I Can Barely Breathe

by August Verona

  “So how’s the leg?” Carver asked Tom. “I see you’re still hobblin’ around.”

  “It fuckin’ hurts. But it’s getting better. I’m doing the exercises every day.”

  “Good. Those should help.”

  From Kattic’s front breast pocket of his button-up shirt, a device alarmed, three chimes of a bell, each a different note. He pulled out his communicator and glanced at its lit LCD screen.

  “Uniforms are taping off the scene now,” he announced.

  Carver laughed and glanced at Tom. “You’re a uniform. You made detective. Why aren’t you dressing the part?”

  “I was only promoted last week. Technically I’m not a detective until next payday. So, on Tuesday, I’ll wear a suit.”

  “The chief’s orders?” Carver asked with a smile.

  “Yes. Dad’s a hard-ass.”

  “We’ve been investigating these bizarre cases for seven months now, minus your time in the hospital. He should know you’re ready,” Carver insisted, pulling out a cigarette.

  “He does. That’s why I got the job.”

  Carver flicked his lighter and burned the tip of his smoke, just as the squad car pulled onto the paved highway and headed northeast. Their destination lay halfway between Sorrow’s Sky and Cosmos, but it was technically SSPD’s jurisdiction. The song on the radio ended, and a news bulletin came on. The DJ said, “In today’s news, the infamous serial killer, who has been stalking Cosmos’s streets for beautiful young women, is still at large. Police are confident the suspect is male but wouldn’t comment on any specific patterns he follows or details related to any of the specific cases. Anyone with information is encouraged to call the CPD.”

  “Helluva case, huh?” Tom said.

  “Yeah,” Carver replied.

  “I heard he likes women in dresses and skirts. They say he’s gotten about five of them,” Kattic added.

  Six, Carver thought with a discrete grin.

  After a four-mile cruise they pulled up to the main entrance and drove under a fancy old metal frame that read Arpac Hills Cemetery. They took a narrow paved road, and the headstones on both sides seemed to go on for miles. Thousands of names were chiseled into the polished, yet dated markers.

  Tall trees with thick trunks and bright yellow leaves complemented the area and prevented the sun’s light from directly entering the sacred ground. Branches stretched and twisted like vines reaching for the heavens. Carver cranked his window all the way down and hung out his elbow. He noticed a few mourners, but, for the most part, the place was vacant.

  Up ahead they saw the yellow crime tape tied to a few trees. Tom parked the car, and, through the windshield, they could see their fellow officers huddled around something in the grass. The three investigators exited the squad car, and Tom did his best to slowly stretch his injured leg before walking on it. Carver stomped out what was left of his cigarette and then ducked under the crime tape. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and stretched them over his hands, while his partners both did the same. It was routine for them, habit.

  “Let me see, guys,” Tom said, scooting the other uniforms out of the way.

  Dropped in a puddle of blood-covered grass was a severed arm.

  “Where’s the rest?” Carver asked, following the blood trail into the nearby trees with his gaze.

  “You wanna go in there?” Tom asked, eyeing the forest.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got first.” Kattic kneeled down to the appendage. “It’s obviously a male victim due to the thick hair and the Zodiac analog wristwatch, still ticking. Damn, no time of death. And the blood leads into the forest. Arm looks to have been ripped from the socket, not cut.”

  “You know what this is,” Carver said, as Kattic stood up.

  Kattic nodded. “I want to be sure. If there’s a body, we need to find it.”

  “Fine. We’ll check the forest. Who’s going in?” Carver asked.

  “You are,” Kattic answered.

  “Why me?”

  “Because you can run faster than I can.”

  Carver shook his head. “If you see or hear anything, you yell to me, he demanded.”

  “Just go in deep enough to find where the blood trail ends,” Tom said to Carver, shifting his weight off his bad leg. “It can’t be too far.”

