Dark of Night

by T. F. Walsh

  The reporters clamored. The chief pointed to a woman from Channel Sixteen News.

  “So, how many people were victims of the Butcher?”

  “So far, we can attribute twenty-four slayings to him. Once his body is in the coroner’s office, DNA will be taken, and we will try to match other homicides to the Butcher.”

  “Can you give us some background on the killings?”

  Lydia glanced at the chief, and at his nod, she responded. “At first, the laceration patterns on the victims appeared as if an animal had attacked them. In fact, after the first victim, police assumed they looked for a rabid animal.” Through act of sheer will, she kept her limbs from betraying her nerves.

  “Only after the body count increased did homicide get called in; the killer was human. He hunted in an area too widespread for an animal to traverse. Several victims were attacked inside their apartments. We considered it unlikely a rabid dog would manage to go up five flights of stairs to attack a single individual in a secured building.”

  More clamoring, then a man from CNN asked, “Is it true that all of the victims were women?”

  Lydia answered, “No. In fact, there were several men. There was no discrimination in affluence, race, or sex. This, in particular, made it difficult to profile the killer.”

  The same man asked, “What led you to believe you could make an arrest this evening?”

  “We had a tip that he might strike again. During the stakeout, he appeared and attacked an officer, who was acting as bait.” Everyone started talking and Lydia raised her hand. “The officer wore protective gear and is in the county hospital with his family. He is doing fine.”

  A man with the Times asked, “From whom did you get this tip?”

  The chief stepped forward. “C’mon, Dave, you know most tips are anonymous.”

  The conference continued with the reporters asking more questions about the victims and motives of the Butcher. The butterflies in Lydia’s stomach once again took flight. She shifted uncomfortably. Surely this couldn’t go on much longer. She scanned the journalists and noticed Ryan Williams. He stood at the far edge of the crowd, holding up a mini recorder. A flush warmed her face. Perhaps with the case over they could go out for drinks or dinner or —

  “And have you already been assigned another case, detective?”

  Still looking at Williams, Lydia startled at the question. She stammered at the reporter who spoke. “Um … My next case … ” She glanced at Ryan and he winked. “Um … ”

  The chief gave Lydia an amused look. “The detective will be going on a well–deserved vacation.”

  Surprised, she somehow managed a smile and a nod.

  “All right, everyone, thank you and goodnight.” He lifted a hand in a wave, then touched Lydia’s elbow. She followed him through the doors.

  “What the hell was that?” he muttered under his breath as they walked to his office. “That was the most vacant expression I have ever seen. And I have never seen one on you.” Walking three feet ahead, he missed Lydia’s shrug.

  “Sorry, I spaced out for a second.” She entered his office. The only thing that distinguished it from hers was the sign on the desk, “Harold R. Fairweather, Chief of Police.”

  “Look, Davis.” He motioned for her to sit as he rounded the desk and did the same. “I know you haven’t slept for six months.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “I’m serious about the vacation. Take a couple days off. Go visit friends. Get a spot on the beach. Heck, sit around in your bathrobe and veg at the television for hours on end. I don’t care. But you’re not going to start a new case until you recoup.”

  “Chief — ” she started to protest.

  “I mean it. Don’t argue with me. Get out. See you in three days.” He picked up her case report and a pen. He made a show of reading for a bit, then looked at her. “You still here?”

  Lydia smiled. “No, sir. Just left.” She exited, shaking her head.

  He took care of his force. Everyone commented on how talking to him was like talking to a father. She didn’t remember hers, having transferred from foster home to foster home most of her life.

  Shaking off emptiness, she headed to her office to grab her things. As she mulled over what to do with her newly acquired time, she smiled. First thing would be to soak in a hot bath.

  “Taking a vacation?” Sergeant Adams looked up from his desk. When she gave him a quizzical look, he explained, “E–mail already went out.”

  “I’ve been ordered to take a couple of days off.” She shrugged.

  “Any plans?”

  “I hadn’t really thought much beyond getting cleaned up.”

  Adams laughed. “Make the most of it. Go somewhere you don’t have to think too much.”

  Lydia chuckled as she went into her office and grabbed her tattered backpack from the corner where she’d tossed it three days ago. She’d lived out of her pack on more than one occasion.

  Driving home, she wondered what she would do for her vacation. She really needed peace and quiet, somewhere outside the city. Maybe spend a couple days hiking or fishing. No neighbors thudding on the walls or sirens screaming down the street. And where the loudest sounds were birds tweeting. She smiled. Three days might be enough to unwind.

  • • •

  Ryan turned away as the press conference ended. He enjoyed seeing Lydia flustered. She controlled herself so well that he took great pleasure in baiting her. In his work, he’d dealt with plenty of detectives, and usually he had fun irritating them. They had a sense of importance third only to doctors and lawyers. They all took themselves so seriously. He couldn’t help poking holes in their inflated egos.

  Lydia proved more fun because she was beautiful when she got angry. Her eyes flashed and her cheeks flushed and … Simply fantastic.

