Hell's Door

by DeLuca, Sandy

  Another car parked across the street. Rosario Minez and Chuck Greene quickly exited the vehicle, and then joined the others.

  Charlie pointed to the street, noting a man sprinting toward them. “Must be the super—Captain said he’s nasty.”

  A middle-aged man, balding, wearing jogging pants and a New York Giants sweatshirt smiled wearily as he moved closer. He looked as though he’d been drinking for days, smelling of old sweat, and there were traces of food at the corners of his mouth. He reached into his pocket and held up an old skeleton key. “I’m Tony Gardiano—the super. I made the call. Not sure if anyone is still in there.”

  “We got it covered.” John waved the warrant in front of the super.

  “What do you know about the tenant?” Lacey asked.

  “Never met the person. Don’t know if it’s a man or woman. Tenant rented the place through a Baldwin Realty. They handled every detail, said the client was from out of town. Got curious, so I checked and couldn’t find a listing for the agency, but I do find cash under my door, sealed in an envelope, first of every month. Seemed okay as long as the rent got paid, but I don’t sleep too well lately…and I’ve seen somebody dragging shit in and out—looks like sheets or blankets. I…heard somebody screaming, like a pig being butchered…I…” His gaze rested on the front door. “Smells like the dead, and I wasn’t about to go in there…not with all the stuff that’s been going down in the city.”

  “Smart man.” Charlie eyed the man’s filthy shirt, leaned over, then spoke softly to John. “How about those Pats?”

  John forced a smile, looking into the guy’s bloodshot eyes. “Sir, I agree. You did the right thing.”

  Lacey rubbed her temple as she followed John up the stairs, and swore she heard the super mumble something about Satan. Then she focused her attention on the front door, noting the brass doorknob, where the image of a fanged demon had been emblazoned. Someone had scratched Welcome to Hell on the door’s cracked wood.

  John knocked, waited a minute, then cupped his eyes to peer into clear glass above the entrance. “Place is cluttered, newspapers and trash everywhere.”

  John called out, “Police, anyone there?”

  No answer came.

  He turned. The cops stood behind him, hands on their guns, rain pelting their jackets and streaming from their hats. Then he spoke to the super. “Sir, if you could please let us in.”

  The man shuffled forward, turned the key, and then grumbled. “Can I go back to bed now?”

  “Yes, you can. I’ll leave the key in your office.”

  The super grunted, stumbling away, muttering, and then letting out a loud burp. Charlie shook his head. “Crazy as a loon. I wonder if he imagined everything.”

  “That would be a good thing,” Al said softly.

  They all stood there for a moment, staring at the brownstone. Lacey swore she heard the dead speaking to her when John pushed opened the door. She ordered the voices away. “Not now,” she whispered to herself, and then followed John inside, the others on her heels.

  “Police. Anyone on the premises?” John called out.

  And there was silence, so they moved through the hall, guns drawn.

  Chuck leveled his automatic, and then nudged his partner. “What’s up those stairs?” He pointed to a spiral staircase. They moved slowly, stairs creaking and dust billowing.

  Charlie and Al moved into an adjoining hallway, guns pointed, eyes scanning every nook and cranny.

  Once in the vast living room, Lacey slowly slipped her automatic into her belt, and then donned latex gloves. She looked upward. Water stains had damaged the ceiling, where someone had once painted Victorian women and pastel flowers. The furniture was deep cherry wood, upholstered with satin brocade. At one time it was probably worth a fortune, but now holes and burn marks covered chairs, sofa, tables and bookcases. Crumbling plaster protruded beneath shreds of rotten wallpaper, and old photos hung there. Broken vases and pots lined sills. It smelled of spoiled food and death. Yellowed periodicals, newspapers, notebooks and random sheets of paper littered the floor, and were piled against the wall.

  She bent down, picked up a sheet of notepaper, and then read it aloud.

  “I ate the woman’s heart after I drank her blood. I’m still hungry. Hunger never goes away. I always give in to it…and I always take what I want. And I know I’m saving them all…just like my dear sister taught me.”

