What Hides Within

by Jason Parent

  Even Kevin’s apartment appeared empty. He figured the cops must have searched the place, giving local and federal law enforcement more credit than they probably deserved. He doubted they would come back. They probably already had all the evidence they needed: hair samples, DNA off a used disposable razor, blood. They always found blood. Being an inexperienced killer, he must have left blood on something. He imagined his room torn to pieces and collected in little sandwich bags to be brought to high-tech laboratories and examined by the world’s greatest analytical minds. Law & Order and CSI shit, not real life.

  Due to the probable police presence, the shed offered a safer alternative than his apartment. Police would likely be watching the place, and he was surprised that he’d managed to creep into the shed the prior night without detection. He didn’t see one cop, so he assumed they were experts in covert operations.

  The shed served a dual purpose, hiding him from detection while offering him a place to wait for Clive. He was sure Clive was coming back home. It was just a question of when. Kevin hoped Clive would return before the hypothermia or boredom killed him.

  Keep busy. Keep moving. It’s only going to get colder.

  Stacked in a corner, large sacks of fertilizer lay covered in dust and cobwebs. Kevin swiped his palm along the top of the stack. A layer of sticky black grime swiped off with it, restoring the sack to its original green color. The bags were moldable, as if they were filled with sand. Surplus from the landlord’s summer lawn-care business, the fertilizer would not be in demand until winter’s end.

  Why not put it to immediate use? If I lay out the bags on the floor, they could make a fairly decent bed. Or a fortress, perhaps, and possibly warmth.

  He lifted the top bag. His fingers had lost all sensation, making gripping difficult. He slammed it down beside the existing stack. One by one, Kevin moved the fertilizer bags from the corner of the shed, creating two new stacks that formed a square with the walls. Inside the square was a hole just big enough for one. Kevin leaped over the fertilizer and into his proud domain. There, he curled up in his barricade, squeezed in tight. Hidden in that corner, he did feel a little warmer.

  “Ah!” Kevin shouted, slapping his neck. Something had bit him, something that had already made a home in the damp darkness of that corner.

  Startled, Kevin cringed when the inch-long yellow sac spider crawled down his sleeve and onto the fertilizer. Disgusted, pained, and motivated by revenge, Kevin released all his angst on the spider. With a falling flat palm, he squished it into mashed goop with legs. Then he examined the corner above him. A large egg sac, bursting with life, resided in the crease made by the walls and shelf. He found its presence unsettling.

  “Fuck this!” He stood. I’m going inside.

  CHAPTER 39

  “S

  houldn’t we have the place checked out first?”

  “Morgan, it’ll be fine. Why would he come back here? It’s the first place the cops would look for him.”

  Clive only needed to make his words sound logical. But Chester said Kevin would be there, and Clive believed her. After all, Chester hadn’t been wrong yet. Morgan, however, didn’t need to know that.

  “If it’s all the same to you, though, you should probably wait outside, just to be safe.”

  “Bullshit. I’m sticking to you like glue. I’m just saying maybe we should wait for Detective Reilly.”

  “She’ll be here any minute. Will you relax?”

  Morgan huffed, but she kept her mouth shut. The decision made, Clive climbed each step to his apartment with silent feet. Morgan followed less stealthily. After each step, Clive paused and listened. He heard no signs of life from the apartment above. He moved closer.

  A loud creak announced their presence. It sounded like wood bending, the sound of a house refusing to settle, threatening to splinter underfoot. The sound echoed through the hollow spaces below the stairs and in the empty stairway above.

  Clive shook his head in dissatisfaction, disappointed by his own negligence. How could he have forgotten that annoying seventh step? The sound of its depression under the weight of feet had always alerted him to visitors. Now, it had placed anyone who might have been lying in wait on full alert.

  If Kevin were waiting for him inside the apartment, Clive’s lack of caution would have caught his attention. A repeat of Clive’s foolhardy action damn near guaranteed it. Morgan was happy to oblige. She shrugged and mouthed the word, “Sorry.”

  Idiot. He shook his head. Once was dumb. Twice was imbecilic. Grumbling, he crept closer to the door.

