by Blake Pierce
DeMarco, the hinges popped off and clattered to the ground, barely audible
over the commotion the door made as it flew inward.
Kate was glad DeMarco had done it. Kate herself had been on the verge of
wanting to do the exact same thing at the front door.
Kate fell in behind DeMarco and they entered the house. Right away, Kate
took in the smells of old wood, some sort of polish or enamel, and an overall
workshop sort of smell. The back door opened up onto a sparse kitchen that
held a strong odor of black coffee—barely noticeable over the smell of wood
and polish.
They exited the kitchen and entered a hallway that seemed to extend most
of the length of the house. They passed by a small bedroom on the right,
which DeMarco split off into. Kate fell in behind, saw the room was small
and unoccupied, and continued down the hall. A doorway appeared on her
right, partially open. She peered into the crack between the wall and the
frame. A wooden staircase led down into a dark area. The woodshop smell
seemed to come from the darkness below. Kate hit the light switch on the
wall just inside the doorway and peered down the stairway. A dingy
basement floor waited at the bottom of the stairs.
“I think I’ve found the workshop,” Kate called out.
“Kate…”
Kate paused and watched DeMarco come out of the bedroom. She held
something in her hand that made no sense at first. But then it registered and it
felt like ice forming in Kate’s veins.
DeMarco was holding a decapitated Barbie doll. Its entire nude body was
wrapped in old piano string.
“Jesus…” Kate whispered.
As DeMarco neared her and they looked down into the basement, they
both drew their weapons.
“If anyone is home, I need you to come out and make yourself known,”
Kate said. But her voice had fallen on enough empty homes in the past for
her to know they were alone in the house. Still, it made it no easier to
descend the basement stairs without knowing what awaited them below.
At the bottom of the stairs, Kate took a moment to take it all in. She found
herself standing in front of a makeshift aisle that ran between two rows of
junked pianos. It reminded her of those shows like American Pickers where
people scavenged old sheds and houses for hidden treasures. Kate didn’t
know enough about pianos to know if any of these gutted pianos were
treasures or not, but it was certainly interesting.
And a little creepy, if she was being honest.
“What the hell is all of this?” DeMarco asked as they made their way
down the little aisle.
“His projects, I suppose. If he was tuning pianos, maybe he’s reclaiming
them, too. Sort of like Barry Turner.”
“Maybe he’s been collecting piano wire for them…”
Kate had been thinking the same thing but the idea of speaking it out loud
had seemed almost like a bad omen. Still, she sauntered forward, her eyes on
the piano at the end of the row on her left. The top was opened and covered
by a tarp. It seemed to be the only one of the piano bodies that had been
touched as of late.
When she reached out for the tarp to pull it back, her mind’s eye pulled up
several terrible images, preparing itself for the worst. When she saw nothing
but piano wire and small fragments of dust inside, she was shocked.
DeMarco fell in beside her and when she did, Kate started to understand
what she was seeing. She hoped to God she was jumping to conclusions but
something inside of her—a part of her that had seen the worst in people,
sometimes down to what she would call absolute evil—knew better.
The piano was missing many strings. She recalled from her brief
introduction to the piano as a child that a piano had eighty-eight keys and
more than two hundred strings inside. While this piano was far away from
having all of its strings, the number she saw was alarming.
Not because of the number…but because each wire installed inside the
body of it contained a single strand of hair.
“Twenty-three,” DeMarco said.
“What?”
“Twenty-three strings.”
“You see the hairs?”
“I wish I didn’t. Do you think they’re all from the three women in
Frankfield?”
“I hope that’s the case,” Kate said. “My fear is that each hair is from a
different victim.”
“But…twenty-three…”
The idea hung in the air like some poisonous chemical, making it hard to
move. Kate backed away slowly, getting her speed and breath bit by bit with
each step. By the time she got to the stairs, she was nearly running.
“Where are you going?” DeMarco called, still frozen by the piano and its
secrets.
“We have to figure out where he is.”
“How?”
But Kate was already up the stairs and barely heard the question. She
dashed into the bedroom DeMarco had already checked but found it useless
—though there was another wired Barbie in the floor. When she ran out of
the room and toward what she assumed would be the living room area, she
nearly collided with DeMarco as she came out of the basement.
Twenty-three, Kate thought as she hurried into the living room. Twenty-three strings, twenty-three hairs…God, please don’t let my hunch be right…
please…
She entered the living room and found it oddly neat. There was a single
recliner and a loveseat, a coffee table, and a flat-screen TV sitting on a low
entertainment center. There was an address book on the coffee table, and a
wireless landline phone sitting on a small end table by the love seat.
