by Paul Cave
Profit shuffled along the short passageway, passing the open door to his kitchen and the closed one to the closet. He stopped at the front door. A spy hole had been cut out at head height. He peered through. The magnifying glass revealed an empty landing on the other side in a fishbowl effect. Nobody stood on the opposite side baring elongated features. The landing appeared empty. Perhaps he’d been wrong and the sound had come from elsewhere? Turning his back, he traced his steps back the way he had come.
He re-entered the living room. The snow battered against the window in another noisy torrent. Over at the window, he looked out into the darkness and saw trees bent over with the burden of ice and wind, stooped low, like old men in a Lowry painting.
Eugene was just about to return to the comfy chair when the room turned surprisingly cold. He shivered, the night finding its way inside. The atmosphere changed too: an inexplicable shift in the air. He spun around. He took a short step towards the hallway, silently, instinct warning him to be cautious.
As he entered the hallway, the pages of a calendar, which was pinned to the wall opposite, fluttered slightly. Eugene frowned. Like the fingers of an apparition, a draught scraped cold nails across his cheek, forcing him to look the other way. The door to his apartment was ajar.
Quickly, he backed out of the hallway and into the lounge. His arm reached towards the mantel and gnarled fingers wrapped themselves tight around the boxing trophy. Consisting of a brass statuette on a solid marble base, the trophy weighed heavily in the old pro’s hand. He returned to the hall with his weapon ready.
The door was barely open. A narrow strip of darkness ran down one side. Profit stepped closer. The draught howled through the gap like a pack of distant wolves. The trophy rose above his head. Belying his age, he took a couple of quick steps forward and pulled the door open.
The dark landing beyond jumped out at him. Nothing remotely menacing lay in wait. No blood-red eyes of hungry beasts or looming spectres – just the winter’s chill snapped at his bare ankles. The weight in his hand dropped to his side.
He felt foolish now, understanding that he must not have secured the lock properly on his entrance. He chided himself for being a stupid old fool. Turning around, he stepped back inside. And as he did so, a dark figure rose from the shadows of the open door opposite, glided effortlessly and silently up behind the old man, then reached out with one gloved hand.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Carter hit the brakes, swerved around the oncoming traffic and then pushed the gas all the way to the floor. The Sedan tore past other vehicles, leaving them behind in a blur. The blue and red beacon flashed in a wide arc and the siren screamed out its warning. This was no covert operation. Carter wanted everyone to hear him coming.
“Almost there,” he said, speaking to Joseph.
“Hurry,” Joseph replied, from the passenger side.
The heavy evening traffic began to filter away as they entered a more secluded part of the neighbourhood. The squat buildings of commerce gave way to tall apartment buildings.
“Which one is it?” Carter asked, understanding that the old pro lived in one of the high-rises.
“That one, over there,” Joseph directed, pointing to the furthest tower. Unlike the rest, this one seemed to stand in total darkness – even the lights from the stairwell appeared to be doused. Joseph’s imagination ran wild. “They’ve cut the power,” he said, picturing a gloved hand with wire cutters.
“Calm down, Joseph,” Carter urged.
Joseph took a deep breath, pushing his fear all the way down to the pit of his stomach. There, it thrashed about like a fiery serpent.
“You sure you don’t have a number to call?” Carter asked.
“No phone,” Joseph replied. “Not even a landline.”
“How the hell does this guy live?”
“Quietly.”
“I hope you’re right, Joseph. I hope you’re right.”
The detective threw the vehicle in a large arc. Twin headlights cast long shadows and the flashing lights granted them macabre faces. The siren gave them voices, screaming voices, which called out an impending doom.
Carter brought the vehicle to a halt. Tyres screeched noisily and the Sedan slid across the wet blacktop, coming to rest at an awkward angle. The detective was out in an instant. Joseph climbed out unsteadily, relying heavily on the door for assistance.
“You okay?” Carter asked, stepping around the vehicle, ready to help him.
“Fine. Go. I’m right behind you.”