  Morgan huddled in close behind. She and Clive stood silently outside the apartment. Only an inch-and-a-half-thick sheet of paint-chipped wood separated Clive from his home. He reached into his front pocket with slow methodology. Carefully, he withdrew his keys by their key ring with the pads of his thumb and forefinger. He held even the slightest jingle in check. As the keys released from his pocket, their removal from the cloth’s resistance lightened their weight and sent them swinging freely. Clive’s loose hold on the key ring broke, and the keys fell to the ground with a thud, jingling all the way.

  “Fuck!” Clive responded, instinctively and loudly.

  “Shhhh!” Morgan scolded, equally as loud.

  “This is stupid. Look at us! We’re being ridiculous. And we’re certainly not being quiet. I’m sure he’s not even in there. If he were, our commotion would have sent him halfway down the fire escape by now.”

  “Better to be safe than sorry,” Morgan said.

  “Whoever came up with that expression must have lived a boring life. Probably never had sex without a condom.”

  “Very funny.”

  Clive picked up his keys. He sifted through them and the other crap on his key ring until he found his apartment key. Then he turned the key in the doorknob, only to discover that the door had been unlocked all along. He didn’t share the discovery with Morgan, feeling no need to heighten her anxiety.

  I probably just forgot to lock it again. Things have been hectic lately.

  It wasn’t uncommon for Clive to forget to lock the door. His absentmindedness was always a sore spot for his cohabitants. He figured this time, however, no one would care.

  “Well, you can stay out here if you’d like. I’m going in.”

  Morgan grabbed the back of Clive’s sleeve and held tightly. Her hand was shaking. Clive didn’t share her fear. Kevin had pulled a knife on him. Then Kevin tried to blow him up. Surely, that didn’t happen to Clive on a daily basis. He wondered how he could be so nonchalant about the whole thing. Surviving both attempts on his life made him feel indestructible. Still, he thought, Chester better be right.

  He creaked the door open and peeked inside. The living room was pitch-black except for a sliver of light entering from the entrance and its now-ajar door. The room was cool but not cold. The heat had been on within the last few hours. Probably kicked on by itself, Clive hoped.

  All the shades inside were drawn closed. He could see the faint, discolored outlines of the windows in his room and in the kitchen. The shades resembled shut eyelids, their brownish tint the same as what a person would see when he closed his eyes in a lighted room. But the few errant light rays forcing their way through the shades barely pierced the darkness beyond a small halo, weakened by the man-made barrier and the dying sun of a shortened, near-winter day. All space between Clive and the windows was black. In it, anyone could be lurking.

  His back to Morgan, Clive swallowed hard. He flicked the switch by the doorway, but nothing happened. The light bulb was either dead or removed. He listened for movement, anything, but he could only hear Morgan’s breathing behind him. Then he entered the darkness.

  Morgan stayed behind. In the light of the doorway, she glowed like an angel, Clive’s savior. He shook off his romantic sappiness lest Morgan think him weak. He doubted she could see him anyway. She wouldn’t be running in to save him should he need saving.

  Clive moved deeper into the room. No
thing stirred. He kept moving. The silence was broken by a dull thud.

  “Clive?” Morgan called. “Clive? What was that? Are you okay? Where are you?” She took a step backward. “Clive?”

  “Yaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!” Clive shouted as he flipped on the kitchen light.

  “Eeeeeek!” Morgan screamed with the vocals of a horror-film hussy. But her surprise quickly turned to anger. “That’s not even the tiniest bit funny!”

  Clive disagreed. He curled himself over the kitchen counter, laughing uncontrollably. Morgan’s piercing wail had been a far better reaction than he could have hoped for. His prank exceeded all his comic expectations.

  Morgan pouted. “What was that noise I heard?”

  “Nothing,” Clive said. “Just banged my knee against—”

  “Jesus, Clive! Look at this place!”

