Chasing Fireflies (The Morning Star Trilogy)

by Paul Seiple

  Bill Ash was rough around the edges, short and stubby in stature, but he was a good cop. A better partner. Being divorced three times, Bill's relationship advice seemed sketchy. On the job, I trusted him with my life, but the trust wasn’t strong enough to tell him about the dreams. To Bill, I was just another insomniac cop who didn’t know how to leave the job at the Twelfth.

  “I don’t have a tumor, Bill. Just too much Mountain Dew.”

  “That shit’ll kill you too. It’s like battery acid. Eat right through your insides.”

  “Like those double cheeseburgers won’t do you in,” I said, giving a slight wink.

  “Big difference, Mike. The double cheeseburgers are like forty-five minutes with Bo Derek. That Mountain Dew is like a ten minute handjob with one of the girls of Second Street. Empty calories, my friend.”

  “Someone left a package for you, Mike,” Officer Nancy Evans said cutting through the banter. “I left it on your desk.”

  “Good luck finding anything in that black hole," Bill said. “You know I was watching this documentary of the Bermuda Triangle, the Navy says it doesn’t exist. Tell that to all the people that got abducted by aliens there.”

  I ignored Bill’s insane theories on the Bermuda Triangle. He watched too many documentaries and had too many opinions. The package, a small manila envelope with the words ‘Handle With Care’ written on it, in black ink, treaded in the sea of confusion that was my desk. The writing had the same childish stroke as the letter I received at home. I didn’t want to open it. Not at work.

  “Got a secret admirer, do we?” Bill asked.

  “Looks that way.”

  I tried to accentuate my tone in a joking manner, but the twisting in my stomach that brought unpleasantness to my face drowned it out. The lump in my throat felt like I had inhaled a golf ball. My gut told me it was from the same person. Maybe a souvenir from the kill. A body part. I couldn't open it in front of Bill and invite him into the freak show that had become my life.

  "Well, tear into it. Let’s see who wants to have your babies,” Bill said.

  “I’ll open it later. I have to get this murder-suicide to Captain Raines. She’s already on my ass about it.”

  Bill snatched the envelope from my hand with the eagerness of a kid on Christmas morning. “The hell you will. Besides Captain ain’t here. I need to see who has my partner in her sights,” Bill paused. “You know I have to approve of her first.” He laughed and tore the seal on the envelope.

  I grabbed it from his stubby fingers. “I’ll open it. Could be some nudies.” A feeble attempt to inject humor.

  “Good call, Mike. I mean I’m all up for seeing a naked woman. But if there is a chance there is a photo of you swinging in all your glory in there,” he shuddered, “I’ll leave the unveiling to you.”

  The first thing that jumped out at me was a black and white photo of a girl. I knew her. She died with a swift slice across her jugular. My knees wobbled. I fell back onto my chair, causing a screech against the hardwood floor.

  “You OK? What’s in there? A paternity test?” Bill asked, picking up a stack of folders that fell from my desk.

  Beneath the photo was a blood-stained knife. Under the knife was a piece of paper with several crimson droplets splattered over it. Pain pierced through my gut like a ten-inch hunting knife.

  “What the hell is it, Mike?’

  “It’s not a love letter that’s for sure.” Actually it was a love letter — demented show of affection from an admirer pining for my attention. I couldn't hide this from Bill. “Get me some gloves and a couple evidence bags.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just get the damn gloves.”

  I took a tissue between my fingers and slid the paper away from the knife. The O’s were missing from the note just like the other letter. There was no doubt it was from the same person.

  Good afternoon, Michael. I take it you received my first letter. Did you not believe me when I said it was about to begin? Shame on you. The girl in the picture, you know her, don’t you? Her name was Sunshine. You know where to look. Tell Pipes that I said he couldn’t carry a tune even if someone tied it to his wheelchair. - Murmur

  Bill returned carrying a pair of white gloves while wearing another. “Is that a knife?”

  “Yeah. We have to go,” I said, knocking my chair on its side as I tripped over it.

  “Slow down, partner.” Bill picked up the yellowing paper. “What’s this about a first letter? Did you get another package? What the hell is a Murmur?”