  Her stomach turned as fleeting images of blood, severed limbs and a steel blade flickered through her head. “Is the killer a friggin’ cannibal?”

  “More of the same shit here.” John held a black notebook in gloved hands. “There’s stuff about cutting up chicks and eating pieces of them. Notes about killing a photographer from Buffalo named Kellery, wearing his clothes, and doing a photo shoot in Niagara Falls, with equipment stored in the guy’s loft, because the killer became the guy—this Kellery.”

  “Insanity.” Lacey’s voice was soft, as she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.

  “Let’s see what else this sicko left behind.” John sniffed the air, and the smell of rot seemed to grow more intense. “Let’s check out the photographer later, too. Kellery isn’t a common first name…and—”

  “What the hell is this?” Lacey moved to the fireplace, spying a manila envelope in the front of the grate. She bent down, picked it up, and noticed a bloody fingerprint staining the corner. She frowned when she read the words written in neat letters.

  For the detectives who might be looking for me…

  She tore the envelope open. Dried crimson droplets splattered paper, and covered chilling words written in black ink.

  Hello Detectives,

  I admire the work you do. We all have jobs to do…some more unpleasant than others.

  There are so many of you in this city, and I’ve always wondered just who is looking for me. I imagine what you might look like, and what you might think of my work.

  I left something special for you, because I knew you’d come. How many times have you’ve asked yourself why I do what I do?

  Please understand that I am a savior, taking away pain and loneliness, cutting off all paths to self-destruction. I am good, so much like you, but you can’t see it now. And their blood, their flesh—remnants of all those girls…the souls of the ones I become…give me the strength to go on…to save others.

  So, see you around. I’ve got killing to do. I have several names, but for now I am…

  —Azrael

  “The angel of death…Azrael.”

  “So now Ramsay thinks she’s an angel? What the hell next?” Weariness was evident on John’s face, and fear flickered in his eyes.

  “Azrael…supposedly forever writing in a book—births and deaths—on and on—” Lacey whispered as John handed her an evidence bag. Her hands trembled as she bagged the note. “The angel goes by other names—Michael, Gabriel, Sammael and Sariel. She’s getting into my head. Sometimes I…” She sighed. “Signature looks a lot like the painting at Hell’s Door.’’

  “Yeah, maybe. Hey, cop to cop. This maniac could take you down, can fuck up your head if you’re not careful—”

  “I’ll be fine, John. This kind of thing has happened before. Shakes you up for a while, but then you realize you’ve got to stop the killing.”

  Lacey took a deep breath, and then went back to work. She noted bloodstains, shreds of torn clothing and what looked like a front tooth on the sofa.

  Charlie whistled and Al cursed. The two cops rounded the corner. Charlie’s face was pasty, his eyes bulged. “Detectives.” He looked at Lacey, and then at John. He took a deep breath, then shouted up the stairs. “We got bodies, some with no heads, others torn open, bitten.”

  Charlie’s partner’s voice was soft. “Take it easy. Don’t let it jam you up.”

  Lacey spoke so only John could hear. “Guy might not be cut out for this. Five years from now he’ll be flipping burgers in a diner in Cranston.”

  John merely shru
gged as Chuck and Rosario hurried down the stairs. “Nothing up there but more notebooks, hundreds of them.” Rosario’s accent was thick. His voice was deep and dismal. “Sick man, real sick.”

  * * *

  The scene was from hell, with decapitated bodies, in various stages of decomposition, strung up on the walls and ceiling, like a sick jewelry maker’s creation. Others had been piled in a heap on the floor, and a row of heads lined a windowsill, stretching to broken bureaus, night tables and the radiator. An overhead light cast a yellow hue onto the bed, where a headless corpse lay. Rainwater, blending with the blood of the dead, dripped from the ruined ceiling, and the smell was overpowering.

  “Body on the bed looks like the newest…rigor is minimal. Maybe we could have stopped it, John. Maybe…” Lacey’s stomach ached and her head pounded. A wave of dizziness swept over her, as steel and blood flashed through her mind…close…so close. And it wouldn’t be long before she took Ramsay down.

  12

  “Smalling did some digging for us.”

