“The camera is here, right?”
Charlie gives me a firm nod. “It is. But this is about as close as I can get us.” He slips the phone into his pocket. “From here on out, we’ll have to use our astute powers of observation.”
I glare at him and he shrugs. He kneels down and picks up a rock and pockets it. “Which one, boss?” he asks.
I sigh, giving in, and point to the house on the left. We climb up onto its deck. The patio door is locked.
He smiles. “Guess your powers of deduction need some sharpening, huh?” He jumps over the railing and moves around the side of the house.
I follow.
When I get to the front, he’s already working at the lock to the garage. He slides what looks like a key into the keyhole and bumps it with the stone he picked up. It pops open like magic and he goes inside. I go in too, well aware I’ve just added unlawful entry to my list of recent felonies.
The interior of the house is half finished. Wiring and drywall have been installed, but there’s no paint or flooring. Signs of the construction crew are everywhere—tools, extension cords, water bottles, empty coffee cups, and a paint-splattered radio litter the place. The kitchen opens to a dining room that wraps around into the living room. Everything is open and spacious and our feet echo between the walls. We do a quick inspection of the kitchen cabinets and find nothing.
“You check the second floor and I’ll check the basement,” Charlie offers.
“No, we’re not splitting up.”
He gives me a dismissive look. “Fine.” He goes up the stairs to the second floor landing that overlooks the kitchen.
“What does someone do with all this space?” Charlie asks. It’s a sincere question.
“People like big houses. They don’t like to feel crowded.”
He walks to the edge of the balcony and looks down at the stovetop island. “I could spit in my mac and cheese from here.”
I shake my head. “That’s just gross.”
“So’s the mac and cheese at my house.”
I follow him into an empty bedroom, wondering how anyone could screw up such a simple meal. The doors haven’t even been installed, so we move down the hall. A quick look tells us what we need to know. No one except carpenters have been here. Basement next.
The stairs are still only boards and lights hang by extension cords from the ceiling joists. The basement is unfinished walls, studs, and cement. It smells a bit damp. Light spills in through the wide basement windows and we’re able to see to all the back corners easily.
Charlie turns for the stairs. “This place is a bust.”
“What if the person who took the camera—”
“The killer.”
“Okay, the killer—what if he only wanted to hide it out here. You know, getting rid of the evidence.”
“Well, if we find it, then maybe you can take it to Gekas for fingerprints.”
“And if not?”
“We’ll search for a bit and leave it at that. Back to square one.”
I step into the garage. “But judging by your tone, you don’t really think he’s just trying to get rid of it.”
Charlie follows, turning to lock the door behind him. “No. I think it’s been turned on for us to find.”
“Why would he do that?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out.”
chapter 79
We walk across the dirt lot to the other house. This time, we skip the patio doors and go straight to the front of the house. I don’t like being exposed to the street and the rest of the city, and hope Charlie gets the lock open quickly.
He turns toward me, eyebrow raised. There’s a small scratch along the wood of the door jamb.
“Someone’s been here who wasn’t invited.”
He unlocks the door with his bump key and lets it swing open. We both stay on outside of the door frame, listening for movement. After a second, he walks inside. Again, I follow.
This house mirrors the first one and we move into the kitchen, careful to not bang around too much and announce our presence. There’s a piece of wood in the hallway and Charlie picks it up, holding it like a club.
This time, we go to the basement first and look down the staircase. Again, the treads are unfinished and the stairwell is open, but in this house there’s drywall up along one wall. Charlie takes the first step down and the wood groans. We wince at the sound. Not much we can do now, though, so we continue cautiously, ready for anything.
At the bottom, the smell of rot hits us hard. There’s something nasty down here. We check the corners and go into what will one day likely be a den. A hallway runs off one side of the room, leading to three closed doors.
I hate this—the whole thing feels like a trap—but I know Charlie’s going into every one of those rooms whether I’m here or not, and I’m his only backup. We go to the first door and the smell gets worse. Charlie doesn’t even wait for me to be ready and opens it quickly.
Nothing—it’s empty—and he’s on to the next.
“Wait—!”
But it’s too late and he swings it wide.
“Shit, stop,” I whisper, but he ignores me and goes into the room. The smell is horrible now and I want to puke. I’m pretty sure I hear buzzing but nothing’s going to stop him so I go too. And it’s bad.
A dog, at least what I think is a dog, lies against a wall, cut open, its guts spilling out. I can’t handle the sight and walk back out, down the hallway into the den. I take deep breaths and try to stop my lurching stomach, but it isn’t working. I vomit. I want to get out of here.
“Shepherd!”
I hear him call and wipe my mouth. I look down the hall and can’t see Charlie, but I realize that he’s opened the door to the room at the very end. “What?”
