Dark of Night

by T. F. Walsh

  She parked her car in front of the house, behind a black–and–white patrol car. The officers talked and drank coffee inside the crime scene tape, keeping out reporters or even neighborhood kids who would run into the ruins on a dare or in an attempt to find some treasure left behind.

  Many times in her career, she entered a crime scene only to find evidence trampled or tampered with by the local population or reporters vying for a scoop. The yellow tape attracted more than deterred some people. Most would come as close as they could to stare at whatever carnage laid beyond. Others would get a thrill by crossing the tape. Doing something forbidden gave some people a high.

  Lydia glanced around for these inevitable voyeurs. Across the street in a white ranch house, an older woman peered out a picture window from behind a curtain. Seeing Lydia, the silver-haired woman quickly ducked behind the material.

  Making a mental note to interview the woman, she approached the officers. “What’s up, Officer Webb?” she asked, reading his nameplate.

  “Nothing, really,” he replied. “A few kids in the house behind this one were daring each other to run up and touch the timbers. Smitty here came around and stood behind them.” He indicated his partner. “They were scared to death when he tapped one of them on the shoulder.”

  She glared at the two men. Guarding the house didn’t extend to playing with the neighborhood kids.

  Smitty shifted his weight and chimed in. “The parents were on the back porch when I came around. They laughed harder than we did.”

  Trying to rein in her annoyance at the patrolmen’s goofing around on the job, she took a deep breath. “Nothing else, then?”

  They shook their heads.

  “What about the old lady across the street? Do you know if anyone has been over to interview her?”

  “Not that we’re aware of,” Webb said, taking a sip of his coffee. “We were just told to keep the place clear until they could get you out here. And now that you’re here — ”

  “You stay put,” she interrupted. “I don’t want reporters or neighbors climbing up my back while I’m looking around.” She turned her back to the affirmative noises they made and walked up the driveway to the ruins, following the path she used the night of the raid. The concrete stairs, pristine with white paint two days ago, now charred and black, cracked as she stepped on them to enter the remains.

  She walked carefully through the ruined house. The smell of charred wood and melted plastic still permeated the air. In the area where the kitchen once stood, flames had burned through the floor and into a crawlspace. A gaping hole in the floor marked the place where she had last seen the Bestial Butcher as he slumped against the collapsed table.

  Could he have gotten into the crawlspace? She knelt at the edge and shifted her position to lie on the floor with her head just over the threshold. Not able to see much because of charred floorboards under the linoleum, she inched further into the hole. Holding onto the edge with one hand, she reached into her belt for her Maglite, twisted the top, and looked around.

  Dirt comprised the floor of the crawlspace. From where she hung, it looked sandy. He could have fallen down the hole and rolled in the sandy dirt to quench the flames. Lucky bastard. The more she attempted to peer into the dark recesses for a sign he went this way, the more certain she grew that he had.

  Unfortunately, she found no proof in the sand. The water used by the fire department washed any trace of a print from the soil. The only way she would find even a partial print was by going down. How was it she always got the dirty jobs? At least it wasn’t a sewer this time. She wriggled out, swung her legs around, and dropped into the hole.

  Standing at her full height, her nose barely topped the blistered vinyl of the kitchen. She stooped below the floor line and glanced around. Two faint lights toward the right side of the house pierced the darkness. After looking for any other light source, she figured the Butcher must have moved in that direction. The space restriction forced her to move on hands and knees. As she slowly crawled toward the light, she examined the floor.

  The water had only washed in to a point from the back of the house. Once she passed the cleaned soil, she found carcasses of dead bugs littering the path before her — spiders, millipedes, and an odd one that appeared to be a cross between a cricket and daddy-long-legs. Roaches scattered from the glow of her flashlight, lending credence to the theory that they would be the only creatures to survive an atomic blast. She moved further, trying to ignore a tickling on her leg.

  Then finally, she reached a broken window and found a large disturbance in the dirt. Swirls in the soil showed the Butcher’s attempt to flee the scene by squeezing through the hole in the glass. He used the mound of dirt to push his foot against as he wriggled out. Because of the sandiness of the soil, she could tell nothing from the indentation except that he truly did escape on his own, and that he used this path as his route.

  But she’d seen the bullet hit. She saw him engulfed in flames. Now that she knew how he escaped, she’d love to know how he survived. Impossible.

  She moved closer to the window, careful to avoid the few shards of glass that lay inside. Most of them littered the wilted grass on the other side. The frame of the window held prints in the ash where he apparently gripped the frame to squeeze through. No more than smudges and not one of them useable.

  Frustrated, she smacked her thigh where it tickled. Turning back toward the hole in the kitchen, something caught her eye. In the wood just above the inside of the window, a tuft of hair moved as she exhaled. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a Ziploc bag. Carefully, she turned it inside out over her hand and retrieved the hair. She moved the plastic back, zipped it shut, and crammed it into her pocket.

  It wasn’t much, but at least she had a lead.

