Paul Cleave - The Killing Hour

“He left you something, Charlie. You think it’s a box full of cake?”

“No.”

“Then we’re in agreement.”

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

“I don’t know. Hide it somewhere.”

“Hide it? The police are going to look everywhere.”

“Well you’re not bringing it back to the car.”

“Goddamn it, Jo, I have to. .”

“You’ll figure it out. Now I suppose you want to tie me up, is that right?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Just hurry up,” she says. “I don’t want to be out here alone.”

He leans into the back and pulls out some of the rope he bought earlier. “Don’t make it harder than it needs to be,” he says.

“I won’t,” she tells him.

She tightens her muscles as he wraps the rope around her body and the seat, and she bites down on the gag. He reaches into the backseat and grabs one of the stakes. A moment later he steps outside, taking the keys with him. She relaxes and feels the rope give slightly. Charlie looks back at her and shrugs a little, some kind of apologetic shrug. He crosses the road and jogs toward his house. Her hands are down by her sides. She starts stretching her fingers toward her pocket where the broken piece of blade is.

When Landry’s cell phone goes off it pulls him out of a dream that involved getting his cancer news from a hot-looking nurse in a tight outfit that made the news not seem so bad. He wasn’t even aware he had fallen asleep. His chin is covered in drool and his neck is stiff and he’s slumped down somewhat in the car. And it’s hot in here. He grabs his phone. It’s Schroder. He presses the answer button.

“We found nothing useful in Douglas Person’s house,” Schroder says, “aside from a bedroom he’s turned into a hothouse to grow maybe twenty grand’s worth of cannabis. We’re still looking for the guy, but I’m guessing he’s gotten wind we’re looking for him so is lying low. How are you feeling?”

“Not the best,” Landry says, which is going to sum up every day between now and the end of days. At least the end of days for him. He feels bad about not saving Schroder some time by telling him Person is not their guy. Still, Schroder will look back at this in the future and thank Landry for saving him some problems by taking care of the trash.

“You should take tomorrow off,” Schroder says, not sounding like he means it.

“I’ll be there,” Landry says. “I forgot to ask, but how’d you get on this morning with Benson Barlow?”

“There are so many theories floating around and the problem is most of them are sticking. The way he killed them. . hell, I told Barlow about the scenes, he said he wouldn’t even know where to begin. I’m about to talk to the second victim’s husband,” he says. Luciana is the first victim and Kathy is the second victim. They know that not because of time of death, which is too close to really tell them apart, but from the blood transfer between the scenes. “Everybody keeps thinking it’s some kind of ritual, and I think-”

“I have to go,” Landry says, “I’ll call you back.”

“Bill-”

“I’ll call you back,” he says. He hangs up the phone. Fifty yards away somebody is jogging toward him. But not toward him, toward the house. That figure goes under a streetlamp and slows down, tilts his wrist to look at his watch, and Landry gets a good view of him. It’s Charlie Feldman. He recognizes him from the photographs inside the house. Landry can’t tell what it is Feldman is holding in his right hand, but it looks like some kind of weapon. If Schroder hadn’t called. .

But he did call. That’s all that matters.

Charlie goes through the gate. Lights come on inside the house. Landry rubs his hands at his eyes. He’s never fallen asleep on a stakeout before. Never. Then again he’s never been on heavy medication before either. Jesus, the day turned warm and he got sleepy. What sort of detective is he? The worst, and one who’s tiring easily because he’s dying.

He scrapes tiny pieces of wet gunk from the corners of his eyes. He starts the engine and slowly lets out the clutch, allowing the car to drift up the street. He stops outside the house. His anger is pulsing like a beacon in his mind as he walks over the grass verge to the sidewalk. He tucks his keys into his pocket. He can feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins and it worries him because he can’t afford to lose control of his emotions. He looks up and down the street. There are lights on in most of the houses, but nobody around. People have settled in for the evening. They’re watching TV and drinking coffee and the realities they face every day are different from his.

He pauses outside the house and sucks in a deep breath, then another and another. He needs to stay calm. He can’t afford to make a mess of things. He straightens his tie and pats down his shirt, then wonders what in the hell he’s doing. He isn’t here to sell this man a jail sentence.

He clenches his fists, takes in another deep breath, then walks up the narrow sidewalk to the front door. When he reaches out to knock he notices for the first time that his hand is shaking. Excitement? Or nerves? He hopes it’s one of those and not the alternative, because the alternative comes with nausea and vomiting. He turns his hands over and watches his fingers as he makes a fist then loosens it off. Something deep inside him feels different from the other times he’s come to arrest people. Something he can’t quite recognize. He suspects it arrived last week in his doctor’s office as he watched the minute hand of the clock on the wall shift six degrees closer to the end of his life.

He reaches up and gets ready to knock.

The clouds look like bruised cotton candy, the lights from the street and from the city making them glow. Night has arrived and with it my fears. I have to hold my watch up to my face and twist it to get some illumination from a streetlight flooding across the hands. It’s quarter past seven.

I step past the gate and climb the two steps to my back door. I carved a weapon out of a broom handle and now it’s all I have to protect myself, and I point this thing ahead of me even though I know my house is empty. I’m not sure if I can get any crazier.

The first thing I do is turn on the lights. I head from room to room switching many of them on. When Cyris arrives he’ll think I’m home. I try to put myself into his mind, subjecting myself to his dark thoughts. He’ll figure I’m thinking it’s safe to return since he’s already been at my house. He’ll see the lights on and he’ll want to come in and check it out.

I head down to the bedroom. I look at the cardboard box and try not to feel intimidated by it-but fail. I need to check what it is. It won’t be a head, because both Kathy and Luciana had their heads when I saw their bodies. The corner of a piece of paper is sticking out from under the cardboard flap. I grab it. It’s covered in patches of dried blood. Written across it in Kathy’s handwriting is my name and number. I’d completely forgotten about this. I don’t know whether to feel relieved that it was Cyris who found it and not the police.

A car pulls up outside and a door opens, then closes. I stand motionless, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. I’m like some mindless bunny caught in the headlights of a car, paralyzed with confusion and fear. A few moments later knuckles are banging on my door. I tighten my grip on the stake. Would Cyris knock? No, I don’t think he would. Then who is it?

I shouldn’t have turned on the lights.

I step into the hallway, but I don’t want to answer the door because my mortality is going to leave through it. Then the knocking comes back. I’m now Action Man, ready to defend my home and castle. I keep the weapon behind me. Cyris is here.