  Carver stepped over some small shrubs and slowly entered the trees. He pulled at the collar of his suit jacket, adjusting it nervously. The canopy above was thick, and he could hear crickets and birds chirping simultaneously. His shoes snapped some twigs as he ventured in, leaving behind the comfort of his coworkers.

  He watched the wet red trail and followed it closely. It covered dirt, leaves, rocks and small dry, dead branches. Carver felt alone. The woods had an earthy smell to them, like fresh dirt, a smell he knew all too well. The slight breeze he had felt before entering was nonexistent.

  As he brushed past a berry bush and sidestepped some poison oak, he heard a faint rustle of leaves in the distance. He stopped in his tracks, while his eyes scanned the woodlands for any movement. The blood trail was thinning out, and, just as he was about to backtrack, something caught his eye. He kneeled down near a wild lilac shrub and peered under it.

  “I got a pair of ripped pants,” he yelled back, as he examined them. He pulled out a metal pen and used it to lift the pants open a bit. “There’s still some leg meat inside them.”

  “Bag it!” Tom yelled.

  Carver pulled a large evidence bag from his suit pocket and carefully wadded the pants into a ball, then stuffed them in and sealed the top closed, accidentally dropping the pen to the forest floor. He looked around quickly and saw the trail ended where he stood. As he bent to pick up his pen, it rose from the dirt and hovered five feet off the ground. He grabbed it from the air and slid it into his pocket. “I’m coming out!”

  Shivers traveled up Carver’s spine, as he turned his back to the forest. He moved quickly to rid himself of the heebie-jeebies that felt like fingers on his shoulders. Suddenly a branch broke nearby, and the snap echoed off the other trees and rang in his ears. “I got movement back here!” he yelled to his coworkers.

  The guns in every officers’ holster slipped out and free floated in front of them, spinning slowly. At the same time, keys yanked at the officer’s belts, wanting to detach and rise, but jingling, frozen in midpull instead. A soda can near Carver raised to his full height. It spun fast, spitting drops of soda over his black polished shoes.

  Tom grabbed his floating sidearm and did his best to limp his way into the forest, giving his partner some much-needed backup.

  After all, Carver had no way of defending himself, should he be attacked. The SSPD didn’t issue side arms to special investigators, only cops. With this in mind, he reached out and gripped the soda can, then held it in the ready position over his right shoulder. Feeling a bit ridiculous, he dropped the can to the ground. It spun a bit, then shot back into the air.

  Tom met Carver at the trunk of a toppled dead tree, and he motioned for Carver to go on ahead of him. Tom scanned the area, as he followed close behind his friend.

  As Carver broke free of the tree line, a scream from far back in the woods cut through the autumn air, the hair on everyone’s arms standing tall. The quiet thud of eight pistols hitting the grass at the same time stole everyone’s attention, but only for a second. The disturbing yell wasn’t a sound that could have been pushed from human lungs, and everyone knew it. It was warm and fast, sharp and animalistic.

  “Let’s go, Tom! They won’t warn you twice!” Kattic called.

  The armed officer exited the shrubbery, his face ghostly white. He turned to the uniforms. “Pack up this shit! Bag the arm. You know the drill.” He pulled the gloves from his hands. “This wasn’t a homicide.”

  “What was it?” a young uniformed cop asked.

  “A feeding.”

  Carver and Kattic walked briskly to the cruiser, while Tom did his best to keep up. Once safely inside the vehicle, the
y locked the doors, then quickly left the area.

  Chapter Three

  Nine Thirty-Two

  October 13. The sun was down. It was dark. Carver, with a flashlight in hand, opened the big red door to the big red barn that sat behind his house. It was tidy inside. The floor was dirt, and the area was empty except for a small dusty workbench that sat in a corner. He used a match to light a lantern, then hung the glowing light source on a rusty nail that stuck out from one of the support beams.

  Almost 80 percent of a moon sat in the night sky; Carver could see it through the cracks in the roof. The temperature was a bit lower than he was used to for the current time of year, despite the fact that it was fall. The air that exited his lungs was visible in the subtle flame’s light. Five freshly dug graves lined the back wall. Carver picked up a shovel and began to dig number six. As he chipped away at the hard ground, he thought back to how good the blonde’s body had felt on his. She was an easy target. If only all his kills were that simple.

