The timing was perfect. There was no chance for Tyler to react. When I caught up to him, his back was to me as he was about to push his way through the second glass door of his building. He had obviously heard me behind him — or something, at least — because he was starting to turn his body. Maybe he saw me, maybe he didn't. I wasn't sure. If he did, it was merely a glimpse, a fleeting second of something white being slapped over his face. What he must have been thinking as it happened....
That ether stuff really works. Within a few seconds and with minimal struggle, Tyler's body went limp in my grasp. I looked behind me. No one. I looked ahead of me. No one. So far, so good — no witnesses. Though if I wanted to keep it that way I had to move fast.
On went the gloves. Mental note: wipe the first door free of any fingerprints when leaving.
Tyler's keys had fallen to the floor. I picked them up and started to check the directory. You didn't think he'd actually have his name listed next to an apartment number, did you? Neither did I. It would be too easy. Hastily, I fumbled around on his key chain and found what looked to be the mailbox key. It was trial-and-error time. Four mailboxes had apartment numbers without names. On the third try I knew where Tyler called home. Apartment 4F.
The ground floor hallway was as narrow as can be, with stairs right in front. It was dimly lit and reeked of garbage, two of the three necessary requirements for a place to be officially labeled a dump. I was convinced I'd see the third requirement crawling about at any given moment. Mind you, I wasn't expecting Trump Tower. In fact, my plan banked on the belief that Tyler was slumming it to a certain degree. Doormen and elevators would have obviously made things a bit more complicated.
The trick at that point was getting Tyler up the stairs without being seen. That's why I had to do a little solo journey first to make sure the coast was clear. As for what to do with my unconscious cargo in the meantime, I spotted a space tucked behind the stairwell, in the shadows and out of the way. Breathing hard, I grabbed Tyler under his arms and dragged him over to it. For a skinny guy, he sure did weigh enough.
Hurry, Philip.
Having further brushed up on my pharmacology, I knew that ether, when inhaled directly, would knock someone out for approximately fifteen to twenty minutes. The clock was ticking.
I hightailed it up to the second floor. I heard plenty and saw nothing. The muffled sounds of canned laughter from a TV, along with a baby crying, but the hallway was empty.
Up the stairs to the third floor. I peeked left and right. It too was empty. Quiet, this time, as well.
Onward to the fourth floor and apartment 4F. More trial and error with the remaining keys. The second Medeco did the job. I was in. I opened the door and groped for the light switch. Short of a sign that read "Tyler's Place," it was his apartment, all right. The unbelievable mess had his name written all over it.
Leaving the door cracked open I headed back down, checking for people again at every floor. Tick, tick. I needed everyone to continue their hermit ways for a few minutes longer. Returning to the ground level, I found Tyler still passed out as could be, reeking of alcohol, ethyl and otherwise. I picked him up again for the long climb ahead. In what little time had elapsed, I could've sworn he had gotten heavier.
My back was aching by the fifth step. Between the backpack and Tyler, I would've been quite the sight, exactly what I couldn't afford to have happen. As gingerly as possible, I turned the corner on the second floor and started up to the third.
Shit!
Halfway up the steps to the third floor I heard the metallic snap of a lock down the hall. Someone was coming out. With a frantic look behind me I realized there was too much ground to cover for a retreat. I stayed still and held my breath. At the same time, I was trying to balance Tyler on my shoulder as I went up on the tips of my toes to catch a glimpse of who was coming. It was all very Ringling Brothers. The door opened and I heard footsteps. They were coming my way.
Fuzzy pink slippers, that is.
All my planning was about to go to waste thanks to someone wearing a fucking pair of fuzzy pink slippers. Or was it? Because as soon as I saw them they stopped. With the slant of the next flight of stairs obstructing my view, all I could see were the slippers and the matching set of fat female ankles that filled them. What was she doing? Why had she stopped? When I heard the next sound, I knew. It was the sound of hinges, yet it wasn't a door. It was the trash chute. Lo and behold, she was taking out the garbage. (At least someone did around there.) I listened to the clanking of bottles and cans fade away. It was music to my ears. The only thing left for her to do was turn around and go back to her apartment. Bring it on home, fuzzy-pink-slipper lady! Which was precisely what she did. As the door to her apartment closed behind her, I exhaled my lungs out. It appeared I would live to see another floor.