  Lacey pressed her cell to her ear. “What have we got, John?”

  “According to New York state police, a man named Randall Kellery, age twenty-seven, went missing in Oak Orchard—December 2007. Guy was a photographer for the Buffalo Gazette. Cops found a few of his cameras, lenses and clothes, by a dock at Oak Orchard State Marine Park. All items were covered in the victim’s blood.” John was breathless. “Seems Ramsay hunts in that area—duck hunting to be exact—and was there Christmas 2007, checked into a bed-and-breakfast close to the park.”

  “Might be a break then.”

  “Still tough, kid. Smalling dragged Ramsay’s ass back into the station. She’s got alibis galore. A dozen or more people are standing by her—claiming she was never alone during that trip. Boys have to break them—dig deeper—”

  “She’s going to make a mistake—if she hasn’t already. Nobody’s perfect. Get some rest and we’ll pick it up later,” she said softly, before disconnecting the call, feeling the need to get some shut-eye. Drained and frustrated, she lay on her sofa.

  She thought back about settling in Providence, hooking up with Gino, and then eventually partnering with John. It had been years since she’d left behind her birthplace, down South, and doing stints in the Midwest, up north…Texas…across the entire country…seemed liked a blur, with people, places and crime scenes quickly flashing through her head.

  Exhaustion overwhelmed her, and she drifted to sleep, dreaming a familiar dream, a misty reverie of her childhood home—a place with three floors, containing vast rooms. Aunts, uncles and grandparents shared that house, along with her parents and siblings—all dead now, leaving her alone in the world.

  She stood on a ladder in the misty dream, hanging curtains on windows, folds of drapery, stretching from the floor to a high ceiling. And she hooked fabric onto massive rods, smoothing wrinkles and opening swags slightly, so that sunlight could escape inside. That light illuminated the room, revealing skulls inside drape folds, and bloodstains on the cloth. Below her, at a banquet table, sat her family, toasting each other with crimson-filled goblets, and plunging forks into severed arms and legs.

  “No,” she screamed, tumbling from the ladder, landing in the midst of that huge banquet table, frozen in fear as someone waved a bloody knife above her. She awakened before that knife began to saw into her flesh, and she cried, because the nightmares wouldn’t stop, and the dead—relatives and victims alike—would never allow her peace.

  She ordered away those dreamy images, reminding herself she had to hook up with John for a quick meeting, so she showered and dressed, leaving behind memories and visceral scenes the dead chose to show her…and she greeted the storm, hoping Ramsay Wolfe would finally pay the price for her sins.

  * * *

  I tried to play the guitar, like the man I’d killed. His name was Alex…and my name became Alex. And I keep part of him inside me, even though I can’t make music the way he did. Now that instrument collects dust beside a canvas. There’s a light sketch there, a plan for a lovely painting, forged with bright color and intricate detail. The artist who would have painted that masterpiece is long gone, buried in the Colorado hills. He traveled the country, selling his work at fairs. And people loved the pretty horses and flower gardens he painted. I was that artist one spring, traveling from Denver to Florida, selling his wares, reveling in the freedom he had—saving others…with his hand…in his name.

  13

  “Couple more gatherings at Hell’s Door—and with the team’s help we might have her.” Lacey sipped coffee from a colorful ceramic mug, and then looked through the diner’s window. Rain continued to fall, streaking glass, swirling onto the street and into underground drains, and onto foggy windshields. A girl passed by wearing a purple slicker, bony hands clutching an umbrella’s handle, leggings and shoes soaked, seemingly floating down the walk on crystal-like sheets of water. She wanted to scream, and warn that girl to go home and lock her doors.

  “I’ll get Ramsay to trust me, don’t worry.” She watched the girl cross an intersection, and then disappear around a corner.

  “I do worry about you, Lacey. Only reason she keeps inviting us back is because she wants you. It was evident first time she laid eyes on you. The way she looks at you. I…”

  “Well, don’t worry about me.” She pushed away a half-eaten English muffin. “Guys found a beat-up Acura parked illegally around the corner from the brownstone. Car was stolen from a lot at the Regency downtown. Only prints they found were the owner’s and Tanny Brewer’s—the girl we found on the bed. Her broken umbrella was under the seat. DNA testing on saliva from the bite marks was inconclusive and so was the bloody fingerprint found at the brownstone. There were some fibers on the seats and floor, but nothing substantial.”