  Morgan stepped delicately into the living room. The sofa had been torn apart. Pieces of splintered wood and glass littered the carpet underneath where framed photographs once had been. The television had been knocked over, its backing detached and wires and circuitry exposed. Clothes and items were tossed randomly around the apartment. Everything was out of place, everything in disarray. Clive’s belongings were no exception.

  “He ransacked it!”

  “No,” Clive said. “That was the FBI guys who came by last week.”

  “FBI?”

  “Yeah. They had a search warrant, so I came by to let them in. Otherwise, they would have just busted the door open. They made this mess, but I don’t think they found anything. They didn’t seem happy when they left. After seeing what they did to the place, I wasn’t happy either. So I just left it the way it was and headed over to your place.”

  “That’s not good, Clive.” Morgan frowned. Her lip trembled. Something had moved her toward grief. Clive found her mood change confusing and unwarranted.

  “It’s no big deal, Morg. At this point, I think they got more than enough to hang him. They just have to catch him first. That shouldn’t be too hard. It’s not like Kevin is a seasoned criminal.”

  “Yeah, but Clive, the FBI? Why didn’t you tell me? They’ll examine everything. They shouldn’t be in here.”

  Finally, Clive understood, or at least he thought he did. “Oh. You’re worried about me? I doubt the FBI will make a big fuss about my bong. I washed it out before they came. Besides, if they do have a problem with it, I’ll just say it’s Kevin’s. Who are they going to believe—me or a psycho-bomber?”

  Morgan hung her head. Despite Clive’s words, she still seemed stressed about something. “What a mess,” she muttered in a low voice, but not low enough.

  “Anything to appease the hardworking men and women of the world’s largest employer and biggest waster of time and money, the United States government,” Clive joked. “They risk their lives every day so that we can safely live ours… well, except on federal holidays, weekends, and weeknights after five p.m. Oh, and don’t forget sick days, paid vacation, and early retirement. Their lives are so rough.”

  Clive’s sarcasm was his coping mechanism. His stuff had been tossed around with seemingly no real purpose other than vandalism. His television was dismantled and his computer taken. His furniture and dishes were broken. And Kevin’s room remained locked shut, its fate unknown, for reasons Clive couldn’t comprehend. Although he guessed it had met the same end as his room, Clive would have found some comfort in confirming it.

  Still, his things were just that—things, replaceable and not overly valuable. He didn’t care about most of it. He simply wanted to know why they’d had to trash his belongings, too.

  “Aw, man!” Clive caught a glimpse of what appeared to be broken stained glass. There was no question in his mind to what it was. “They broke my fucking bong! That’s just inhumane.”

  “We’ll get you another one, babe. Besides, when do you smoke?”

  “I do… sometimes.” Clive plopped down on the arm of his sofa. “You don’t understand, Morgan. That thing had sentimental value.” My first and only threesome came after smoking that thing. That’s probably not the best thing to share, though. “That thing used to get me so fucking blitzed I never knew where I was going to wake up.”

  Dumbass. The lie was no better than the truth. He could see on Morgan’s face that his comment had gone over about as well as ass-less chaps at a convent.

  “You really are a classy one.”

  “Oh, honey, you know I didn’t mean it like—”

  “And a fucking bong, Clive? Your roommate has been trying to kill you, and all you care about is a fucking—”

  A familiar creak cut Morgan off. Someone was on the stairs.

  Clive smiled. “Great. Detective Reilly, I’m glad you could—”

  As Clive faced the doorway, the person who emerged wasn’t Detective Reilly. Kevin Ventura had come home.

  “You,” Clive said, the smirk vanishing from his lips.

  Morgan screamed again, this time with good reason.

  Kevin stopped under the threshold. His jaw was clenched like a snarling dog’s. He and Clive were locked in each other’s gaze. The two stood poised just as they had stood at the Swansea Mall. This time, however, little space separated one from the other’s throat, and Kevin wasn’t running away.

  Clive awaited Kevin’s move as the rage welled up inside him. Like a contestant in a game of skill, he tried to anticipate not only Kevin’s first move, but the motions that would follow. He wasn’t afraid, and Kevin didn’t seem to be, either. Clive felt pure hostility, while Kevin appeared crazed, desperate, unpredictable. In his hand, Kevin held his advantage: that familiar ivory-handled blade. His grip upon it was unwavering. The point projected slightly forward as though it were willing itself toward Clive. It shimmered in its own excitement, having already once tasted blood.

