I loved my brother and was sickened by my immature verbal attack. I hoped he wasn’t as introspective as I was and wouldn’t mull over my accusation. The next several nights I’d castigate myself for being so vindictive.
“I’m not sure I like the thought of you running around Seattle with a gun.”
I glanced back at Helene, reassuring myself she wasn’t observing us, then whispered, “They were talking about another murder on the radio when I drove over here. Young black woman dumped in a construction site on the East Side, her throat torn apart and her body twisted up like a pretzel.”
Justin rubbed at his temples, as if trying to massage away a headache. He pulled me closer to the doorway. “I’d like to rip that sicko to pieces,” he hissed under his breath.
I patted his bicep affectionately. “I’m afraid all the time. I look into the back of my car three times before I open the door and I still imagine someone’s hiding on the floor behind the front seat after I get in.”
Justin paused a moment then responded with a slight nod.
“Thank you,” I mouthed silently.
We walked back to Helene’s bed.
She rolled her head toward Justin. Her brows furrowed, she moved her lips.
Her words were inaudible.
Parting from my brother, I leaned my ear close to her mouth.
“Safe,” she gasped.
My mind full of Helene and the altercation with my brother, I had my head down when I opened the front door to my condominium, so I didn’t note Alex, relaxing on the leather chair in front of the large screen TV till I’d nearly thrown my cannon ball purse into his lap. He’d wanted to move in with me, but I’m the old-fashioned sort, which, surprisingly to me, earned his respect. I’d underestimated his integrity. The compromise was to give him a key to my apartment. He considered it an expression of trust; I considered it an invasion of my privacy, but sometimes you can’t always have your own way in a relationship if you want it to last.
“You’d think after what happened recently you’d be paying more attention,” Alex said, rising, then his features softened when he noted the tears dribbling down my cheeks.
“I… I never should’ve agreed to meet her down at the waterfront. I should’ve insisted we meet at the hotel.”
I had to give Alex credit. It must’ve taken a lot of self-control to refrain from rebuking me for running around in the dark with a mere umbrella for protection. He slipped off my wool coat and enveloped me in an embrace, tenderly stroking my hair. I allowed myself a moment of vulnerability, wetting the collar of his uniform with my reluctant tears, cherishing the warmth of his chest against mine. There was nothing sexual about it. He wanted me to melt into his strength: It was an unspoken promise to keep watch over me, to guard me, to be my hero and right the wrongs in my life.
A nice promise, a nice masculine parade of fantasy.
An illusion.
I’ve never forgotten what a serial killer of women said years ago on some reality show documentary: “A woman alone is never safe.”
It wasn’t possible for Alex to watch over me at all times. No cop could. No brother could. Neither Alex nor Justin was there for Helene and me that horrible night. He had a job to do, cruising the streets, not pasting himself to my side 24/7.
I could walk down the hallway one sleep-addled morning and get yanked into someone’s apartment before I knew what was happening. One hand clapped over my mouth, the other tightening around my throat. The neighbors totally unaware of what was going on behind the closed door.
Because it had happened once before when I was living in the dormitory at the University. Pulled into the room nearest the stairwell, one calloused hand thrust up my blouse and the other, clapped over my nose and mouth, yanking me down toward the filthy rug. My notebooks scattered across the floor, days of labor thrust aside, stepped on and torn and dirtied.
Fortunately his roommate came back early from his morning classes, because he felt nauseous, the flu coming on.
I took a few self-defense classes the next few years but each seminar was a reminder of needing to protect myself against attack, and I just didn’t want to live life being wary, fearful of men.
I was naïve.
It was wise to be afraid.
Alex gently separated from me, pulled a white handkerchief from his back pocket, and began patting the tears away from my cheeks.
For a little extra cash two Christmases ago I drew caricatures at a policeman’s ball. When I drew his caricature, I noticed how perfectly symmetrical his face was—his hairline straight, his aquamarine blue eyes the same height and width, his chin perfectly rounded.
After the initial physical attraction his true beauty shone through—in Alex strength was combined with gentleness.
He kissed me on the tip of my nose. “I promise you we’ll get him. The Seattle Police Department is hunting that bastard down like a rat carrying the plague. If he’s smart, he’s left the state. But I don’t think he’s smart, not at all. Besides the police, there’s at least a half dozen other guys working the clubs on First Avenue who’d love to get a piece of him in a dark alley for what he did to the bouncers from Nefarious. If the creep makes it into a courtroom, he’ll count himself lucky.”
Flashing a weak smile of gratitude, I grabbed the handkerchief and wiped my eyes, heedless of smearing my mascara, and gazed back at him. I couldn’t bear the tenderness and concern in his lovely blue eyes. I tightened my grip on his neck and rested my chin upon his shoulder—like a kitten cozying up to its mother, so soft and vulnerable, my hair brushing against his ear.
So he couldn’t see what I was afraid to reveal.
The fury in my soul.
I’m sure Alex meant it. Believed he could deliver on his promise to avenge Helene. To be my white knight.
But she was my sister.
I refused to play the part of helpless female again. Pulled behind the door, unable to defend myself till some man came along to rescue me.
This was my battle to win.
