City of Woe

by Christopher Ryan

  Then in pain.

  Mallory charged through the house, up the stairs, into their bedroom. Streetlights and a full moon combined to cast eerie bluish illumination on the horrible scene:

  The cat was clinging to Gina’s right leg, half way up, his back claws dug in, drawing blood, his front paws hugging her above the knee. His head reared back, the jaw opening impossibly wide, lunging for Gina’s flesh—

  Mallory saw the teeth sink in.

  Gina was jumping on the bed, arms swinging in panic, screaming in pain, in confusion, in fear, as the beloved family pet clawed further up her leg, and pulled its head back for another horrifyingly wide bite—

  Mallory hit the light then lunged to beat the cat from his wife, but the sudden brightness seemed to snap the animal out of its fury. He dropped to the floor, walked in a tight circle, his head hung in what seemed like shame.

  Mallory moved after the cat. “I’ll kill that motherfu—”

  “Don’t!” Gina yelled.

  He grabbed the animal anyway.

  “Don’t kill it!”

  “He attacked you!”

  “He didn’t mean it!”

  Mallory held the cat by the neck, out in front of him and charged from the room, hitting the stairs full speed.

  “No! Honey don’t!”

  The kids were at their door, scared, crying. Gina was limping after him, hysterical. Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t hurt his family more by killing the savage little bastard. “Then he’s out in the street!”

  “NO!” Gina pleaded.

  Kieran now: “Daddy! No!”

  Max too: “No!”

  “SHIT!” He bellowed, throwing the fucking cat down into the basement. He slammed and locked the door, hoping the damned thing broke its neck.

  He turned, still raging. Gina was standing there, crying, gulping air, bruised, bleeding slightly from claw marks where the little beast had dug in to climb, and from bites on her leg and arm. “I’ll kill that thing.”

  “It’s just a cat!”

  Fury twisted his face. “Snap its fucking neck—”

  Her eyes widened, she stepped back. “He’s our pet!”

  Mallory advanced on his wife. “He attacked you. Understand? He bit you, he scratched you, he hurt you. That little fuck would have kept on—”

  “He was after some animal outside,” she was breathing hard, eyes wide, frightened. “He jumped on the far window, called out at something outside. Then he jumped for the other window, over our bed, but didn’t make it. He landed on my leg and must have gotten confused. He thought I was that animal.”

  “I don’t care. He attacked you.”

  “He wasn’t himself.”

  “Neither was the damn bulldog.”

  Gina stared at him like he had just become a complete stranger.

  Mallory blushed. “We need to get you to the emergency room. You might need rabies shots.”

  The staring continued. “I’m… okay.”

  “Honey, you need—”

  “Is that really what you believe? Is the cat your suspect now too?”

  “That’s not what I’m meant…”

  “What did you mean then?”

  “I just… it’s… both animals… there was something too weird… too sudden about their behavior… that’s… so similar to how this guy operates… he shows up, all hell breaks loose, then he’s gone…”

  “The cat’s in the basement, he’s not gone.”

  “You saw him when I hit the lights, how he changed, walked in circles like he was disoriented, hung his head like he was ashamed.”

  “Cats can’t get ashamed, Frank.”

  “Exactly. It was like he wasn’t himself.”

  “That’s what I said—”

  “But we mean it in different ways.”

  “Yeah, you are projecting your preoccupation with your job, with this suspect, onto our family pet! Do you even realize how that sounds?”

  “No, I’m not saying I believe… it’s… I just saw the cat hurting you… honey, I just… anything but that, you know? I saw him hurting you and everything kind of smashed together; same thing with Max and the bulldog. Hey, I’m overprotective of my loved ones, sue me.” He gave her a sheepish smile. “The priority right now should be getting you to a doctor, to see about those bites, okay?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll clean the marks, but then I’m going to bed. Tomorrow we’ll see a doctor just to be sure. Go calm the kids.” With that she walked past him, avoiding the hug, and closed the bathroom door.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Mallory, and eventually Gina, spent considerable time soothing Max and Kieran back to sleep. When they got to their own bed, Mallory turned to Gina. She wasn’t having any.