  In the shine of the blade, Clive could see Morgan’s mirrored horror. Kevin would come for him soon. Clive knew he needed to be cautious. He needed to be precise. If not, he was as good as dead.

  Go ahead, Clive thought. Draw.

  CHAPTER 40

  T here were more doughnuts around the precinct than there were brain cells. Detective Reilly barked orders like a four-star general commanding a legion of special ed dropouts. She did the best she could with the people she had to work with.

  “How long have we been tailing this guy?”

  A frazzled officer searched desperately through his computer’s database. It was never wise to keep Reilly waiting. She had too many cases in need of conclusion and not enough time or energy to conclude them. Her best efforts were put toward the more serious offenses. Every second spent in silence was a second wasted.

  “Since the beginning of October. It’s never been twenty-four, seven, though.”

  “And all we know for sure is that he’s a loner and a college dropout! Think, people! Where did he go that seemed unusual? Where could he be hiding?”

  “We never followed him across state lines. He spent a lot of time in Rhode Island before we lost track of him. We couldn’t put too many guys on him. There’s only so much manpower we could put into your hunch.”

  “Did I detect some criticism in your tone, Sergeant Mello? Mind your rank.”

  Reilly meant it too. She was fed up with the lack of results. Mello was testing her patience. If the need arose, she would take out her frustrations on him, disciplining him as harshly as her authority would allow.

  “Besides,” she continued more calmly, “the kid identified him as the perp.”

  “With all due respect, Detective, Timothy Samartino was a space cadet for weeks after finding the body. Who knows whose characteristics he was identifying for you? A neighbor? A celebrity? His gym teacher?”

  “Timothy picked Ventura out of a photo gallery!”

  “Yeah, Ventura and three other possibles, two of which have priors. Ventura doesn’t.”

  “Ventura’s our guy. I know it. Hunches are what separate the detectives from the officers. Who knows? Maybe if you st
art having them once in a while, you might actually move up the food chain.” Reilly shook her head. Her dissatisfaction was beginning to wear her down. She couldn’t do it all herself. She needed all the help she could get. “Have the guys over at his apartment checked in with anything?”

  “Nothing unusual. They heard some sounds in the backyard the other night, but when they checked it out, they found nothing. Also, we got surveillance on Morgan Donnelly’s residence. That’s where you said the guy Ventura is after is staying, right? Maybe he’ll pop up there.”

  “Fuck!”

  Reilly yanked up her sleeve, revealing her watch. “I was supposed to meet Menard ten minutes ago! Never mind, Mello. I’ll get the answers myself. Have someone call Menard. Tell him I’m running late, but I’m on my way.”

  After a whirlwind two minutes, she still hadn’t shaken off the frenzy. Reason hadn’t returned to her hectic mind. Her thoughts rambled on like tumbleweeds in the wind. A question that repeated over and over again in her head like a carnival tune set on repeat, What do I do? What do I do? began to slow its tempo. An answer formed. Call 9-1-1!

  Morgan stopped her panicked flight. She glanced behind to see if she was pursued. Then she replayed the events of the last two minutes in her head. The details had firmly entrenched themselves in her psyche, the visions they formed unforgettable.

  She’d told Clive not to go there, to stay away from Kevin, Detective Reilly, and the investigation. Kevin was Reilly’s suspect in the past explosions. Reilly would only naturally suspect Kevin for the mall hit, an explosion for which Clive was present and accounted. Reilly’s suspicions would bring her closer to Clive. Morgan prayed Reilly wouldn’t get too close.

  Still, Clive had looked so strong, vibrant, ready. Seeing him like that ignited her passion. Had he finally become the man she’d always dreamed he could be, the man she wanted, the man she loved? Clive’s body tensed like an overfilled balloon. Morgan wondered if he, too, could explode. His expression told her yes.