Maybe. The final flight of steps looked like the Hillary Step on Everest. Little did I know that I should've trained for the evening. As much as I wanted to stop and rest, it would've left me exposed to other neighbors that much longer. I kept going. I had to.
It was all clear on the fourth floor as I carried Tyler into his apartment. With a great swell of relief I put him down on a couch, or rather the couch, for that and a folding chair made up all of the available seating. As for the rest of the furnishings, to call them sparse would be all too kind. A room at Motel 6 had more character. It also had the benefit of maid service, something Tyler's place was sorely missing. Newspapers, pizza boxes, clothes, beer cans. All of it strewn about so randomly it almost seemed to form a pattern, if that makes any sense.
The first order of business was to look up, everywhere. Tyler would need someplace from which to hang himself, and though I was prepared to improvise, a little luck was much preferred. I found it in the bedroom. An exposed pipe that ran across the room about a foot below the ceiling. Thick, sturdy, and supported by a wraparound bracket mounted to the side of the wall. It was perfect. Nonetheless, I took no chances. Stepping up on an old-fashioned radiator, I grabbed hold of it and made sure it could support my body weight. It was plenty strong.
Stepping back down, I looked at Tyler's unmade bed. Scrunched up at the bottom was a plain white sheet, the no-frills variety. I picked it up and gave it a good hard tug. It too was plenty strong — the rope I had bought would stay in my backpack.
The thing from there on out was to think and act like Tyler. That meant doing everything the way he would've had to do it. I took off my gloves and started with fastening the noose with a slipknot at one end of the sheet. The other end got a double knot tied around the pipe. The measurement that mattered was from the floor up. I stood under the noose and felt a good six inches or so of space above my head. Dangle room, for lack of a better term.
The time had come.
I would get Tyler from the other room and get it over with as fast as possible. Be done with the blackmail, the threats, and the fear. Be done with it all.
So how come I wasn't moving?
Worse, why did I suddenly feel nauseous?
Feet planted, the room on a turntable. I felt dizzy. The urge to vomit. My stomach churning, with a feverish chill spreading out over my backside.
The adrenaline, I told myself. System overload. The rush of it all had been too fast, too great. I was coming down exceedingly hard. Crashing.
Give it a minute, Philip. It'll pass.
I gazed up at my handiwork, the noose hanging from the pipe, and the room spun faster. I quickly looked away. My eyes landed on an old mirror propped up over a makeshift dresser by the bed. I hadn't seen it there until I spotted my reflection staring back at me. It was cold and it was detached, and it made me wonder, really wonder, for the first time.
Up until that point I had focused so much on my plan, the details and the precautions, that I had conveniently avoided thinking about what it was I was doing. As I stood there in that bedroom of Tyler's apartment, however, there was no more avoiding it. I knew why I was there. I knew why I wanted to do it, why
I felt I had to do it. Yet there was one thing I was overlooking.
Actually doing it.
Without warning the thought of it had swarmed over me. Engulfed me. I realized what was happening. My wave of nausea had nothing to do with adrenaline. I was suffering from a major change of heart.
What the hell were you thinking, Philip?!
That's when I understood. It was like a moral eclipse, the whole thing. My view of right and wrong, good versus evil, had been obstructed by my desire-turned-methodical-obsession to rid myself of Tyler — and in the process rid myself of what had become an all too real reminder of my own transgressions. Some would say that my morality had always been subject to at least some form of partial eclipse. But this... this was a personal darkness that I had never known.
I guess my conscience was alive and kicking.
From there the decision came almost effortlessly, and as fast as you can say psychosomatic, the nausea and dizziness disappeared.
