“Don’t you worry yourself one bit, little miss. I’ve got a body or two hidden away myself if you know what I mean.” He chuckles, but my skin crawls.
I turn away from him and toward the lock on my storage unit door. “Thank you. Have a good night.”
“You’re welcome, little miss. Best you watch where you’re going next time. Accidents can be a nasty little thing. Suppose you know all about that though, don’t you?”
I think his comment is a dig at me, but my head’s spinning too much to even contemplate it. I can’t think of a way to respond, so I don’t. Instead, I fumble with the lock. Luckily for me the numbers are in braille, so I don’t have to see what I’m doing.
From the corner of my eye I can just make out that he’s walking away, but my head is throbbing so much that I don’t even hear his feet hit the floor. I slide to the concrete floor and lean against the steel roller door.
I hear the ding of the elevator, and then his voice echoes in the corridor. “Sweet dreams, Alice.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
He’s after me. He’s always after me. No matter how far I go I cannot escape him. I’ve run so long that my lungs are on fire and my chest heaves like bellows stoking the fire.
He’s a demon lurking in the shadows, his sulfuric breath billowing out around him like a poisonous cloud. Every drag from his cigarette lights the dark with its cycloptic red eye, winking hatred and promising pain.
Down the alley I fly, a streak of fear wailing like a lone siren in the dead of night. The noise attracts him, but I can silence myself no more than I can stop breathing. His attack is inevitable, his wings pounding the air like a galloping horse.
He’s nearly upon me, so I tense to lessen the blow. Never did I imagine the force of tightening my muscles would lock my legs so completely, but it does, and I careen face-first onto the asphalt.
The palms of my hands shred like grated cheese as I slide several feet. Bits of rock, glass, and debris cut into my cheeks, my nose, and my forehead. The crack of splintering bone reverberates in my skull and my nose explodes with pain so intense that I can’t even scream.
By the time I flip over he’s upon me, his weight crushing me into the ground. His razor-sharp talons slice through my clothes and dig deep into my flesh. Rivulets of blood run down my nasal cavity and into the back of my throat, pooling there and choking me with their coppery taste.
I gag and cough, but something keeps me from turning my head to the side. It’s in that moment I notice he’s wearing a bomb vest. Its countdown timer has just reached the end and it beeps incessantly.
The heat hits me before the flash or sound of the blast.
* * * * *
I snort, cough, and kick my legs but the devil is gone. Darkness surrounds me, and I can’t remember where I am, but then the lights above me click a few times and come back to life. My head throbs, and the fluorescent lights don’t help one bit.
Somehow, I’ve managed to wedge my head between the wall and my storage unit door. Explains why I couldn’t turn my head. I push myself out of the corner and manage to sit up. My neck is beyond stiff, and the left side has a crick in it that I fear may never work itself out, but I dig my thumb into it anyway.
My phone’s alarm blares from within my pocket, piercing my ears with every beep. I take my phone out to turn off the alarm and check the time, but the screen’s impossible to read. I look down the corridor and then up at the ceiling. Everything’s blurrier than I remember.
On top of it all, my shins hurt like hell. I draw my knees toward my chest and pull my pant cuffs up to inspect the damage. A crusted, bloody line runs perpendicular on each shin. Well, more like a crevice than a line. Black, purple, and blue bruises spread outward from each wound a good three inches.
Then the night hits me once more: Tan, rubber-soled boots. Cigarettes. A pockmarked face. A stranger who knew my name. Did I tell it to him? Right now my memory is about as good as stilts made of wet noodles.
“My gun.” My voice sounds like a frog giving its last croak before being dropped into a pot of boiling water. “He handled my gun… but so did I.” I pray that I can salvage even a partial print.
I pull myself to my feet and use the storage unit door to steady myself. An urgency grows within me. I need to go through the rest of the evidence I’ve collected before Seth and I review the forensic and coroner’s reports. I need to be fresh on the facts so that I miss nothing.
I drag myself over to the elevator, take it to the first floor when it arrives, and head toward the front of the building. I exit and move out past the awning. It’s still ninety degrees. I don’t think this heat wave will ever end.
I dial Seth on my phone and he answers on the second ring.
He groans. “Do you know what time it is?”
I’ve clearly woken him, and it makes me feel a bit good. I’m such an evil person sometimes. “No, but if I were to guess I’d say about six forty.”
“To the second. I’ve been in bed for about twenty-three minutes now.” He yawns. “Sorry… what do you need?”
I pace an area about two yards wide. “Did you find anything else after you dropped me off at the department yesterday? You never called.”
“I did call. Twice. Left you two messages. Went by your house too.” He pauses for a moment. “Where the hell have you been? Your mother said you never went home last night.”
“I’m sorry, Seth. I stayed over at Veronica’s. I haven’t been feeling well since yesterday. My head’s killing me. I haven’t had a migraine like this in a long time. I should’ve let you know.”
“You should’ve let your mother know. She was beside herself with worry after I showed up looking for you.”