“You need to come here.”
“Can’t we just go—?”
“No, you need to come here now.”
I don’t like the way he says it—there’s an urgency I’ve never heard in his voice before, like taking a breath can wait until he pushes the words out.
I hold my breath and move down the hallway, keeping my eyes averted from the dead animal as I pass, and go into the room where Charlie is.
chapter 80
Charlie’s standing in the middle of the room, staring at the wall behind the door. I can hear the buzz of the flies swarming the dead dog in the room next door and wish it would stop. I turn to see what he’s looking at. Suddenly, I’m not breathing and cold sweat runs down my neck.
Us.
He’s looking at a collage of us—made from newspaper clippings and photos—circled and coloured with red marker—or what I hope is red marker. Underneath is written: a good beginning makes a good ending.
“What’s the hell is this?”
Charlie leans in, inspecting a particular image. “I don’t know.”
“Why are there pictures of me?”
“Something’s not right—”
“Hell, yeah, something’s not right,” I exclaim. “He’s got pictures of me. He knows who I am.”
“I’m in a few too—”
I point. “Look, that’s my address. He knows where I live.”
“I see that.”
“Why does he know where I live?”
Charlie shrugs. “He looked you up in the phone book?”
A switch flips and I punch him hard in the cheek. He stumbles, taking the blow.
“You think this is funny?” I yell.
He charges me, pushing me, and we collapse backwards. He’s short and strong, but I’m mad. He rolls over me, struggling to get on top, like a stupid wrestler. I grunt and push him back, kicking against the floor, swinging my arms at his sides. He fights to hold me down, but I’m long and wiry and throw him off balance. I climb on top and he rolls me over again.
I’m face down and he grinds my face into the cement with the flat of his hand.
“It doesn’t make sense, okay? I agree with you,” he says. “Calm down.”
I’m breathing fast and hard and I don’t want to listen. It’s like all the anger of the last two weeks is pouring out right now.
Charlie twists me in a hold. “I’m going to let you go but you have to calm the hell down. Okay?”
I don’t give in but he gets off, releasing me. I kick back but he’s too far away. I drag myself to my knees.
“Don’t you get it? It’s too neat. Too clean.”
I stare at him, still angry, but start hearing what he’s saying.
He continues, “When did he do this? This weekend? Workers probably were here until Friday. So he came in, dumped the dog in that room, and put the pictures up in here. For what reason?”
I wipe the sweat off my forehead and catch my breath. “So, what? It’s all a setup?”
“He’s trying to scare us. And right now, it’s working.”
I stare at him and see the red mark on his cheek. It will probably bruise.
“I mean, honestly, it’s good to see you got some fight in you, Anthony Shepherd. Who knew?” He looks at the wall. “But the proof ain’t in the pudding.”
I stare at him before looking at the wall myself, and my senses finally come back. I feel good—not about hurting him—but about knowing I have the ability if I need it. I stare at a picture of me in a news clipping taken sometime during the search for Sheri last Saturday. It seems so long ago. I don’t even remember seeing anyone from the press around.
I look over at my address. Seeing it up there doesn’t make me feel safe at all—and then there’s my parents and sister.
“Do you think he’ll come to our houses?”
Charlie’s left the room; I didn’t even notice.
I step out of the room to ask again—
And come face to face with the killer.
chapter 81
He stands in the hallway, hoodie pulled tight around a white, smiling mask, Charlie facedown on the ground behind him.
He rushes me, plowing into my chest. We stagger backwards and he slams me hard into the wall. The plasterboard cracks—or maybe it’s my bones—and I fall to the ground. He stomps at my head and I try to deflect, but it’s useless. I take a couple of kicks to the face and before I realize it, he’s on top of me, slamming my forehead into the cement. I’m seeing stars and I struggle to get my arm out from under me to stop him. He drops his knee full force onto my back and it knocks the wind out of my lungs. He swings again and again, fighting like an animal, and I can’t get my arms up to defend myself.
My vision blurs and I must have gone limp because at some point he’s off me and moving away. I hear Charlie yell out. I try to call to him, but it feels like my mouth is full of cotton. I push up with my arms but the hallway spins and all I see is darkness.
chapter 82
“Shepherd.”
The cold cement feels good on my face and I’d rather not open my eyes.
“Shepherd?”
I smell the rotting flesh of the dog and hear the buzz of flies. I feel my whole body rebooting from some distant place.
“Tony!”
“What?” I mumble, not moving, waiting for the pain to go away.
“You alive?’
“Maybe.”
“Well, you look like shit.”
I open my eyes to see Charlie leaning against the wall beside me. He’s got a fat cheek, most likely from me, and also a bloody lip and a cut above the eye.