  “It came to my house. I thought it was a joke. Come on, we have to go.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?” Bill grabbed his jacket and coffee.

  “I didn’t think anything of it.”

  “Where’s the letter now?”

  “I threw it away.”

  Bill stopped. His cheeks were flushed. His nose flared. Like a tea kettle about to whistle. “You threw it away? Really, Mike?”

  *****

  I drove my champagne-colored Cutlass down Third Avenue, ten miles under the speed limit. Even without a visible siren, the car flashed ‘Cops.’ I didn’t care. I still had hopes that I could find her alive. But they were minimal. I knew how this played out. And in the note he said her name was Sunshine. Speaking in past tense usually meant the worst.

  People of the streets were savvy. They scattered in all directions at the sight of the Cutlass. The ‘Fuzz’ rarely graced downtown. Cops on Third usually meant that someone was going to jail. These people were free spirits. Even if jail meant guaranteed meals and a warm place to sleep, they weren’t going to be caged.

  "There wasn't a location in the letter. How do you know you're in the right place?" Bill asked.

  "The letter mentions a man in a wheelchair that sings. Has to be that guy that kept singing 'Let my people go' after we arrested that vagrant for questioning last year."

  That was the safe answer to tell my partner. The truth was when I read the letter I saw a street sign — Baker Street. The corner of Baker and Rafferty was a hot spot for the homeless. It was the logical starting point.

  "I don't remember anyone singing," Bill said.

  "Technically, it wasn't singing. More like caterwauling." I chuckled trying to ease the visible doubt in Bill's eyes. "Remember he was singing 'Go Down Moses'?"

  “Doesn't ring a bell. You know you can tell me anything, right?”

  I nodded, never allowing my eyes to wander from the street. I needed to find Pipes. The man in the wheelchair wasn’t part of the dreams, but the gnawing in the pit of my stomach told me he had the answer to finding the girl.

  “What did the letter you got say?” Bill’s voice was weighted with agitation.

  “It was just a jumbled mess. I couldn’t make it out. The O’s were missing just like the letter today. It makes more sense to me now.”

  “You think this guy has a hard-on for the dramatic? Sounds like someone has seen too many movies. Think it’s possible that someone is just messing with you?”

  “I hope it’s just that.” A man, in a wheelchair, sitting on the corner of Baker strumming a guitar drew my attention. I pointed. “That’s him.”

  “Who? The Pipes guy?”

  I pulled the Cutlass to the corner. Bill stumbled out, and fell into bad cop mode. “You Pipes?”

  The man stopped singing the chorus to ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight.’ He made eye contact with Bill, but didn’t answer. He tried to hide the tip can by sitting the guitar in front of it.

  Bill spoke louder, grabbing the watchful eyes of a skinny red-haired man across the street. “Are you Pipes?”

  I shoved my forearm against Bill’s belly and pushed him to the side. I flashed my badge. “Pipes?”

  Pipes squinted. “Just missed him. I took over his shift.”

  “We don’t have time for your bullshit games,” Bill said.

  “Look man, I don’t need a permit to sing my songs. It’s a free country.”

  “I couldn’
t give a rat’s ass if you teach the whole goddamn world to sing…”

  I cut Bill off. “This isn’t about singing.” I showed Pipes the photo of the homeless girl. “Have you seen her?"

  “Nope, don’t know her. What’d she do?”

  Bill slammed his fist against the roof of the Cutlass. An echoing bang mimicked a gunshot and sent the red-haired gawker scattering, mumbling about pigs as he ran away. Bill turned back to Pipes, “Look asshole, she’s in trouble. We are not looking to take her to jail.”

  I placed my hand on Bill’s shoulder. “Calm down.” I looked at Pipes. “We have a reason to believe that she’s been abducted.”

  Pipes took the photo from me. He brought it close to his face and squinted. “That’s Sunshine.”

  “Do you know her real name?” I asked.

  “Just Sunshine. Nobody uses real names down here. She brightens the place…”

  Bill interrupted Pipes. “When was the last time you saw her?’