Chapter 3
After Helene’s story made the headlines, sheriffs’ offices in other counties were able to put two-and-two together to determine that a new serial killer had emerged: Three prior victims with torn throats and broken backs were linked to Helene’s attacker from Eastern Washington. Despite her severe injuries, my sister was the fortunate one—because she lived.
The press dubbed him, “The Vampire Killer.”
Helene, maybe because of shock, couldn’t recall any details to help identify the puker. So the bouncers from Nefarious and I were the only known eyewitnesses, despite multiple pleas from the local networks for others to step forward to help provide information regarding the deaths of the other women. It seemed the killer preferred his victims young—and beautiful. No fatty or wrinkled throat to sink his vicious teeth into.
Alex was reluctant to share details of the SPD investigation with me, whether for reasons of investigative privacy or protecting me from unpleasant facts, I didn’t know. He did reveal that saliva with an odd enzyme was swabbed from each victim’s throat, including Helene’s, but he wouldn’t elaborate.
Because it occurred in a back alley and we were upset, neither the bouncers nor I could give much of a description of the creep to the police. He was scrawny with splotches of neon color in his hair and wearing the typical Northwest male winter costume of plaid shirt and jeans. According to Alex, because of his multi-colored hair, all the attendees at the Gothic Romance Writers’ Conference were identified, scrupulously interviewed, and cleared.
Had some Goth punk taken his moribund vampire fantasy into reality?
Reluctantly, Justin escorted me on Saturday to the gun range on East Hill. It was crowded with women of differing ages, body types and races, apparently there for the same reason I was, and accompanied by a similar variety of men who ranged from stockbroker slick to computer hack geek.
“You have to be willing to use it,” Justin announced, handing me a Smith & W
esson revolver. “Just for protection, right?”
“What, they don’t come in pink?” I quipped, trying to ignore the nervousness I felt, gripping a weapon for the first time, and avoid answering a direct question.
“They do. Just not at this range.” He smiled that wicked little brother’s smile before they say something irritating. “Try not to shoot your foot off.”
“If you’re a competent teacher, I won’t.”
I tested pistols, handguns, and even short-range rifles, but finally decided upon a youth-sized shotgun. It wasn’t pink, but it was lightweight and would give me a sure aim at close distance by bracing it against my shoulder, avoiding the kickback of a handgun that could throw my shot off.
“Alex know you’re learning to shoot?” Justin asked as we returned to his silver pickup.
“What do you think?” I didn’t want to discuss what my boyfriend thought. There really wasn’t any clear reason for Justin to dislike Alex, other than they were both alpha males. Like two dogs in close proximity, they enjoyed intimidating one another to see who would back down first.
“I think,” Justin began as he slammed his door shut and settled into the driver’s seat, “you like to keep secrets from your boyfriend.”
And from you too.
“I brought you Grandma’s quilt,” I announced, walking into Helene’s room for my nightly visit, a bundle in my arms. It was the last sewing project our fraternal grandmother had completed before her death several years ago from kidney failure after surgery for a broken hip.
After removing the rather ratty grey cotton blanket covering Helene, I placed the purple-and-white patchwork creation at the foot of her bed and unrolled it, gently tucking it around her as I moved upward. Helene’s eyes followed my progress and then, like a frightened mouse taking tentative steps outside its hole in the wall, the fingers of her right hand eased over the top edge. Her index and middle finger traced for several inches the delicate dark threads holding the border to the inner pattern then tapped at one of the triangles in the starbursts. Then the fingers stilled.
Helene looked at me and smiled.
I grabbed her hand and to my surprise, burst out crying. I’m not sure how long I stood there. It wasn’t just the fact my sister showed some real movement for the first time, but the dam in my soul had burst. The despair at seeing Helene an invalid, the exhaustion of my nightly visits, the anger at the inhuman creature who destroyed my sister’s life and the feeling of helplessness, of not being able to prevent her injury, just flooded out of my soul.
The door opened behind my back. I swung around, wiping the tears from my face. The day nurse held my eyes a moment then closed the door, apparently deciding not to intrude. My attention arrested, the tears stopped flowing. My vulnerability had been spied upon. My shield slammed back into place.
Helene looked concerned and mouthed something. I leaned in close, wiping the tears with the back of my right hand.
“It’s OK,” she whispered. “It’s good to get it out. I cry too.”
I wept again.
But tears were not enough. I refused to allow either of us to remain helpless victims. I couldn’t heal Helene, but I could try to find and punish the fiend who’d done this to her.
Perhaps, that would bring some healing to the hidden wounds in her soul.
The following Monday I applied for a gun permit at the county courthouse. Although I understood the reasons why, I felt odd and a little nervous getting fingerprinted. After the usual thirty-day waiting period for the background check, Justin would take me to Cabela’s sports store in Tulalip to make my first gun purchase.
“Yes,” I reassured my brother once again that evening when I called and told him I’d applied for the CPL. “It’s just for protection.”
But if I found Helene’s attacker, I would kill him.