The detective turned and headed towards the base of the apartment building. He arrived to find a steel doorway at the bottom. A glass window had been cut into the thick metalwork, reinforced by wire mesh. Access would by granted by one of two ways. First, the simple use of a key; secondly, by activating one of the telecom buttons, which were mounted on the wall opposite.
Carter reached out. His finger stopped a few inches short. “Which number?” he called to Joseph.
“Four-D!” Joseph yelled back.
Carter pushed hard against the button.
Nothing.
No indication of operation: no buzz, beep, bell, nothing.
Carter waited impatiently. He allowed a few seconds to pass before jabbing at the button again. Now worried for the safety of the old man and the boy, he began pressing buttons at random.
The speaker before him crackled to life.
“Yeah?” asked a voice full of annoyance.
“Police. Open up. This is an emergency.”
“Really?” the voice questioned, the single word laced with suspicion.
“Hurry!” Carter ordered.
“Listen – asshole, you think that one hasn’t been tried before?”
“This is Detective Thomas Carter from the Fourteenth Precinct. Now open up.”
“Yeah – well. This is Jack Johnson, recently removed unnecessarily from the crapper! Now go away!”
The speaker fell silent.
Joseph reached the doorway, panting slightly, but eager to get inside.
“No answer?” he asked, fearfully.
“Nothing.”
“What now? We need to get inside.”
“I know,” Carter acknowledged. He took another look at the small window, and then turned to Joseph. “You keep trying Four-D, and as many others as you can.” He took a step away.
“Where’re you going?” Joseph asked.
“Trust me.”
The detective quickly headed back the way he’d come. He was gone for just a minute, no longer, but it seemed like an eternity to Joseph.
“No luck?” he asked, finding the doorway still tight.
“No.”
“Stand back,” Carter ordered. His arm rose from the darkness, and the limb appeared to be two sizes too long.
“Wait,” Joseph said, seeing the riot shotgun. “What if we’re wrong? Over-reacting and they’re merely asleep.”
“Then I guess they’re in for a rude awakening.”
Joseph reached out to press Profit’s number again. “One last time,” he explained.
The weapon stayed poised.
Finally, unexpectedly, the speaker crackled and the old pro’s voice came to them, metallic and distant sounding, over-masked by the hiss of interference, but Profit’s nonetheless.
A smile started to form on Joseph’s face.
The single word that followed dropped the smile like a dead weight.
“Help..!”
Carter dragged Joseph out of the way. He pushed his face against the glass window, making sure no one was standing behind or nearby. The window was pitch-black, with not a glimmer of light insight. He took a step back, brought the weapon up, pressing the muzzle against the window. He paused for just a second, now understanding that discharging a weapon within city limits would lead to a mountain of paperwork. Yet the urgency of the situation outweighed any promise of a late evening filling in forms.
He pulled the trigger.
The window im
ploded, glass and wire disappearing instantly. The hallway beyond it lit up spectacularly for just an instant before the gunfire extinguished itself.
Now, a crude hole had been blown into the glass. Taking a short step back, Carter fired again, widening the opening. He jabbed his hand through and hastily felt around for the inside latch.
“Got it,” he cried, pushing open the door.
He fell through in his haste to get inside. Joseph found him on one knee, crouched in darkness.
“Hang on,” Joseph said. He ran his hand along the surface of the wall, finding a light switch. The corridor came to life in a blaze of harsh white lights. No doors were situated on this level, just a tight hallway with stairs leading into darkness, and an old elevator with a crisscross safety door pulled tight.
Carter climbed to his feet. “Stay here,” he said, taking the first of the steps.
“Like hell,” Joseph replied.
“There’s no time,” Carter explained. He paused, reached under his jacket and produced his handgun. “Here,” he said, tossing the weapon towards Joseph, who caught it with unsteady hands.
“You know how to use that?” Carter asked.
“Yeah,” Joseph lied.