Kate scooped up the address book, knocking off a few magazines in the
process— Guitar Magazine, Orchestral, Entertainment Weekly. She thumbed
through the address book, stopping at the H section. Little jolts of electricity
coursed through her when she saw listings for Hopkins, Karen and Hix,
Marjorie. Their addressee were written beneath the names in a very neat
handwriting. There were two more names on the H pages but they were not
local. One was from Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Another was from
Engle, Ohio.
“Oh my God,” Kate said, as she started to understand that perhaps she had
been right.
Twenty-three …
She handed DeMarco the book, letting her come to her own conclusions.
When she did, a folded piece of notebook paper partially slid out of the back
cover. Kate took it, unfolded it, and saw several names. Three were familiar:
Karen Hopkins, Marjorie Hix, Meredith Lowell.
They were all crossed out. Above their names, two others were crossed out
in harsh red marks.
The next name on the list was Anna Forester. Her number was beside it.
Kate wasted no time. She pulled out her cell phone and called the number.
Even as the phone started to ring, her gut tightened as she was somehow certain no one would answer. And then another number started barreling
through her head, one that made her feel sick.
Twenty-four…
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Anna Forester was folding her husband’s jeans when it occurred to he
r
that in about a week or so, her daughter would be folding little onesies. Anna
could barely remember what it was like to wash those tiny little baby clothes
and part of her badly missed it. She decided right then and there that she was
going to be one of those grandmothers who spoiled the absolute hell out of
her grandchildren.
As she set the jeans on her husband’s pile of clothes and reached for one
of her blouses, the piano tuner spoke up from the other room. Anna supposed
it was her fault; she had been overly chatty at first and now he seemed to not
want to shut up.
“They got any names picked out for your grandchild?”
“None yet,” she answered, having to raise her voice to a near shout to be
heard from the laundry room. She had no idea why, but there was something
off-putting about the fact that he was yelling at her from elsewhere in the
house, even if it was to ask random questions. It almost seemed as if he was
trying to make sure he always knew where she was.
“A boy or girl?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes, now good and tired of having this conversation in a
borderline shouting match. “They want to be surprised!”
“Aww, that’s nice,” he responded.
Was it just her imagination, or did he sound closer now? She cocked her
head, curious and a little upset. Was he seriously moving through her house?
Was he some sort of thief? Was he some sort of—
Her thought was interrupted by the ringing of her phone. Her ring tone
was the little catchy scale in Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds,” a reminder
not to get pissed off when unexpected phone calls interrupted her day.
She reached for her back pocket as she stepped out of the laundry room.
As she entered the kitchen, she pulled the phone from her pocket and was
very confused for a moment. This made no sense. The name on the caller ID
was something she had put in just a few days ago. It read: Piano Tuner Guy.
“Umm…” she said into the kitchen.
She was weirded out to the point of being a little scared. Was he actually
calling from inside the house? She could hear him moving around in the office, probably thinking of some other question to ask. Instead of walking
out to see what was going on, she remained in the kitchen and answered the
call. As she did, some primal part of her brain kicked in and she reached for
the laundry room door handle.
She answered the call. “Hello?”
“Anna Forester?” a woman asked. She sounded hurried and a little
frightened.
“Y…Yes. Who is this?” Fear clutched at her heart until she found it hard
to breathe. Something was very wrong; it was a realization that started to
settle in on her like drying cement.
“I need you to remain calm as I reveal this information to you and as I ask
you some questions. I’m Kate Wise, an FBI agent here in Frankfield. With a
simple yes or no, I need you to tell me if there is currently a man in your
home that is there to tune a piano.”
The dread tightened around her heart and she felt the need to scream. She
fought it back, though, and let out a croaky-sounding “Yes.”
“Are you in the same room with him?”
“No.”
“Good. Get somewhere where you can close a door between the two of
you.”
“What is—”
“Just do as I say. I’ll tell you what I can as you move.”
“Okay…”
But just as she said that, the tuner appeared in the entryway to the kitchen.
It was almost as if he knew the phone call was about him. He regarded her
with a bit if suspicion, no doubt alerted by the look of terror on her face. He
took a single step into the kitchen, the stern look on his face an indication that he knew something was up. He held a single length of piano wire in his
hands, holding it like a piece of rope he was about to tie into a knot.
“Get into another room and close the door,” the agent said in her ear,
though her voice sounded as if it was a million miles away.