“So do you.”
“What…?” He rubs his face with the back of his hand and sees the blood. “Oh.”
“Where’d he go?” I can hardly think, but it seems like that might be important.
“He took off when I went after him. I don’t know where.”
“He must have hit you pretty hard to knock you down.”
I drag myself off the ground and everything hurts. If my hangover was almost cured before, there’s no hope now. My ears ring and my whole head throbs. My face feels like someone took out my skull and used it as a basketball—I will definitely be a shade of purple mocha tomorrow.
“Actually, he pushed me down the stairs,” Charlie says, so matter-of-factly that I wonder how many other times it’s happened. “He was waiting for us.”
“That surprise you?”
“No. But it sure felt like he knew how to take us out.”
“Well, he’s been watching,” I say.
“Yeah. About that…”
“What?”
“Some of what he has about me in that room…” Charlie trails off.
“Yeah?”
“It’s like he knows me.”
“I know what you mean.”
“No, I mean he’s someone close.”
“Goes to your school?”
“Yeah, maybe.” He knocks his head back and forth against the wall between answers.
“It would explain why Sheri was the first victim.”
“But it doesn’t make sense.”
“Why?” I want to know.
“Everything he’s done—the places he’s attacked, staying on the edges of the city—have always made it seem like he’s trying to cover his tracks.”
“You said he probably followed Sheri home.”
“Maybe, but—
“Seems like he’s smarter than to work in his own backyard.”
“Yeah,” Charlie agrees.
We stare at the crack where my body split the drywall.
“You took some good hits, Rich Boy.”
“Can you quit with that, please?”
“Fine.”
I’ve never been in a fight like that, so hearing the compliment from someone who’s likely been in a few more brawls than me feels good. We sit in silence for a little longer.
“I did try chasing him.”
“Yeah?” I can’t help but be impressed that he got up after being thrown down a flight of stairs.
“Almost had him at the start, but he was too fast.”
“Did you get a look at him?”
“Not good enough.”
“What was with that mask?”
“Not sure.”
He grabs the man purse beside him and dumps it on my lap.
“His?”
Charlie nods as I open it. “It doesn’t tell us who he is, but—”
I pull out a book—Bluebeard by Kurt Vonnegut—and a map.
I unfold it.
All the victim’s schools have been circled.
“Holy crap.”
“Yeah.”
“It looks exactly like yours.”
“Yup. Exactly—” He points.
On the right-hand side, south of the industrial area, is a circle around the other school Charlie considered.
He drags himself up the wall and it looks like he’s hurting more than he’s letting on.
“Do you need a doctor?” I ask him.
“No. How about you?”
“Probably, but I’m going to give it a day or two and see. The less I have to explain to my folks, the better.”
“Just tell them I beat you up.”
I laugh and it hurts.
“You sure you’re okay?” He actually seems a little concerned.
“Yeah, I think so.” I can’t let him be the only tough guy. “He really pushed you down the stairs?”
Charlie nods as he helps me up.
“Seriously, what is your head made of?”
“I drink lots of soy milk.”
“Really?”
“No, it tastes like chalk. Now, let’s clean up what we can and get the hell out of here.”
chapter 83
This takes a little longer, checking all the kitchen and bathroom cabinets and reaching to the back of all the closets. When the camera doesn’t show up, Charlie checks his phone again to make sure it’s still here. A big blue circle surrounding the houses signals that the gps is still close, so we go back down into the stench of the basement. We check the den, opening the ceiling tiles and looking in the rafters, before moving on to the rooms. By the second room, we’ve already guessed where the killer left the camera.
“Who’s doing it?”
Charlie holds up a fisted hand. Looks like we’re doing this democratically.
“One… two… three.”
I do paper and Charlie plays rock—I win.
“Damn.”
He takes a deep breath and enters the room with the dead dog. I don’t want to watch, staying back as far as I can from the smell. Moments later, Charlie rushes out of the room, gagging and retching, his hand covered in blood—but he’s holding the camera.
Once clear of the room, he mouths, “Upstairs,” and we get as much distance as we can from the nastiness.
Charlie finds a leftover paper cup of coffee in a corner and takes it outside to wash off. As he pours it over his arm, an old cigarette falls out.
“That is all-around disgusting.”
He agrees. “Today pretty much couldn’t get any worse.”
By the time he’s washed off and scrubbed dirt over his arm to get rid of more of the stink, it’s mid-afternoon. Walking back to the car, Charlie studies the map and I open the killer’s bag to see if there’s anything else of interest.
“The fact that he’s plotted them out like this still doesn’t make sense,” Charlie says.
“Because of the connection you think he has to your school?”
Along Comes a Wolfe Page 18