  “You okay? Want to talk about it?”

  She had her back to him, and remained that way. “I’m tired, and sore. I need some sleep before work tomorrow.”

  “You’re also upset that I brought up the bulldog.”

  Gina didn’t say anything.

  “I can’t help the way I think. It’s made me a pretty good detective, hon. Linking together things that don’t fit in certain situations doesn’t mean I condone or believe in them. It’s just what I do.”

  She fussed with the pillow. “Coincidence, hon. Coincidence.”

  “I met a priest today who told me there are no coincidences. He’s a Catholic priest who has experience as an exorcist.”

  She rolled over, looked at him. “I’m not worried about some priest, I’m worried about you. You need to get some rest, hon, you’re exhausted, you’re jumping to conclusions. It’s not good for the kids, and it’s not good for us.”

  “I’m trying—”

  She looked away. “You always promised me that The Job would stay outside our home.”

  “I do keep it outside—”

  Gina stared at him for a long moment. When he didn’t react, she reached over, turned out the light, and lay down facing away from him.

  After tossing and turning for hours, Mallory accepted that he would not be sleeping any time soon. He looked over at Gina. She was not breathing deeply as she did when she was out. But she didn’t roll over, didn’t say a word. So he slid out of their bed. If she wanted to talk about it or wanted to keep fighting, she could come downstairs.

  Gina’s clock read 5:35. That would make it about 3:15 a.m. He was still tired, but he knew his body; he’d be getting no more rest.

  He slipped quietly from the bedroom. Crossing the hall, he took his habitual peek into the boys’ room. Max slept on his side, one little hand tucked under his chin, breathing through his mouth. A stuffed nose was not a good sign, indicating he could be working on a cold. He’d consult with Dr. Mom in the — a little later in the morning.

  Raising his head high enough to see the top bunk, Mallory chuckled. Draped across Kieran’s curly-haired head was one of his big hands, sheathed in an even larger Yankee batting glove. Even asleep he was ready to play.

  Wandering slowly out of the room, Mallory thought maybe the paper would be out front. Reading Lupica over an early morning cup of tea would be the move. Barry’s Irish this morning, he decided.

  As silently as possible (quieter than Boomer at least, who was mewing to be let out of the basement) Mallory turned the locks on the front door. He chuckled at his need for the two locks. Raised in The Bronx, where a pair of deadbolts was the absolute minimum acceptable security for any home entrance, his family’s apartment had featured three on its metal front door. He would never be comfortable with less than these two. Security, baby. Peace of mind.

  Opening the door, he glanced at his handiwork. The red paint job was muted in the street light, looking so much better than—

  Mallory froze.

  Right up against the glass storm door sat a plain brown cardboard box, about two feet long by a foot wide, maybe a foot high. There was no way the door could be opened without moving the box.

  Bomb crossed Mallory’s mind.

 
; Play what’s there. A bomb sitting right up against the front door would most likely be motion sensitive. If he opened the door, boom.

  Mallory stepped gingerly back, closed the door, quietly turned the two locks, then ran through the house to the patio door. He unlocked it, slid it open, slipped out, ran bare foot through the dew-soaked grass to the front entrance.

  The box was gone.

  Mallory stood in his driveway, wearing only sweatpants, unarmed. Dropping low, he ran to the edge of his home, pressing himself against the red brick exterior. He again scanned the bushes, the alleys beside neighboring homes, even the trees.

  There was a sudden movement in the bush to his right. He threw himself to the ground, scrapping his chest on the cement walk, reflexively reaching for his gun, grabbing only air.

  A cat darted out of the shrubs.

  “Fuck!”

  Mallory leapt to his feet, charging around the house, and bounded through the patio door.

  The box sat on his dining room table.

  Mallory raced to the bedrooms. He slammed their bedroom light on, startling Gina out of a deep sleep, kicked open their closet door. She lurched into a sitting position, wild-eyed, confused, slapping at her wriggling legs, sleepily connecting this to the cat attack, unable to process.