Carter turned his back and started to take the stairs three at a time. The steps gave way to a short landing with four different doorways. Despite the amount of noise his entrance had made, not a single glimmer of curiosity had presented itself. All four doors were locked tight. Sensible living, Carter thought, as he tackled the next flight of steps. Levels 2 and 3 were the same: four closed doorways, offering no hint of life. Was the whole block vacant, or the occupants inside hard of hearing?
Level 4 was entirely different.
Two doors stood ajar, both interiors illuminated slightly by the stairwell lights. Carter reached the first. No number on the doorway. He took a long stride to the next. Again, only frayed screw holes could be found. Wasting no more time, he entered the nearest door.
A dark hallway stretched out before him. He yelled, “Police!” and then, with the shotgun levelled out in front of him, quickly walked the short distance to the first doorway. The interior opened out to a small, compact kitchen. Nothing there. Move on.
The door on his right opened out to a living room. An empty sofa, chair and everything seemingly intact gave no indication of a struggle. The next room was filled with the stench of blood. A figure outlined by bright lights lay on the bed, beneath thick, blood-soaked sheets. Twin reading lamps illuminated the ghastly sight. A shock of white hair played starkly against the deep running red that had begun to pool around the victim’s severed neck. In seconds, Carter’s analytical mind played out what had happened. The killer had sneaked in undetected and slit the old man’s throat whilst he lay sleeping. Then, the switch had been thrown, to reveal the killer had made a mistake.
This wasn’t Eugene Profit.
Carter tore back the way he’d come, passing quickly through the second doorway. Here, he could see the telltale signs of a struggle. A calendar had fallen to the floor, its pages spread wide like the wings of a downed bird. A boxing trophy lay against the wall, the statuette’s leading left hand holding it upright.
However, the most obvious thing was the handset to the intercom. It dangled uselessly on its coiled wire, swinging gently, dark liquid glistening off the plastic surface.
Blood.
Carter bellowed, “POLICE!” He repeated the process he’d followed in the first apartment. First checking the kitchen. Then the living room. Both were empty. Next came the bedroom. He held his breath, prayed silently that what lay beyond wouldn’t shock him to his core, and then stepped inside.
The bed in the centre of the room was unoccupied. The sheet lay crumpled in a heap at the foot. Similarly, Eugene Profit lay slumped on the furthest side of the bed. Carter pulled open a closet door – nothing there. He ignored the old man for now, concentrating on the last remaining room. The doorway to a washroom offered the last chance of concealment. The detective pushed open the door and dropped to one knee, brought the shotgun up to head height. A showerhead dripped heavy drops of water into the empty white tub.
“Jake?” he called.
The boy didn’t respond.
Carter slipped back outside, first checking that neither of the other two doors had opened. They hadn’t. He rushed back to the landing. It was then that he heard the whir and whine of old machinery. He pressed his face against the dirty window, cut into the elevator door. The drop of cables before him twitched as the booth continued its descent. He tried to prise open the door, but the mechanical safety held it firm.
Carter returned to the stairwell. He filled his lungs to capacity and then bellowed, “JOSEPH. HE’S HEADED YOUR WAY!”
***
Joseph stood back from the booth, the whine of machinery announcing its imminent arrival. He heard Carter cry out to him and his hand tightened around the gun. The weapon felt surprisingly heavy and the grip had turned slick with his sweat. He braced himself, ready for confrontation. The bottom of the car appeared, and Joseph gritted his teeth.
This was it.
He panicked then, realising that this was beyond anything he’d ever experienced. What the hell, he’d never even held a gun before – let alone fired one! He checked the weapon, now aware that it must have a safety. True, a small notch was fixed to the side of the weapon. Joseph flicked it with his thumb. Damp with sweat, his thumb brushed uselessly over the switch. He tried again, and this time it clicked over.
The elevator arrived.
Through the dirty window, Joseph watched as a gloved hand pulled open the crisscross metal barrier. It slid open with a squeal of dry hinges. Next, the main door opened and the attacker from the hospital appeared.
Clamped roughly under one arm, limp and lifeless, was Jake.