  “Yesterday.” Pipes looked me up and down. “She left with a guy that looked a lot like you. Better dresser though. But just as tall. How tall are you anyway? Giant-size? Said he was going to the Pearson building.”

  “Me?” I asked, pointing to my chest. I’m six-foot-five. And while it’s not sideshow size, it’s not that common either. My head started to swim. Through the confusion came clarity. I saw the girl. I knew her name. Ashley Harris, a problem child, who bounced from foster home to foster home before being placed in an orphanage. She was naked. Her wrists and ankles tied together with nylon cord. Her skin chilled, like a fish on ice, on the concrete floor. The only light provided by a candle’s flame. The silhouette of the killer blocked my vision.

  “Where’s this Pearson building?” Bill asked.

  She wasn’t there. I saw a sign, Redd’s Tool and Garden Shop. I took the photo from Pipes. “I know where she is. Come on.” I started running north uphill.

  *****

  The building, once a hardware store, had been abandoned for years. It wore the neglect like scars. Spider webs clung to splintered wood that boarded the broken windows. Empty wine bottles lined the storefront. A ‘No Public Restroom’ sign swayed in the fall breeze, creating a whistling as wind seeped through rusted holes that affixed the sign to fishing line. I'd heard that whistling in a dream.

  “What the hell, Mike?” Bill inhaled deeply. “How do you know she is here?” His tie hung to the right side of his stomach. The bottom two buttons of his shirt held on for dear life. “You’re in some shit you’re not telling me about.” He gasped again and put his hands on his knees.

  I didn’t answer. The front door was chained with two locks. That wasn’t the way he got in. I walked down the narrow alleyway separating the hardware store from a closed pawn shop. Broken glass littered the alley like a primitive alarm system. I watched every step. The slightest sound would startle the killer.

  “How the hell do you know she is here?” Bill whispered.

  I turned to him and placed my index finger on my lips motioning for my partner to be silent. I pointed to a piece of plywood on the ground below the window. I could see the killer prying the wood with a crowbar. “This is how he got in,” I mouthed.

  The strong scent of mold slapped me as if I were a presumptuous lover. A shattered window with a jagged border was the entry point. The other side of the window held absolute darkness. No candle. No signs of life. He could be waiting by the window — ready to end my life. Fear wasn’t an option. I crawled in. My heartbeat thumped against my chest cavity. My eyes twitched as I adjusted to the dark. Blind to what stood in front of me. Was I being watched? Stalked? I expected to be attacked. I closed my eyes and saw light.

  A candle rested on a paint-speckled workbench. Through the soft flame I saw Ashley tied up and squirming on the floor next to a stack of rusted paint cans. A man, my height, leaned over the flame, sharpening a knife. He turned to face the girl. I opened my eyes and pointed my gun. Darkness again.

  I played my cards too soon. I braced myself for an attack. The sensation of a spider web against my face led to the realization that the room was empty. No Ashley. No killer.

  “Goddammit, Mike, what’s going on?” Bill crawled through the window, beams of light from his flashlight ricocheted off the bare walls. “You can’t just go running into a situation without backup. What the hell? You don’t leave me, you understand?” Bill’s breathing was shallow from a mixture of anxiety and exhaustion, but his fatherly advice from twenty-five years of experience in homicide was loud and clear.

  I stood in a Weaver stance with my .38 locked on the workbench. The only remnants from a candle were a few specks of dried wax. He was here. “Shine the light over there,” I said, pointing to where I saw Ashley.

  Bill aimed his flashlight, lighting a corner in the room. A stack of paint cans lined the wood-paneled wall. The beam reflected off the lid of a can turned on its side.

  “She was right there,” I said, pointing my gun at the cans.

  “No one’s here, Mike. A knocked over paint can isn’t a sign of struggle. A rat could have knocked that down. Those sons of bitches are big down here.” Bill walked over to the cans and lit the concrete. “Look, no blood. All I can smell is mold. I’ve been doing this long enough to know that the smell of bleach doesn’t disappear that fast. No blood’s been spilled here. This isn’t a crime scene.”

  I rested against the workbench and placed my hand on my knee. With my other hand I traced the dried wax. “Maybe you’re right. I just had a hunch this is where he took her.”