It would be as if I had never been here, I told myself.
I would go get Tyler off the couch and put him in his bed. He'd wake up later with a horrific hangover, but at least he would indeed be waking up. He'd have my money and I'd have to live wondering if he was ever going to tangle with me again. I figured I could deal. I had to deal. The alternative was knowing that I had murdered him. That, so I discovered, was something I couldn't live with.
I started to walk toward the other room to pick Tyler off the couch. When I came through the doorway I abruptly stopped.
The couch was empty.
What I saw next was a shiny blur out of the corner of my eye. It was the steely blade of a knife, and it was coming right at me. I recoiled, arms raised, as it missed my body and caught the top of my left hand with a cutting swipe. The blood was instant. The realization wasn't too far behind. That ether wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Tyler was conscious. A little groggy, maybe, but definitely awake. He also looked pretty pissed off, to put it mildly.
"You stupid motherfucker!" he yelled, pointing what turned out to be a very large kitchen knife at me. He was backing me into his bedroom.
I looked down at the blood dripping off my fingertips. I gathered this was what they meant by being caught red-handed.
"Wait a minute, Tyler," I pleaded. "This isn't what you think."
"Oh yeah, what is it then?"
Before I could give him an excuse, though, he saw it. The noose. The sheet hanging in the corner of his bedroom. Damn, I should have taken it down first.
Tyler looked dumbstruck. He could hardly fathom it. "Isn't that something," he said. "I suppose that was for me, huh?"
"No," I said. "I mean, yes, it was for you, but I couldn't go through with it. I couldn't do it."
"You're damn right you couldn't do it. Sorry to get in the way of your little execution here," he said, no longer yelling. His voice had turned calm and deep. The knife remained pointed at me in his outstretched hand.
"You have to believe me, Tyler. I know what it looks like, but I wasn't going to do it. You can have the money; it's yours. This was incredibly stupid of me."
He laughed out loud. "That's the fucking understatement of the year."
I started to look around the room for something to grab. The odds of talking Tyler out of coming at me with that knife again were decreasing by the second.
"You know what this is going to be, don't you?" he said.
"What?"
"Self-defense, that's what. You were going to kill me and I stopped you. It's that easy."
"Tyler, please..."
"You know what the amazing thing is? I actually thought you might consider trying something like this." He glanced at the noose. "Well, not quite this. I have to admit that was pretty ingenious — making it look like a suicide." He raised his forearms into the air, exposing the scars on his wrist. "Who wouldn't believe it?" he said with a crooked grin.
"Two hundred and fifty thousand!" I spurted out.
"Come again?" said his look.
"I'll double the hundred and twenty-five thousand. I'll give you two hundred and fifty thousand!"
Tyler pursed his lips. "Tempting, Philly, very tempting," he said. "But you know what idea I like better? The one where after I kill you, I end up fucking your wife. I'm pretty sure Tracy was starting to have a thing for me anyway. She might be a little frigid at first, it being my knife and all that did you in. Except I know she'll come around; she'll more than understand the self-defense part. Then, who knows, with a little work, maybe I can start up with Jessica on the side. Wouldn't that be a hoot? I guess I always was a little jealous of you."
Knife raised, he lunged.
My instincts took over. Before the blade could come down on me fatally, I grabbed under Tyler's wrist, stopping the motion of his arm. I glanced at the serrated edge of the knife, already stained with my blood, as it hovered over me — my body shaking, trembling from the strain. It was his strength against mine. I may have outweighed him, but he was consumed by rage and that was enough to begin pushing me back. I felt Tyler's bed behind me, and my knees began to cave with no more room to retreat. The knife was getting closer.
I fell back on the bed, desperately holding on to Tyler's arm while at the same time trying to evade the knife. He rode his momentum downward, pushing the struggle in his favor. He was right on top of me, the blade inches away from my chest.
"What a way to go, huh, Philly?" Tyler said between gasps of breath. He flashed a checkmate smile. He knew I couldn't hold him off much longer and he was right. Ever so slowly, the space between the tip of the blade and me began to disappear.