  Her focus on the way to the window made her almost oblivious to the bugs, cobwebs, and sheer creepiness of it all. On the trip back, however, she fought for control as she knelt on crunchy bug bodies. A large rodent of some type ran across her peripheral vision to the right and snapped the last straw of her reserve. Shivering, she groaned and moved as fast as she could to the daylight shining through the kitchen floor.

  She burst into the light, and after taking a glance around to be sure nobody watched, she shuddered and swiped at her hair and clothes. One of the spider-cricket things fell off her clothes. “Ugh.” She shuddered again and climbed out of the opening.

  In the charred remains of kitchen, she pulled the bag out of her pocket and took a closer look. Brown and knotted with hair roots attached, the tuft appeared to have ripped out when he passed the splinter. She rounded the hole to where the back door had stood. The fire had burned the rear wooden stairs to ashes. She gathered herself to jump down. A voice from the next yard made her pause. “Do you want a hand?”

  Ryan Williams. What the hell was he doing here? He had not crossed the police tape, but if she issued an invitation, he would come across in a second.

  “No, thanks.” She jumped and landed with ease. “What are you doing here?” she demanded when she reached the tape.

  In a small way, she enjoyed seeing him. She’d found the last twelve hours to be disturbing and part of her didn’t want to be alone. But she’d always enjoyed her solitude, so craving the annoyance of his presence also irritated her to no end. She despised her sudden vulnerability.

  “Interviewing witnesses.” He grinned, his green eyes alight with mischief.

  His obvious comfort irked her even more. She wanted him removed from the area, despite the fact that she enjoyed his cocky smile and wanted him to stay. I’m going insane. However, since no law prohibited him from gathering information from witnesses for his story, she just nodded.

  “The old woman across the street saw a dark figure run from the fire just after the firemen arrived,” he revealed.

  “Silver hair?” she aske
d.

  “Yup.”

  She bit the tip of her tongue. It wasn’t his fault he interviewed the witness before she did. Frankly, the chief should have sent someone out here when he realized the body was missing.

  “When I drove up, she was peering through the drapes. I thought she might have seen something,” he said.

  Her lips twitched. “When I drove up, too.” This information, coupled with the evidence in her pocket, solidified her theory that the Butcher fled the house. “I’ll be talking to her in a few minutes.”

  “Like that?” he asked incredulously, raking her with his sexy green gaze.

  Sexy? Where the hell had that come from? Lydia crossed her arms over her chest to disguise her unease.

  Ryan said, “You’re a complete mess. She’d never let you in.”

  “Yeah, I just crawled out from under the house.” She shuddered at the phantom bug crawling up her back. “I guess I should clean up first.” They walked around the edge of the property, he on one side of the chain link fence and she on the other. She fought the impulse to glance at him.

  When they reached the front yard, she went to Webb and Smitty who chatted against their police cruiser. They put her in mind of a comedy team, one large and tall, one thin and short. Their foolish grins made her want to laugh. She wondered how anyone expected them to stand guard when they looked about to run off and partay.

  “We can open the site up to the owners now. I found what I was looking for. Could you run this back to the lab?” She held out the bag. “I have to get cleaned up so I can conduct some interviews.”

  “Sure,” said Smitty, taking the bag from her. He grasped it in a way that prevented Ryan from seeing the contents. Most of the force worked with this kind of caution to reduce slips to the press.

  Webb said, “So your place is cleaned up already?”

  Maybe the sun had gotten to him. “What are you talking about?”

  “Someone broke into your house and trashed it. They found it last night when they were looking for you.”

  Air caught in her throat. She wavered, as if Webb had picked up a two–by–four and knocked her in the head.

  Ryan glared meaningfully at Webb.

  How did he know? “When did this happen?” she asked.

  “You were examining the scene.” Smitty said then elbowed his partner in the side. “No wonder you can’t get a woman. Classy, genius.”

  Breathing slowly, she asked, “Did they find any evidence of who did it?”

  “No, but the rumor is, whoever it was pissed all over your clothes and bed and stuff.” Finally seeing the revulsion on the other men’s faces, Webb grimaced. “Ah, sorry,” he stammered. “I hear they assigned Detective Henson to it, though.”

  “God.” She raised her eyes to heaven and closed them. No wonder the new detective rode with Adams to pick her up. He wanted to get a look at the victim.

  A few more deep breaths and she excused herself. Why didn’t the chief tell her? Or Henson? Or Adams? Apparently everyone knew but her. Turning on her heel, she strode back to her car.

  “Take that straight to the lab,” she said over her shoulder.

  Telling her would take her focus off the case, she realized, answering her own question. She hadn’t realized the importance of her transient belongings until now. The idea that someone gained access to them without her permission rankled. That they damaged them, enraged.

  “I’ve got what I need for my story. If you’re going home, I live nearby. Mind giving me a ride?” Ryan trotted beside her.

  Her initial reaction urged her to tell him no chance in hell; however, the growing part of her that didn’t want to face seclusion won. She needed company.

  “Yeah, whatever.” After driving about a mile from the scene, she realized, “What about your car?”

  “Caught a ride with the film crew.”