Anna realized then that no matter which way she went, the tuner could
easily cut her off. The kitchen island sat in the center of the room, the only
thing between them. If she went to the left, toward the laundry room, he
could easily cut her off. If she ran to the right, there was the hallway and
three rooms to choose from: the master bedroom, the powder room, and the guest room.
“Are you okay?” the agent asked in her ear.
“No.” It came out shaky. As if she were a wounded lamb, the tuner took
another step forward. The smile on his face spoke of his intentions and
suddenly, Anna wondered if she would ever get to meet her grandchild at all.
Knowing that she had to move quickly, she started left, acting as if she
was heading for the laundry room. The tuner bit hard and started in that
direction, too. When she saw him moving, Anna reversed direction and
headed to the right. She sprinted out of the kitchen and into the hallway. She
heard the tuner let out a curse behind her and then the sound of him slamming
into the kitchen island as he quickly changed course.
“Ms. Forester, are you okay?”
“He’s coming after me,” she squeaked, headed for the bedroom.
“Okay, you close the door and lock it. I’m on my way. Maybe two or three
minutes. If you can—”
That was the last thing Anna heard. As she entered the bedroom and
turned to shut the door, the piano tuner was there. He reached out and
grabbed her by the shoulder. Anna reached out to slap his hand away but he
blocked it easily. He frowned a bit as he darted out his right hand in an
inexperienced punch. It caught her in the jaw and Anne’s head rocked back.
As it did, the man reached out and grabbed her hair. He pulled her to him
with such force that her feet came off of the ground. Her scalp felt like
someone had set it on fire.
She screamed, dropping the phone to the floor. She watched it dumbly, as
if through someone else’s eyes, while the piano tuner wrenched her around
and trapped her neck in the crook of his arm. She fought against it and, for
just a moment, thought she had managed to free herself.
But the pressure of his arm was replaced by something else—some thinner
pressure that seemed to lightly sink into her flesh. She tried to scream but
found that she could not get much of anything through her throat—just a little
squeak of terror.
She started to choke right there in the doorway of her bedroom. She felt
him trying to pull her back slightly, pulling her feet off of the floor. She knew
if he succeeded, that was the end of it. She’d be dead. She flailed, feeling the
wire around her neck tighten. She did her best to stay calm, but dread was
flooding her mind. Somewhere in the flood there was the smallest little speck of reason, and it told her that she had only one chance to escape this. He was
pulling slightly up still, but not back. The tuner seemed perfectly fine to strangle her right there in her doorway.
And that was the single mistake he had made. Anna, still flailing, kicked
her right foot out and found the doorframe. She then kicked away from it,
putting every bit
of strength she had into it. It wasn’t very hard, but it was
enough to cause the tuner to lose his balance just slightly. As he tried to
compensate, Anna brought her knees up, allowing her weight to sag down.
For just an instant, the tightness around her throat was immense but the tactic
caught the tuner off guard. This displaced weight caused him to stumble
forward. As he did, he lost his grip on her.
Anna knew she should probably lash out or attack or something…but the
call from the FBI agent had clued her in to how dangerous this man could be
—as if his attempt to strangle her just now had not been enough. So the
moment Anna was free, she ran.
She darted toward the kitchen, intending to hit the back door, go down the
back porch steps and to her neighbor’s house. Her phone was on the floor in
the bedroom and while they did have a gun in the house, it was in a safe in the top of her closet—directly behind the would-be killer.
So she ran for the kitchen. She made it three strides down the hallway
before she felt his weight slam into her back. Anna went sailing forward,
catching herself on the island in the kitchen. Pinned between the tuner and
the island, she felt an explosion of pain radiate through her chest. Undaunted,
she grabbed for the drawer to her right, over the ledge of the island’s counter.
In doing so, she knocked the cup of coffee she had been drinking from the
island. It shattered on the floor, and lukewarm coffee soaked her left pants
leg.
She had struck the island so hard that the tuner had bounced slightly off of
her, equally jarred by the impact. This allowed her a split second to reach into
the drawer she had managed to open, looking for the butcher’s knife. In the
back of her head, she reminded herself that the stupid thing was dull; it was a
complaint she made every time she used it, hoping her husband would show
some initiative and sharpen it.
But as her hand fell on the handle, she figured it she stabbed hard enough,
it would surely sink in. All she had to do was—
He grabbed the arm reaching for the knife and twisted it hard. She tried to wrench it away but he pulled her to him. As she slammed into his chest and
he tried to wrap an arm around her again, she desperately threw her right
hand out, clenched in a small fist. It landed right across his brow, not hard,