  “Nothing ever is.” John’s gaze went to the door when a heavyset woman strolled inside. Anna DeLaro waved at John, then sat down next to him—a little too close—a mischievous smile spreading across her plump face.

  “Detectives, I saw Tanny before you found her, warned her to get off the street. Ramsay—she’s been doing that devil bullshit…scaring everybody. Heard her talking to some girls…about how they were going to take Tanny down, cut her up. I…”

  John waved over the waitress. “Get my friend a coffee.”

  The waitress nodded, and then moved behind the counter.

  “When was this?” Impatience welled up inside Lacey.

  “I don’t remember the exact time. I was smoking and doing shots, but I know what I heard.”

  “Do you think Ramsay really makes deals with the devil?” Lacey sipped coffee, her eyes fastened on Anna.

  “No, it’s a power thing, Detective. She’s a pimp. Territorial. Went on about how she can hurt girls who work solo—or for other pimps who’ve moved into the area—that we should all work for her because it’s her turf.”

  “Any of the other girls see anything?” John tapped his fingers on the table.

  “One of the queens said she saw Ramsay beat the crap out of girl who was working alone. Happened down by the riverbank, but I think she could kill. I…”

  John handed Anna fifty bucks. “Thanks, Anna. Stay away from Ramsay for the time being. We don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Anna grabbed the money. “Hey, man. I can take care of myself. Boxed professionally back in Jersey. Did some pro wrestling, too. I’m working out every day—lifting and—”

  “Stay away from Hell’s Door.” Lacey’s voice was stern.

  “I’ll be downtown if you need me.” Anna left them, moving into thick fog and rain.

  “I’ve heard other girls tell the same tale. Nothing new. And nothing we can prove.” Lacey pressed her hands to the table. “We should go back there now.”

  “I…We need to lay low for now, Lacey. We’ll hit Hell’s Door tonight.”

  The waitress, a thin girl with freckles and red hair tied back with a black ribbon, slapped the check in front of John. He scooped i
t up, studied it for a minute, and then plucked wrinkled dollar bills out of his pocket. “Come on. I don’t think you should go back to your place alone. I worried earlier…and…”

  “Stop acting like my father. My place is trashed. Can’t have guests until I straighten up.”

  “We’ll crash at my place. I got an extra room.”

  Lacey’s eyes stung and her body ached. All she wanted was more time alone—to clear her head. “We’ve been over all that, and I’ll be all right. I’ll meet you later on.”

  She tossed a five at him and left him sitting there with his hands clutching a ceramic mug. She wished things were different, that she could change what was going down between them, but she had to accept the truth, like always.

  * * *

  Lacey drifted away again, sleeping soundly, dreaming again, about the brownstone, and the women who’d gone there to die. They sat in a circle, around a dark figure, and eerie words echoed like a wicked curse, “I am a savior, taking away the pain and loneliness, cutting off all paths to self-destruction.” It waved a bony finger and the women went to the shadowy figure—one by one—knife sawing into their flesh, blood spattering on wall paintings—and they died…one by one.

  And when it was done, a voice whispered, “Now the pain is gone.”

  Lacey awakened when her cell pulsed, when reality and all its terror called her into the darkness once more.

  14

  How long had the girl named Stephanie been there? Gabriel couldn’t remember. She wasn’t as beautiful as when he first brought her to the old Victorian house on Prospect Street, belonging to an old woman named Margia Centerello. That woman had been kind to him, cooking for him when he helped her bring in groceries from the Italian market, giving him money for shining the silver in the hall curio, but when he asked if he could move into the spare room on the third floor, she’d protested, telling him she liked her privacy. So he slit the old woman’s throat one day as she stirred pasta sauce at the stove. Didn’t she understand he needed the house to complete his work—just as he’d needed the brownstone?