  After digging a shallow grave big enough for the girl’s body, Carver stepped from the barn and immediately felt a cold wind on his skin. He walked to the building’s darkest side. The moon cast the barn’s shadow over the girl’s covered corpse. He picked up the white and red sheet and carried her inside to her final resting place. As he laid her down next to the hole, he pulled the bloody sheet from her body. She was still beautiful. Her face had lost a lot of color, but her natural good looks still shone through.

  Trying to be decent, he closed her eyes. Then slid his hands under her shirt and over her breasts. He squeezed them. An urge to masturbate rushed through him, and he felt himself get hard. A beautiful girl, dead or alive, was one thing Carver Thorton could not resist. His heart pounded in his chest; it was the same sensation he always felt just before a kill. Carver unbuttoned his pants and pulled himself out; he stroked his dick just inches from her lifeless body. He focused on her breasts and squeezed them with his free hand.

  It didn’t take long before his DNA was all over her face, lips and neck. He felt refreshed and was glad he got more use out of her body before disposing of it. Not wanting to waste any more time, the young killer stood up and forcefully kicked her into the hole, then shoveled the fresh dirt back into the grave.

  When the job was finished, Carver took the sheet he had used to cover her and threw it in an old metal trash can just off his back patio. He poured some lighter fluid over it and then dropped in a burning match. Everything was in its place. He was ready for another victim.

  ***

  Kattic climbed the old wooden staircase that wrapped around the interior of Sorrow Sky’s clock tower. It was dark inside and smelled of dust and cold.

  He had been renting the tower from the city, putting a little extra cash in the pockets of the city council members, who, upon learning of the special investigator’s desire to temporarily reside in the town’s historic landmark, jumped at the opportunity. The terms were Kattic would pay one hundred dollars every two weeks, report any mechanical glitches with the clock’s oversized mechanisms and in his free time, repair the upper section’s broken out windows—which he had finished the first week he took up residency.

  Once at the top, he could see the giant gears and the clock face with its hands at 9:32. He had lit a few candles, not only for light but for warmth as well. The good thing about being in the top section of the tower was that what little warm air was inside rose to that level.

  His bed consisted of a small mattress that lay directly on the floorboards and an assortment of large blankets, complemented by a few puffy, white pillows. A wooden desk with a matching chair took up about one- third of his small area. Above the desk was a window that looked out over the town of Sorrow’s Sky. He pulled out the chair and sat down, then reached in one of the desk drawers and retrieved a fountain pen and a small bottle of ink.

  His fingers unraveled the small leather tie that kept his black journal closed up. He opened it to the first of about 150 empty pages and composed a letter.

  Sorry it’s taken me so long to write. Though, for you, I suppose this message is instantaneous. I’m in good health and have managed to infiltrate the local police station, where I work daily as a special investigator. It has been amazing to witness our town’s history in the making. The chaotic incidences are growing worse. No clear cause as to the origin of the merger. More on that later.

  Wish me luck,

  Kattic

  He closed up the book and stood from his chair, jimmied loose a small board from the wall near his desk and shoved the journal inside the hole. Carefully Kattic replaced the board to his secret spot, hiding the book from anyone and everyone.

  Chapter Four

  Push

  October 16. Tom pulled the cruiser to the curb and put it in Park. He, Carver and Kattic got out and walked up the sidewalk to a large two-story white Queen Anne Victorian-style home. Carver noticed Tom’s limp seemed worse. All three men were wearing casual suits with ties, and Tom had his shield on a chain around his neck. It swung around in front of his chest, the result of his painful shuffle.

  Making the transition from beat cop to detective had been a process for Tom. He would turn in his squad car once his paperwork had been finalized. Until then, he didn’t want to put the miles on his personal car, not just yet. His CB radio, weapons, supplies and first aid kit would have to be transferred to the new vehicle as well. It was company policy. Though it doubled as an excuse to stall, since Tom was a lifelong procrastinator.