Damn. I pull my hair out of my face, but the light breeze blows it right back where I moved it from. “Look, I’ll let you get back to sleep, but I just wanted to tell you that I won’t be in today. Gonna try and sleep this thing off. Just call me when the reports are in.”
“Fine. Say hello to Veronica for me.”
“Will do. Love ya.”
A long silence hangs on the line, far greater than the physical distance between us. He chuckles. “Love ya back.”
I roll my eyes. “Jerk.”
I end the call and text Veronica to make sure that she’ll corroborate my story if asked. Then I pull up Mother’s number and stare at it. Am I really in the mood to deal with her? No. I lock my phone and slide it back in my pocket.
Coyotes yip in the distance. It’s my cue to head back inside. I do, and the cold air swarms me once again when the doors slide open. It chills the sweat on the nape of my neck and under my arms. I’m in heaven for several moments.
I return to my unit, unlock the door and lift it open, and then close it behind me. I slide the inside locking bar into place. I installed it myself so that no one can disturb me while I’m here.
My shins ache and remind me that they need attention. I reach inside my bottom-left desk drawer and retrieve the first aid kit. Thankfully, I’m prepared for just about anything with all the supplies in my storage unit.
I pull out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a package of cotton balls from the kit and clean my wounds with them. The peroxide bubbles violently for almost a minute. God only knows the things that hand-truck has hauled. I can’t allow myself to think about it. I finish cleaning the wounds and return the supplies and the kit to the drawer.
I sit down on my chair and study the corkboard hanging on the wall. The contents of eight envelopes are pinned across its top. At its center is the piece of paper with a question mark. I grab a pen off the desk and jot down everything I know about him underneath the question mark:
FACTS ABOUT THE BRAILLE KILLER:
1. Scarred chest
2. Hairy
3. Smokes cigarettes
4. Likes pickles and garlic—or garlic pickles
5. Friend or relative of Denise Chavez
6. Knows braille
7. Hates blind girls - calls them abominations
The only item of significance I see in the list is his relationship to Denise. How could he be so close to her and still be a ghost? Everything I dug up about her failed to lead me to him. What else do I have to go on? Unit 109.
My pulse races as I scribble down things I know about him:
FACTS ABOUT UNIT 109 OWNER:
1. Badly scarred face
2. Smokes cigarettes
3. Breath smells of garlic and pickles
4. Southern drawl
5. Crooked teeth
6. Wears tan, rubber-soled boots
7. Orangish-brown overalls
8. No shirt, hairy chest
9. Has storage unit on first floor - 109
10. Knew my name
I step back and eye the board again. Many things match between the two lists and no item in one list excludes the other. Number ten on the second list shakes me to my core. How would the man from unit 109 know my name unless he’s the Braille Killer?
He wouldn’t.
I sit back down on my chair and let the weight of the revelation settle. There are numerous storage facilities in town, and he just so happens to pick the one that I use? It isn’t a coincidence. The bastard is fearless.
I check the time on my phone and it’s 07:24. It’s too early for the storage office to be open, so I dig into the boxes lined up against the back wall again. I find and pull out the envelope marked July 17, 2017. The familiar, handwritten, calligraphic ‘A’ is centered on its front.
I turn the envelope over and unbind it. I lift the flap and shake its contents out onto the desk: a letter and a friendship bracelet. I reach over and grab the sack sitting next to the desk. It’s one I brought in with me last night.
In the sack is the envelope that was left in my car yesterday morning. I snatch it out of the bag and quickly unbind and open it. I pull out the red-and-brown friendship bracelet and compare it with the black-and-tan one from the previous envelope. The size and pattern of the weave are identical. Intricate. Meticulous. Hand-made. They’re like silk between my fingers.
He took his time making these. Why? What do they symbolize? My mind is a wasteland of lost thoughts.
I set the bracelets down on the desk and pick up the letter from 2017. I unfold it and stare at the blurry braille letters until my eyes begin to cross. Unfortunately the words never focus. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and read it with the tip of my finger:
With sight reborn
A friend is lost
But you didn’t mourn
So what’s the cost?
An eye for an eye
Or something more?
Should the innocent die
For a sinful whore?
Follow the path
And meet my demands
Or suffer my wrath
It’s all in your hands
It’s your curtain call
I’ve told you what to do
Will you take the fall?
The ending’s up to you
I open my eyes. Everything’s laid out right there on the page in plain English. Sarah Johnson’s blood covers my hands. Had I solved these stupid riddles and tracked him down years ago she’d still be alive. I might as well have killed her myself. In the back of my mind lives a demon who tells me as much. You’re one heartless bitch, Alice.
My hands are shaking so bad that I’m afraid I’ll rip or crumble the letter if I hold it any longer. I set it on the desk and double over in my chair, my stomach riling with a guilt I’ll never outlive.
I cover my face with my hands and tears soak them. However, in my mind they’re covered with Sarah’s blood. I wipe them on my shirt and stain my shirt crimson.
I scream so violently that the entire building trembles on its foundation. Not literally, but I imagine my scream can be heard across the third floor. Perhaps even the second. I don’t care who hears me. I just want to purge my guilt and pain. I want to take down this bastard before he kills again.