I felt it and I screamed out in pain. The knife cutting into my flesh. A quarter of an inch. A half an inch. The bull's-eye of blood growing on my shirt.
Any farther and I was dead.
What a way to go, huh, Philly?
No, I told myself. No way. Not here, not now, and certainly not at the hands of Tyler Mills. One final push, I needed. It was my last chance. Closing my eyes and gnashing my teeth, I summoned up every last bit of fight.
And then some.
Maybe he let up for a split second thinking he was about to prevail. Or maybe I was so afraid of dying that it only seemed that way. Out went the tip of the knife from my chest. Back went Tyler's arm. His expression said it all. This wasn't quite settled yet.
I rocked to my side and it caught him off guard. He momentarily lost his balance. It was all I needed to bring my legs back and plant the heels of my wingtips against his stomach. With one hip-sled thrust I sent him flying away from me. Smack! went Tyler's body against the wall. The knife dropped to the ground. For a second we both stood staring at it. He was closer to it, though not by much. If I dove and got it, we had a different ball game. If I dove and missed, it was game over for me.
I stayed put. I was up from the bed and ready for his next charge. Tyler scooped up the knife and came at me, arm raised and head down. He barreled toward me. With an eye on the knife, I waited until the last possible split second and sidestepped him. A matador to his bull.
He couldn't stop his momentum. Over the bed Tyler tumbled headfirst, right into the other wall with a tremendous thud. I got up and turned around, ready for him to charge at me again.
"C'mon, you son of a bitch!" I yelled.
But Tyler lay there motionless. His slack body was hunched up against the old-fashioned radiator. The noose hung above him. At first I thought maybe it was a trick. I inched closer to him. It was no trick — Tyler was unconscious. I spotted the knife on the ground a foot from his hand and I kicked it away. Standing over him, I grasped what must have happened. That wasn't a thud I had heard after he tumbled, rather it was a hollow and resounding clank, and the huge swelling above his eyes confirmed it. Tyler's head had gone right into the pipes of the radiator. He was really out. I bent down and grabbed his wrist, placing my thumb over his scars. Within seconds I realized it.
Tyler wasn't unconscious.
Tyler was dead.
The feeling was panic, exhaustion, and relief all rolled into one. I could barely catch my breath as I stepped back and tried to digest what had happened. The implications and the consequences.
What do I do?
Think, Philip!
I go to the cops, that's what.
Are you crazy, Philip?
Talk about a self-incriminating story. They'd never believe it, at least not the part that I'd need them to believe. Hell, I could hardly believe it.
I unbuttoned my shirt, gently lifted up my undershirt, and looked at my chest. I saw the raw slot of pierced flesh above my nipple with blood all around. The bleeding itself, though, had stopped.
The same couldn't be said for my hand. I grabbed one of Tyler's T-shirts off the floor and tied it around tight over the gash to cut off the pressure.
Again with the question, What do I do?
Truth be told, I knew all along. By entertaining other ideas, I was merely trying not to feel so depraved about it.
I'd do exactly as I had decided earlier: it would be as if I had never been here.
I worked fast. Down came the noose, the sheet tossed back on the bed. I grabbed a sponge from the sink and went around wiping up all the drips of my blood. I cleaned the knife and placed it in one of the kitchen drawers. I put Tyler's keys down on a table. I even retraced all my steps to make sure I hadn't left a footprint in the dust.
But if it wasn't me who had been in the apartment, who had?
To look at Tyler lying there was to know this wasn't a household accident. He hadn't just tripped and hit his head while home by himself. Someone else had been in the apartment. Some type of altercation had occurred.
That's when I walked over to Tyler's door, took out a dime, and loosened the screws a little on his sliding chain lock. I put my gloves back on and lifted the chain into the lock — and with one quick pull on the door, the chain lock went flying. Forced entry it would be. They would say Tyler had been the victim of a robbery gone bad. Jesus, the apartment already looked like that anyway.
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