  Nobody was in the closet. With a certainty that comes from years of daily habit, he shoved his left hand up to the top shelf, came down with his holstered Glock.

  Gina gasped, doing a shuddering jump further up in the bed.

  Mallory spun on the balls of his feet, raced into the boys’ room, slapping the light switch. But visual contact was not enough. He physically checked each cherished son, running his right hand roughly over them, jarring both awake, simultaneously trying to soothe them with the woefully inappropriate “It’sokay,it’sokay,it’sokay.”

  Kieran opened his eyes, said “Yankees won,” then rolled back across his pillow, right back to sleep. Max, however, was officially freaked out. “Daddy —! Stop!”

  Mallory checked under the bottom bed; no monsters of any kind.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Gina was behind him now, alarmed but whispering. Mallory rushed past her, whipped open the kids’ closet, found no one, continued moving, out the door, bounding down the stairs.

  “Frank!” Her whisper desperate now, Gina holding Max, his head nestled against her neck, rubbing his back with her hand, she looked at her husband with utter fear, “What’s going on?”

  “Stay inside the boys’ room. Lock the door. Lock the windows. Stay in there.”

  “Tell me—”

  “NOW!” Mallory charged down the stairs. He shoved against the basement door, slamming it, snapped the lock in place. Heard movement above, ran to the foot of the stairs. Gina stood a few stairs down from the top, completely unnerved. He bellowed. “DO IT!” She did.

  Mallory ran through every room of the main floor, kicking open doors, slamming open closets, turning on all the lights. He was fast but efficient, hurried but thorough in his search. He locked the patio during his pass through the family room. He gave the box a wide berth. There would be time to scrutinize that once he was sure they were safe.

  Racing back across the house, Mallory spotted someone on the stairs. He aimed—

  At Gina.

  “JESUS!” He screamed, wrenching the powerful gun away.

  She screamed back: “TELL ME WHAT’S HAPPENING!”

  “If you ever trusted me, honey, trust me now. Go back in that room. Please. Lock it. Please. Wait! Please take a phone. Call Gunner. He’s minutes away. Tell him to get here now. Please. Call no one else.”

  She stood there; he met and held her eyes, “Please.” She rushed to the bottom of the stairs, grabbed a pocketbook that held her cell, hurried back up the stairs, entered the boys’ room, closed the door. He waited until he heard the lock catch.

  He stepped to the basement door. Sliding open the lock quietly, he braced himself, then flung it open, leaping out of firing range. He inched back, then peeked down, leading with his gun.

  Two eyes stared up— Him! Mallory tensed, finger beginning to squeeze, the eyes racing toward him now—

  The fucking cat.

  It ran up and past Mallory, unapologetic, to the litter box in the bathroom.

  Mallory sucked in deep breaths of air. Exhaling, he forced himself to prepare again. The rest of the house was clear; if he’s here at all he’s got to be down in the basement.

  Mallory listened. Nothing. Even the dehumidifier was quiet — full again.

  The left side of the stairs was open from halfway down; he’d be exposed as he descended the bottom six stairs. He did not want to be vulnerable for that long. He moved silently, crouched midway, easing into position, then leaned into the opening, swinging his Glock in a precise arc, casing that whole side of the basement.

  All clear.

  He rushed down the remaining stairs, checked that side again, then paused, listening closely for any sound at all. This laundry room was the last possible hiding spot in the house. If anyone had remained when the box was brought in, he would have to be here, trapped. Mallory edged around the door frame, eyes searching. Finally, he stepped out, gun swerving, searching every crevice. There were a lot of crevices, way too much junk. He had to clean out this room.

  Finally, he sighed, “All clear.”

  Suddenly there was a pounding upstairs, at the front door. Mallory took the basement stairs three at a time, reaching the main floor just as Gina opened the kids’ door.

  “Stay in there! Lock it!”

  Mallory pressed himself to the right of the front door, gun raised, free hand on the lock. More pounding.

  “Mal! It’s me!”

  Gunner. Mallory exhaled. He ripped the locks open, threw the door wide. “Get in. Someone’s out there.”