Chapter 4
Eager to begin my dubious quest, I took Tuesday off from the casino where I work as a graphic artist in the marketing department and retraced my route from my condo to that horrific alley. As I strode toward the waterfront, I pushed aside ruthlessly accusatory thoughts such as, “Why didn’t you insist on meeting at the Marriott?” and the like, because self-recrimination would only muddle my mind, making it more difficult to concentrate on my task. Some of my friends have accused me of having a little of Mr. Spock’s green blood in my veins and perhaps they’re right, but they still hang around, so I can’t be too cold-blooded.
Since the crime scene tape was removed from the entrance to the alley, I didn’t have to fear arrest for meddling in an official police investigation.
Just after dawn that morning an inebriated sailor discovered another victim of the puker, her slender body draped across the back railing at Pier 62, her green eyes staring blindly into the rippling bay. The early hours newscasters reported the SPD was investigating all recently released criminals incarcerated for violent crimes—there were no known escapes from prison or the mental institutions.
Since the police were apparently stymied, it was time do a little sleuthing of my own. I owed it to Helene. I should apply my Phi Beta Kappa mind to something other than Adobe Photoshop.
Under the leaden skies of late winter, the alley appeared nondescript and benign. Behind me a delivery truck honked at a blue Honda Civic, which had stopped to allow a hurried Japanese businessman to jaywalk. Life nonchalantly continued on the adjacent street as if nothing unusual had ever occurred in the area.
The alley ran not only behind the club, Nefarious, but also another tavern and the soup kitchen. I wondered how the homeless slept in the alley sandwiched between Nefarious and The Icon, known for having blasphemous murals of the twelve apostles around the main dance floor.
A bundle of rags stirred near one of the five dumpsters lining the bricks walls. I tensed, greatly disturbed, because I thought I had trained myself to be more aware of my surroundings. A red, cauliflower nose peeped out from beneath a ragged fedora.
“Uh, hi,” I stammered, retrieving a pithy comment from my exhaustive repertoire of witticisms.
My lame greeting was met with a yellow-toothed smile.
“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt ya,” the homeless guy said in a raspy voice. “Bad leg. Can’t move too fast.”
“Sorry about that,” I muttered, probably sounding insincere. But what could I really do to help him? I couldn’t heal his leg. But guilt knotted my stomach anyway. I had a job and a warm bed—he apparently didn’t.
Observing the slotted gate sealing the back end of the alley, I tentatively approached it. An oversized padlock fastened the left side shut while iron poles set in concrete held the eight-foot high steel gate firmly in place. I yanked at the bars: It wouldn’t budge. About two yards beyond the gate stood the wall of a condominium complex, one of the newer high rises obscuring the waterfront view from uphill.
I turned around and addressed my bemused onlooker. “You hang out here much?”
“What do you mean by ‘much’?”
“Have you seen anybody open up this gate?”
“Nope.” He grinned, rolling his tongue around in his cheek as if reassuring himself that his teeth were still intact. “The yuppies from the building back there want to discourage any sorry fella waiting in the food line from heading in their direction afterwards.”
“You ever been a guest at the mission?”
“Sometimes.”
Had the police also questioned this man?
“Were you here when my… that woman was attacked by the Vampire Killer?”
“Nope. I was working the sidewalk in front of Benaroya Hall.”
“Do you have any, uh, buddies who saw anything?” I asked, perhaps a little too eagerly.
He narrowed his eyes. “Why are you asking?”
Did I owe him the truth?
I didn’t respond.
After trying the knobs on the backdoors of the clubs and the mission, I traced my way along the antique shops on the other side facing the waterfront: None would op
en. To my knowledge the fire code required the doors remain unlocked during business hours. The doors only opened from the inside to prevent any transients from entering from the alley.
The alley was about eighty yards long and maybe ten to twelve feet across. After the attack on Helene and the bouncers, there was no way the puker could have passed by us without being seen yet, somehow, he had. If he’d scaled the gate, certainly one of us would’ve noted. It was too high to just leap over.
There were several fire escapes along the brick facades. The ladders to the upper levels were drawn up, most likely to prevent street people or thieves from scaling them and gaining access into the buildings unnoticed. I walked to a fire escape behind one of the antique shops and leapt as high as I could, (fortunately, I wore my New Balance sneakers), but missed the lowest rung of the ladder by at least three feet. No one, outside of a trained acrobat, could possibly reach them without assistance.
I paused, noting where each dumpster sat in relation to the fire escapes. Perhaps the puker leapt from one of the dumpsters onto the first landing then crawled through a window? But it was late winter—all the windows would be shut against the near incessant rain, especially at night. I scrutinized the buildings again. The windows were closed.
Why would Helene voluntarily leave the lighted street corner and walk down a gloomy side alley alone? She wouldn’t. Her attention was on me, so it was unlikely she was lured away. She must’ve been dragged back there. But I would have seen the puker if he had approached Helene from either First Avenue or the side street.
Yet she was in the alley. Could she have suddenly realized she was being followed by the creep and ran into the nightclub while my view was blocked by traffic? But the bouncer swore she never entered Nefarious, so she didn’t exit through the backdoor of the club. The Icon was too far down the street and she certainly wouldn’t take a stroll through the dingy mission.
Shadows in the Mist: A Paranormal Anthology Page 17