but that can't be helped. It's almost her time, anyway. Getting rid of Marvin's body won't be difficult. Two corpses can be disposed of just as easily as one. Marvin holds the knife down at his side as if he's forgotten he's holding it. He opens his mouth to say something, but you're not prepared to listen to him. You put your left index finger up against your mouth. ‘Hush,’ you whisper, then you point the gun at his heart and pull the trigger.
THE END
If you enjoyed
The Basement, why not try my science fiction murder mystery novel, Dreamer’s Cat?
It’s set in a future world where virtual reality is a way of life. The hero is a Dreamer, a one-in-a-million talent who lays down psi-discs for the Cerebral Broadcasting Corporation. Dreamers are employed on billion-dollar contracts to produce psi-discs, the entertainment of the future. But when Dreamers start to die, our hero has to go into their alternative realities on the track of the killer.
Be warned - there is a fair amount of sexual violence in the book, which is necessary for the plot but which is not for the faint-hearted!
Dreamer's Cat is a fast-paced 67,000 words, about 260 pages. It has been a science fiction bestseller ever since it was released for the Kindle and it will only ever be published as an eBook.
You can see it here at –
http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00486U6VU
Copyright ©2010 Stephen Leather
The right of Stephen Leather to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
You can see more of my work at www.stephenleather.com
The Basement Page 12