The guy looked up, surprised to see Joseph there with a gun pointed in his face. Cowardly, he pulled Jake up in front of him, using the unconscious boy as a human shield.
“Let my boy go!” Joseph demanded.
The face behind Jake’s grinned with unholy glee.
“Let him go!”
The guy changed his grip on Jake, using just one arm, tightly across his midriff, to hold him in place.
“Shoot and boy will die,” the killer said.
The slightest glimmer of hope, relief, offered itself to Joseph. Jake must still be alive, or the killer’s threat would be meaningless.
“Just let him go,” Joseph pleaded. He could not – would not – shoot. Not this close to Jake. “Please…” he pleaded.
The killer smiled to reveal his film star’s perfect white teeth.
“What do you want?” Joseph asked, trying to buy time, desperate to find an opening, anything to pull his boy to safety.
The killer’s smile widened. “I want you.”
“For what?”
“This.” The killer’s other hand appeared holding a handgun. And, even with Joseph’s limited knowledge of firearms, he still recognised the silencer that had been attached to the barrel.
“What is this?” Joseph asked, this insane predicament beyond his understanding.
The guy just shrugged apologetically. “Simple case of wrong place, wrong time. Nothing personal.”
“My boy?” Joseph asked, fear for himself the furthest thing from his mind.
“Don’t worry,” the killer began, “he didn’t see my face. I’m not a monster.”
“Then hand him over.”
“Sorry, Joseph. This is where it ends for you.”
“Why? What have I done?”
The killer smiled his bright-white smile again. “You have seen Yurius’s face. Not good.”
This acknowledgement of a name – Yurius – sent a shiver down Joseph’s spine. Until now, the killer had been an enigma. Something to be feared, yes. But a figure that could be vanquished, like a fictional creature, nonetheless. Now, though, this inclusion of a name added another dimension to the killer – substance and authen
ticity – that made him far more menacing and real.
“But I hadn’t seen you,” Joseph said, referring to the previous night.
“Couldn’t take chance. Too dangerous.”
“What?” Joseph asked, needing to know answers.
“Too dangerous,” the killer said again. His gleaming teeth disappeared, replaced now by the macabre slash of his mouth. The silenced weapon rose high, towards Joseph’s face.
Joseph just stood there powerless.
“FREEZE!” Carter yelled.
The killer tensed noticeably. His weapon wavered fractionally, his attention now split between the two of them.
“Drop the weapon,” Carter ordered. He pumped a round into the shotgun. “Do it now and nobody gets hurt.”
The Russian’s eyes stayed focused on Joseph, but his arm whipped around towards Carter. The muzzle coughed gently, two, three times. The attack caught both Joseph and Carter off guard. Carter ducked low as the bullets tore into the wall above him. Each was wide of its mark yet sufficiently close enough to knock Carter out of his rhythm.
The killer’s weapon spun back towards Joseph’s head. Joseph had little time to think. Reacting instinctively, in the only way he knew how to, he threw a short jab towards the guy’s face. It was fast, desperation and fear giving it more speed and power than expected. At the same time, he slipped to his left and delivered a right hook. In contrast to the lightning fast left jab, this punch was weak and slow. Still, the small revolver that was clutched in his right hand gave it added weight.
Yurius’s head rocked back and his gun went off, his finger jerking spasmodically around the trigger.
Mercifully, the bullet tore harmlessly over Joseph’s shoulder. Instinctively, he shut his eyes, the bright fire blinding him momentarily. The Russian barrelled past him, shouldering him out of the way with ease, which spun Joseph around before sending him crashing to the floor. When Joseph opened his eyes, the lobby was empty.
Neither his son nor the killer were anywhere to be seen.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The old Ford bucked and swayed like a crazed mustang. Yurius gripped the steering wheel with both hands in an attempt to keep this wild beast under his control. The road was little more than a series of potholes and cracked asphalt. Up ahead he could see only the occasional light, which streaked across the windscreen, warped and elongated by the greasy glass surface.