  “Was there something in the first letter you’re not telling me? Why would you think he’d bring her here? And that’s even if we have a crime. The girl is homeless. She could be anywhere. The blood on the knife might not be human. This could be someone messing with you.”

  I shook my head, agreeing with my partner. I hoped. But I knew better.

  “You really need to get some sleep, Mike.”

  Chapter 5

  Big brother.

  Those words were etched in his mind. Murmur couldn’t enjoy the playback of the murder. “What did she mean?” He asked himself as he sat in the back of the coffee shop. Cup O’ Joe’s. It was the cops' favorite hangout. Not the best spot for the killer to frequent, but he wasn’t afraid of being recognized. He knew the past, present, and future and nowhere did it involve getting caught.

  But a sister wasn’t in the equation either. He didn’t have one, just a brother that he couldn't remember. Murmur was young when his parents abandoned him. His mind held empty blocks of time with regards to his childhood. Bad memories erased to protect the innocent. Any recalling of the time before adoption surfaced only after coaxing from his father. But there was no sister. He was sure of it.

  But why would Ashley say that? Was it a psychological punch thrown in hopes of getting him to spare her life? She seemed to accept her fate. She was just a homeless girl. She probably dodged death every day. Maybe she was tired of running. Big brother? What did it mean?

  A barista yelled out, “George, here’s your coffee.”

  Murmur stood up and walked to the counter.

  Chapter 6

  She ran, screaming through the woods, branches lashed her body — forty whacks. Her pleas bounced from tree to tree without answer. He followed behind her. There was no hurry. He gave her enough distance to keep the hope of survival alive. She couldn’t escape. They both knew her fate. But she ran like hell. He researched the location for months. The remoteness seduced him. She could scream until her throat bled. There would be no savior.

  She lost her left shoe after tripping over an exposed tree root. She fell to her knees, but didn’t bother to pick up the Gucci heel. She tore off the other shoe and kept running. With each landing, the unforgiving ground dug into her soles, tearing the flesh from the balls of her feet. A cruel stroke of irony like a killer torturing his victim until she begged for the end. It was a foreshadowing of her future. She knew it would end with her death, b
ut she kept moving. She couldn't stop running.

  He never said a word. Not one taunt. Never broke a sweat. There would come a point when her body would wear out. Give up. When the last bit of adrenaline left her soul, that’s when he would take her. He didn’t fear the confrontation of an unwilling victim. That’s not why he waited. The thought of her putting up a fight excited him. But the power of being in total control of someone’s life, knowing that she could run and run and he would always be faster was more exhilarating.

  Blood trickled down her foot mimicking the sensation of a bug crawling on her skin. Her calves tightened. Tears stopped flowing down her cheeks. She screamed, but had no voice. The chase was over. She fell to the ground. He smiled and scraped the blade over the bark of a tree.

  I choked and sat straight up in bed. I tried to breath, but the image covered me like a pillow over my face, suffocating me. I gasped, just before my breathing regulated. I ran my fingers through my hair which was drenched with sweat. The sheet clung to my frame like a body bag. The dream was more detailed. I recognized the location. I knew the woods. The pond the girl ran by. Dad used to take me fishing there.

  *****

  Fifteen years had passed since I fished the pond off Haymaker Road. Yet, I remembered the path as though it was yesterday. Moonlight played tag with the ripples in the pond. Fog hovered over the water, giving an eerie backdrop to early morning. The beam from the flashlight flickered, signaling weak batteries. I should have checked. It was too late. I only had a few hours before dawn. He would be gone by then. I listened for movement. Nothing.

  What am I doing here? She’s not here. The light flickered again. I tapped the flashlight against my palm, hoping to buy a few more minutes. This is insane. I turned to leave and stumbled over what I thought was a root. I shined the light. In the faint glow I could see that it was a combat-style boot. The type Ashley wore in the dreams.

  I was too late. Chill blanketed me like morning frost. I turned, flashing the light in all directions, creating a strobe-like effect against the trees. I stopped when I saw something pinned to an Oak with a knife. Light was fading fast. It was another letter.