  At his Jeep, he paused, mulling over asking her to dinner. He wanted to grab a bite, and the way she’d reacted at the press conference made him think perhaps she would say yes.

  “And then what?” he said aloud to no one as he got in and started the engine. He saw no real future for them.

  How could he explain what would happen when they had their first fight? No, a working relationship was better for both of them. He turned on the radio and sang along to a rock song as he drove home.

  As fate would have it, he lived across the street from Lydia’s building. Well, not exactly fate. He’d moved into the furnished apartment once he found out she was the detective working the Bestial Butcher case.

  Since their first meeting, he felt compelled to protect Lydia. She had no real idea what she had gotten involved in. Although he had no doubt she could deal with society’s scum with dispatch, the Bestial Butcher was not society’s typical scum.

  Entering the apartment, he tossed his keys onto the coffee table. He walked to the refrigerator and opened a can of tomato juice. As the thick, tangy liquid flowed down his throat, his mind wandered.

  Prowling night streets looking for the Butcher had led him to tracks only the Butcher could leave. Lydia would follow up on the tip he’d passed her. She had to.

  He tossed the empty can in the recycle bin and plopped on the sofa. Although the apartment came furnished when he started leasing it, he wouldn’t have decorated it any other way. Heavy furniture boasted solid wood and upholstery stuffed to overflowing. In the case of a very comfortable blue recliner, white filler peaked through seams on one side whenever someone sat in it.

  Taupe walls gave the room a feeling of warmth. Neither the recliner nor the faded orange sofa matched the hunter green shag carpet or brick-colored curtains that covered a street–view picture window. Yet the place had a coziness about it. Aside from the perfect view into Lydia’s apartment, the ambience had influenced his reason to live there.

  His tastes had not always tend
ed toward homey. He remembered a time when he preferred deco furniture and open space. Only in the past few years had his tastes changed to a cozier den-like atmosphere.

  He closed his eyes and stretched. In the morning, he would go to the station and see what information he could get out of them about the condition of the Butcher’s body... if they even found a body. He knew somehow that the Butcher hadn’t died. Not even in that fire. And if he lived, the Butcher had escaped unseen. Even with all the firefighters surrounding the house and onlookers watching from the street. Next time, he would need to get to the scene sooner if he wanted to catch him.

  Having that animal slip through his fingers again built a familiar rage. Knowing this emotion all too well, he rose from the couch and stood in the middle of the room with his arms outstretched. As he slowly bent to touch his fingers to the floor, the burning in his gut began to recede. He held the posture for another few moments and moved on to the warrior.

  Long ago, he’d learned to control his anger with yoga. Of all the stress–reduction and anger–management techniques he’d tried, including medication, yoga worked the best. At times, he could not completely control the crazed anger that washed over him. During these times, he was glad he didn’t own the furniture and didn’t intend to regain his security deposit. He had kept all his real possessions in storage for the past three years.

  His life had turned upside down then. He’d almost gone insane with pain and anger. Luckily, he regained his lucidity before destroying anything he valued. Once he placed his things in storage, he started his quest to track down the cause of his life’s upheaval, which led him to the city and to Detective Lydia Davis. He moved into the lotus position with a smile on his face. She was something else.

  She struck a chord in him that, up until they met, he did not realize existed. Oh, there had been women — some short relationships and, of course, a few one-night stands. However, in the past three years, women had held no interest for him.

  That all changed when he first saw Lydia. Something awoke. It yearned for her in a primal way. It was much more than sexual, although he wouldn’t mind spending several hot, sweaty nights with her.

  Ryan rose from his position on the floor. The direction of his thoughts sapped the anger out of him, but his heart rate was way up. To get any sleep, he would have to spend twenty minutes under a cold shower. He went to the window to close the drapes, but took a moment to gaze toward her apartment.

  A small light shone in her bedroom, and although she had drawn the shade, he could see her faint silhouette as she moved around the room. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. Then she stopped and started to undress, pulling off her shirt.

  “Oh God,” he whispered out loud, gripping the drapery with both hands. The shade did nothing to hide the roundness of her breasts as she turned, bent, and then lifted her arms over her head to allow the fabric of a nightshirt to slip over her body. She moved to the right and turned off the light.

  Only after the room across the street darkened did Ryan start to breathe again. He let out the air with a shudder and released his grip on the drapes. It took every bit of his self-control to push aside the idea of going over there and knocking on her door. How he longed to caress that body. He shook his head, wanting to knock the image from his mind’s eye. Finally, he turned in a daze and stalked to the bathroom and that cold shower.

  Chapter 2

  The next morning, Lydia stood in the bedroom of her apartment. There was nothing special about her room. Most of her apartment tended toward serviceable, not homey.

  Lydia wasn’t a pack rat. With a childhood spent jumping from family to family, she learned not to get attached to anything because it could be gone as fast as it came. Therefore, she liked to keep things simple.

  No heavy credenzas or antique dining room tables. Most people got these treasures from family. Having none, and not remotely interested in starting a family of her own, she was in no hurry to acquire things.