  The house and surrounding property was extravagant. Four large pillars extended from the front porch to support a second-story balcony that was as long as the house itself. The porch had a swing, and all the windows had white curtains at them. Potted flowers graced the steps.

  Tom had explained the case to the guys on the drive over. As per usual, it wasn’t the typical series of events. A longtime blind man awoke in the night to find that he could see. Once the initial shock wore off, the man spent the rest of the night on the front lawn, staring at the stars. It only took a few hours before the news traveled through the townspeople and into the police station, where Tom first heard the story.

  The investigators trudged up the steps and onto the hardwood porch. They rang the bell and, in no time, were greeted by a beautiful young woman, blessed with a slender, yet curvy figure. Carver could hardly contain his awe for her. She stood about an inch shy of five foot, had long curly brown hair, hazel eyes, the cutest little nose and shiny lip-glossed lips. Her slightly pale skin looked softer than a baby’s, and, in that moment, Carver would have given anything to feel it for himself.

  Carver glanced at her perfectly shaped breasts that held up her strapless dress; he felt for a moment that he was staring a bit too obviously, then figured the type of girl who would wear a dress like that probably wanted to be admired, so he held his gaze until he was sure she had noticed.

  “Hi, I’m Carver Thorton,” he said, taking her hand in his and giving her a delicate shake. “These are Detectives Mallik and Kattic. We’re here to see your grandfather.”

  She smiled casually. Her teeth were so white they may as well have belonged to a movie star. “I’m Julia Grace. Grandfather and I have been expecting someone from the police station to stop by. Right this way,” she directed them.

  As Carver stared at her backside, and scanned up and down her body, Julia led them into a small coatroom, where a large set of stairs stretched up to the second story. Pictures of family members smiling brightly hung on the walls. Carver quickly picked Julia out in a few of them. She then guided them into the living room where an older gentleman sat in a rocking chair.

  His hair was gray and white, slicked back and in need of a cut. Wrinkles on his face gave away his age, midseventies at least. He wore black slacks held up by suspenders, a white button-up shirt, a wedding ring and an expensive watch. His shoes were neatly placed next to his rocker.

  “You must be from the station,” he said, rising from his seat.r />
  “No, please don’t get up,” Tom said, as he shook the man’s hand.

  After Julia seated herself next to her grandfather, the three investigators each found a seat around a large coffee table.

  “My name’s Wilmer Grace. I run the slaughterhouse out east, least I used to. Now I suppose I just sit back and collect a paycheck from it.”

  “Good money in those cows,” Kattic agreed.

  “You ain’t kiddin’.” Wilmer chuckled.

  “Would anyone like some tea or coffee?” Julia asked.

  “No, thank you. We don’t plan to take up much of your day.” Carver smiled at her. He glanced down at the black boots she wore and could see that the skin of her legs, just above her knees, was rudely cut off by her bright blue dress.

  “Can you tell us what happened, Wilmer?” Kattic inquired.

  “Not much to tell. I been blind since I was thirty-two years old. Last night I woke up in bed and saw the ceiling fan sittin’ still as an owl in a tree. It liked to scare me to death.”

  Carver nodded. “I bet that was quite the shock.”

  “It was. Strangest damn moment of my life.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what caused your blindness all those years ago?” Tom asked.

  “Hot motor oil. A lift chain, one with a big hook on it, got away from a fella. It splashed into that drum of hot oil and doused my face. My eyes were scalded. Doc said I’d never see again.”

  “How is your vision? Is it cloudy or blurry at all?” Kattic asked.

  “No, it’s very clear. I don’t need to squint to see things far away, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Have you done anything differently over the past few days?” Tom said, fishing.

  “Like what?” Julia asked.

  “Anything out of the ordinary—taking new meds or vitamins, burning incense or any differences in your diet.”