I sit up, wipe my eyes, and grab a tissue from the box on the back left corner of my desk. I blow so hard into the tissue that I’m surprised when I find no gray matter amongst the strings of snot within its folds.
My eyes sting and I rub them. It reminds me that he removed Sarah’s eyes. I can’t fathom why he would remove them. A trophy perhaps? Or maybe he eats them. The thought does nothing for my appetite.
Enough of this.
I take the two friendship bracelets and letters and pin them to the top of the corkboard alongside the other eight letters and items. He waited ten years before his first kill. But why?
My heart stops and my breath catches. Is Sarah really his first victim or just the first he wanted me to see? The notion unsettles me. “My God…” Are there nine more Sarahs out there butchered in my name?
I cannot shake the thought from my mind, but I won’t allow it to paralyze me either. I was just as much a victim as Sarah was. I grit my teeth. I’m better than this, and I’m stronger than he knows. I just need to solve the clues he’s left me.
What I really need is someone to share the burden with. I know why I couldn’t confide in Seth or Veronica from the start, but he’s changed the rules, hasn’t he? He brought the police into it, not me. After what I did yesterday, I can’t bring Seth into it now. I’ve overstepped boundaries.
“But Veronica…” Would she understand? Would she be able to handle the weight of it? She’s a strong woman like me, but she’s never been exposed to the horrific things I’ve seen.
One thing is certain: Mother would never understand. As much as I love her, I cannot confide in her—in anything. When I have in the past it’s always come back to bite me in the ass. What she knows, Father Rogallo knows. She keeps nothing from him, and he has no qualms confronting me about anything she’s told him. Mother, her priest, and her God will never know.
I grab one of the boxes off the floor and set it in my chair. It still contains several items I’ve collected over the last decade. As I pull each item out, I pin it to the corkboard underneath Denise’s picture.
Some of those items include: a handful of newspaper clippings about her death, the police and coroner’s reports on her, and Dr. Strong’s testimony on what he witnessed when he came out of his office after she died.
Then there’s the notes on the queries I conducted after her death, including her place of work and friends. I can’t help but chuckle when I think about the absurdity of it. I posed as a journalist to get information about her life and I was only sixteen. Why anyone talked to me about her is beyond me. Perhaps it helped them cope with her passing. Either way, I’ll never know.
Emptied, I toss the box on the floor by the door. I grab another box and set it in my chair. The only thing left in it is my old diary. I take it out, toss the box over by the other discarded box, and sit down.
It’s been several years since I’ve cracked it open. Its beige leather cover is without blemish, and the embossed gold lettering on the bottom right corner still proudly bears my name: Alice Marie Bergman.
A single piece of leather woven through a golden buckle holds the book closed. I unbuckle it and open it to the first page. The top of the page has a date scrawled in red ink: Sunday, July 20, 2008.
So many thoughts circled in my head that day and the three days prior. Seeing for the first time should’ve been the most exciting thing to ever happen to me, but guilt and shame and anger overwhelmed me. Mother thought it would be good for me to write down the things I was feeling and going through so she bought me the diary. It was one of the few things she suggested that actually helped me cope.
I read the first entry:
After sixteen years my eyes have finally been opened but thoughts of what they did to me erode my joy even as I write this. It’s been three days since Denise’s death, and my life will never be the same again.
The nightmares cease to haun
t me, but I can still feel his curly chest hair wrapped around and between my fingers when I close my eyes at night. And the thick, knotted scar that splits his chest down the middle like a living Frankenstein will remain with me forever.
I will hunt him until my last breath if I must. He will not win. I won’t let him.
My throat tightens, and I feel empowered by the words as they churn in my mind. At sixteen I knew my life’s mission, yet I forget it so often. I cannot allow myself to forget it again.
I flip to the last entry in the diary and my heart is already aching before I’ve laid eyes on it. I know the words too well. They haunt me still.
In black ink at the top of the page: Sunday, July 17, 2016.
It’s a single entry:
Why did they do this to me? Why show me now? I never needed to see it. I didn’t need proof that it happened. I lived through it.
Dammit! I wish I was blind again.
A large inkblot follows the entry. I remember breaking my pen in half that day. I’m tempted to break the pen sitting on the desk, but I know it will do little good. He’s left a body. There must be evidence.
One thing’s clear: I need to get into unit 109 and soon.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The office windows of Dunharrow Storage are dark, but I knock on the glass anyway. I wait several minutes even though I know no one’s inside. There never is. I knock again, wait another minute, and am satisfied that I’m alone.
I traverse the corridor, hang a right at the first offshoot, and stop in front of unit 109 on my left. The overhead lights flicker like oversized fireflies, and three of the four bulbs in the fixture above me are blackened and dim.
Multiple cameras monitor the long corridor at twenty-foot intervals, but they’re all pointed straight at the floor and dangle from their wires. My instincts tell me that I should just walk away from the unit but that’s just not who I am. I have a job to finish no matter the cost. For Sarah.
The Braille Killer (An Alice Bergman Novel Book 1) Page 7