  One treasured item, a silver leaf pendant she always remembered having and managed to keep throughout her travels, hung from a string on the corner of her dresser mirror. The pendant had engravings etched in black over the front; they almost looked like writing. As a young girl, she would sometimes sit alone and imagine what the carvings meant. Her favorite theory was that they carried a message of devotion, a way of bonding two souls.

  Without realizing, she picked up the pendant and crossed the room to the window. The silver glinted in the morning sun coming through the curtains.

  A siren screaming down the street woke her wandering mind. She sighed, replaced the pendant, and turned to the bed where she considered her empty backpack.

  Finally, she tossed in some appropriate clothes, then the first-aid kit she’d purchased on the way home from the office. Knowing anything could happen while camping alone, she didn’t want to take chances. A hairbrush, toothbrush and other toiletries, waterproof matches, cooking kit, and finally some packages of camping food went into her pack. Then she tied her sleeping bag and tent to its outside.

  She hoisted it to her shoulders, hefting a couple of times, but stopped short of walking out the door. She sensed something missing. Her gun. It didn’t feel right to leave the house without it. On the other hand, she had no reason to wear it since she had no plans to hunt squirrels. A handgun would do her no good in the woods.

  But she never left the house without it, putting it on in the morning like most women put on makeup. Finally, she took off the pack and strapped on her weapon under her light coat. This time when she put on the pack, it felt right. Smiling, she headed downstairs for her coffee.

  • • •

  Her apartment building sat atop The Shop, a coffee–pastry store. She enjoyed the smell of brewing coffee and freshly baked muffins every morning. Rich, calming scents that helped focus her mind and ready her for the day. On a normal morning, she would take her bagel and cappuccino to a corner booth and read the paper. Not a morning person, this proved a great way to wake up.

  They knew Lydia well and had her “usual” ready moments after she appeared for breakfast. Today, she asked them to bag it for her.

  Sipping her cappuccino-to-go, she drove her SUV out to a campground several hours outside of the city. Passing through the first half of the area dedicated to RVs, she snorted as she drove past. She saw no point in going camping if you took your house with you. If they could watch television and use a microwave, they weren’t camping.

  She delighted in the beautiful day. Sunlight filtered through leaves, and the fresh fragrance of nature carried on a breeze. The pines, leaves, grass, and earth were a sharp contrast to those scents that filled her every day. About a mile from the RVs, Lydia pulled into a parking area designated for campers who wanted to hike to a site. Two other cars occupied spaces: a light-blue station wagon and a black compact.

  Energized by the fresh air, Lydia pulled her pack out of her car. Though hours from the city and well away from the RV families, she decided to hike further still from any possible encroachment of her solitude.

  As she started into the woods, she knew she grinned like a fool, but she couldn’t help it and didn’t want to. Camping relaxed her. It was an activity where she had a say, where she was in control.

  She’d searched for control in other ways too, throwing herself into her work. Even in school her teachers called her an avid student, and she deplored the idea of having to go without class for two whole months in the summer. Of course, moving to a new foster home had meant she would almost always have to change schools, so fortunately, she spent many summers in the classroom, catching up on work. The distraction allowed her to concentrate on subjects she could understand, and not the intricacies of playground politics. Now, as an adult, she needed to ensure she had everything finished before she shifted her attention to the next project or assignment.

  She turned of
f the main, hard–packed path to follow what looked like a game trail. Leaves and twigs crunched under her boots, and the occasional branch caught on her sleeve. Stepping over a rotted log, she ducked so her pack would not get caught in the low branches of a red maple tree.

  Some people called her compulsive. Maybe they had it right. She found it wrenching to leave a task incomplete.

  This brought her mind back to the Butcher case. They’d not given his body a full autopsy when she’d left. Though she would return to work by the time the lab completed DNA evaluations, it seemed wrong to take a vacation, even under orders, while aspects of the case remained undone. She should be in her office, pacing anxiously for the results.

  Although, when the chief ordered her to take a vacation, she only objected for a moment. She enjoyed activity and a change of scenery. Still, something in her gut said she should return to the station. Brushing off the notion, she continued her trek.

  In a small clearing, two deer grazed. They lifted their heads when she cleared the trees. Her breath caught in her throat. They stood so close. No matter how often she hiked, she would never tire of viewing animals in their natural habitat — almost a religious experience.

  Impulsively, she moved toward them. Already on alert, they bounded through the trees. Living nature in every form thrilled her; her heart leapt along with the deer. She lowered herself to sit on a fallen tree, closing her eyes to see them again.

  Her pack started to weigh on her, and she realized she had lost a sense of time. How long had she sat on the log? When she opened her eyes, she decided the glade would make the perfect place to camp. She shrugged off the heavy pack and started about setting up her tent.

  • • •

  Lydia stared into bright, dancing flames. Even I like to watch a fire. She finished eating a fish she’d caught in a nearby stream. Now sitting propped against a stump, she gazed dreamily into the flames, enjoying the sizzle–pop as the logs succumbed to the blaze. Months of tension eased from her shoulders and neck as the comforting warmth radiated through her body.