  “Hmm.” He continued to talk about the crew, but Lydia didn’t really listen as she wove in and out of traffic. What would she find at her place?

  • • •

  When they pulled into a space down from her building, Ryan said, “I live just over there,” and waved toward his apartment.

  “Hmm.” Like I care where you live.

  Completely preoccupied with getting home, she took off down the sidewalk. His quick steps told her he sprinted to catch up. It pleased her that he had to run.

  When they arrived at her building, she punched the code to open the door and took the steps two at a time. When she got to her landing, she stopped and stared.

  Crime scene tape stretched across her door. Apparently, once the police realized what had happened to her apartment, they came out to dust for prints. Black fingerprint powder still coated the outside of her door and the knob.

  Ryan joined her, appearing at her side. Although his presence comforted her, a sudden burst of irritation spurred an impulse to push him down the stairs. Where did that come from?

  “Well, let’s go,” she said shaking off the urge. Removing one side of the tape and letting it hang, she put her key in the lock and turned the knob. An odd odor overpowered her as she walked into the apartment. Sniffing her hand, she realized she could smell the fingerprint powder. She never realized it smelled before.

  Powder dusted the entire room. That, she knew, came from the police. However, the rest of the mess held a completely foreign signature. A glance at the kitchen told her everything in the cabinets laid ruined on the floor and countertops. How dare someone enter her house without her permission? Nothing smelled right, looked right. The place she should feel safe.

  She looked closely at gouges in the wall. These impressed her. “What did he do? Take a knife to my wall? Who does he think he is, Freddy–freakin’–Krueger?”

  Ryan grunted at her dark humor.

  Standing in the hall that led to her bedroom, she detected something that didn’t smell anything like the powder. She stormed into her bedroom throwing open the door and staring at the pile of clothes and her bed.

  “Who in the hell would do this shit?” she shouted. “I don’t have any clothes.” She waved her arms. “I’ll be damned if I’m sleeping on the floor, or a bed full of piss.” She glanced at Ryan. “I’m not going to bother washing them.”

  He followed her to the living room. “I’ll just call someone and have it all taken to the dump.”

  She stalked toward him, pointing an accusing finger toward her bedroom. “Who would do that?”

  “Do you think it could have been him?” he asked so softly she almost missed it.

  This stopped her raging. A chill of fear ran down her spine, and she slowly looked at him. Why hadn’t she made that connection? How did the Butcher know where she lived? Shit, she was in the phonebook. Frustrated with a lack of perception that was so unlike her, she growled. Lost, betrayed by her own senses, she stared at the chaos that ruled her living room.

  “Look, I live across the street. If you want, you can come over and get cleaned up,” Ryan offered. “I’ll run out and grab a pizza or something. Bet you haven’t eaten all day, have you?”

  Shaking with tension, she admitted, “A granola bar this morning.” She gazed down the hallway again. Then remembering the one object she cherished, she ran to the bedroom. The pendant.

  Holding her breath, she scanned her dresser for the ornament. Frantic, she checked her bedside table. Ryan came into the room. She could tell he also held his breath while he helped her search. Then, steeling against revulsion, she started for the bed.

  Just as she reached for it, he yelled a muffled, “No!”

  He pulled the dresser away from the wall. She went to him as he crouched and picked up her silver pendant. She choked back a sob as he held it out. Clutching it to her chest, she allowed him to lead her out of the awful mess.

  She placed the
pendant in her pocket when they reached the living room. More in control, she said, “I’m feeling real grungy. I think I’ll take you up on your offer.”

  Having nothing of value left in the apartment, she didn’t bother to lock the door. As she followed Ryan’s broad shoulders down the stairs, a little voice scolded her. What are you doing going to a man’s apartment?

  Shower. That’s all. The scent of his cologne drifted to her and her stomach clenched. The smell both attracted and repelled her. God. Shower, that’s all.

  Chapter 6

  As they took the stairs to Ryan’s apartment, Lydia thought twice about accepting his offer to clean up. Not that he was a stranger. In fact, she knew more about him than she knew about most people.

  When he had first appeared at her crime scene, she couldn’t shake a wary suspicion and called the paper to check his credentials. When he kept appearing and giving her tips, she ran a full background check.

  He came from an average family, two sisters and a younger brother. Both of his parents still lived. He graduated with honors from college with a degree in journalism. Ten years ago, he started working for a newspaper in upstate New York.

  Three years ago, he went missing while doing a story about ice fishing. After he surfaced, he did a piece about surviving in the wilderness that ran nationally and almost won him an award. She read it. It wasn’t bad — not preachy, like most of the survivor stories she came across.

  Shortly after the article, he left the paper and wrote freelance, never staying in one place very long.

  He applied for a job with the Daily Times as soon as he arrived in town. When he was hired for the police beat, the public devoured his columns. After he started covering the Bestial Butcher case, the papers flew off the shelves.

  The rest of the report glowed as well. His credit score soared in the high seven hundreds. He never called in sick. He volunteered sporadically at the homeless shelter. And to top it off, his coworkers believed him a man of integrity and honesty. She would be hard-pressed to use the shower of a more trustworthy man.