  Gunner hurried in, smelling of beer, wearing old gray sweats, a T-shirt, and a shoulder holster. His own Glock was in his right hand.

  Mallory relocked the door, swung around, wide eyed, panting.

  His partner took one look at Mallory’s darting head and wild, roving eyes, and grabbed his shoulder, shaking him, forcing Mallory to focus on him. “Stop. Breathe. Explain. What’s up?”

  “Somebody planted a box on the front stoop.”

  “You’re freaked over a prank?”

  “After yesterday, I’m thinking bomb, who the fuck knows? I went out the back, came around to check it. The fucking thing was gone. When—”

  “You’re cursing, this is serious.”

  “When I came back inside, there was the box — on my dining room table. Whoever planted it came inside my home, Gunner. Inside my fucking home. While Gina and the boys slept.”

  “You sure?”

  Mallory lead his partner to the dining room. The box sat waiting.

  “Holy shit.”

  “Damn right.”

  “You secure the house?”

  “Secured.”

  “Gina and the boys all right?”

  “Safe, yes. Gina’s spooked now, but she’s going to freak when she finds out about this.”

  “First things first. We call the bomb squad?”

  “Not a bomb.”

  “You looked?”

  “Whoever it was had this thing in his arms. He ran around with it. Can’t be motion sensitive. There’s no ticking. Not a bomb.”

  “You’re a bomb expert now, huh?”

  “You going to help or what?”

  Gunner nodded, patting Mallory’s shoulder. “Some kind of chemical thing? We open this is poison gonna come out?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mallory and Gunner stared at the box. Gunner pointed his gun at it, indicating the top. “The flaps aren’t taped; gas or poison powder would have been sealed inside, right?”

  “The flaps aren’t even folded into each other either. This thing wasn’t secured, or set up to trigger anything but our nerves.”

  Either of them could flip the top open easily. Neit
her of them moved.

  At long last, Mallory inserted the end of his gun barrel under one flap, slowly raised it an inch. Nothing happened. Another inch, nothing. He lifted the flap open. They looked inside. Mallory’s stomach slammed in on itself.

  Inside the box, bound by a rubber band, sat a set of index cards.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Using a napkin, Mallory picked up the cards, holding only the edges. He removed the rubber band, let it drop, then carefully laid out each of the cards, left to right, along the dining room table. Taped to one card was a creased Daily News clipping. Above it, in the familiar, cramped handwriting, was written:

  To complete your collection.

  Mallory unfolded and held the clipping so they both could see. It concerned Will Hill and featured a photo of Will’s father and mother, looking dazed, drained, lost. Across their foreheads a Roman numeral had been written:

  I

  “The Hills are Level One?” Gunner asked. “Does that mean he killed them? … They’re dead?”

  Mallory searched his notes quickly, moved to the phone, punched in a number. “Mr. Hill, sorry to wake you, sir … This is Detective Mallory … I am perfectly aware of the time, sir, but we’ve just received … we needed to confirm you and your wife were okay … Good. I’m sending a couple of uniforms over to keep an eye out … Actually, sir, I think it is necessary, and I’m not offering a choice here.” He hung up, then dialed another number. “Detective Mallory, Manhattan Special Cases, I need to speak with the C.O. on duty. Thanks” When the C.O. came on, he explained quickly the veiled threat, requested uniforms at the Hill apartment, and thanked the C.O.

  He rejoined Gunner, who was flipping through the last of the cards. “He’s schooling us here, I think,” Gunner offered.

  “Schooling us?”

  “Lecturing, laying out his manifesto or something.”

  “Bring it on; maybe we’ll get a handle on this guy.”

  Betrayal. It is in every facet of your delightfully deranged culture. Drunk college girls flash their breasts for anonymous infamy. The pop celebrity reveals gay tendencies; he beds a married man, she marries a red neck, shaves her head, endangers infants, all to further fame.

  Rich kids make sex videos to launch their pointless careers. Amateurs turn their intimacy into bad internet porn, part of their own pitiful grab for fame, or at least notoriety. Olympians and low-level starlets do the same in magazines to extend their brief time in the spotlight. Remember when all we needed was love?