Ken Douglas: Ragged Man

His heart screamed as he struggled, trying to slip his hands through the ropes, but they wouldn’t give.

He started to get an idea and a glimmer of hope began to inspire him. Then he heard two loud explosions. He stopped his struggle, confused and scared. Had the Ragged Man killed his mother or had his mother killed the Ragged Man? He screamed against the tape, but he knew the weak sound wasn’t able to penetrate the bathroom walls.

Another explosion followed by a loud screech and two more explosions. It sounded like a battle was going on downstairs. It wasn’t his mother down there. It was Rick. Rick had come to save him. Rick was fighting the Ragged Man. He hoped that the Ragged Man was losing and losing big time.

He checked the clock. 8:47. A lot had happened in just three minutes, he thought, and he was beginning to hope that maybe he would be saved after all, when he heard several rapid gunshots, followed by more silence.

Rick, thirty-eight in hand, ran through the kitchen to the back landing. Panting, he studied the landscape and saw nothing out of the ordinary, and again he thought it was too quiet, but he couldn’t put his mind on what was wrong.

He ran his eyes over the edge of his property to the woods beyond, and then he trained them on the Donovan house. Judy’s back door was open.

He had the killer on the run, but why didn’t the killer blow him away when he drove up the drive, or when he entered the house, or when he stood in the living room and emptied the shotgun into windows and walls? And why challenge him with a dead pigeon when a bullet would have been much more effective?

At first Rick thought the killer was toying with him, playing a deadly game of cat and mouse, but then the truth flashed before him. The killer didn’t have a gun.

All of the murders had been committed with a knife. Maybe the killer had an aversion to guns or maybe he just plain enjoyed using the Bowie knife. In either case, the end result was the same. He was facing a clever killer who had managed to sucker him into firing at air and now his big guns, the riot gun and forty-five were useless.

Staring at Judy’s back door, he was reminded of the kiss and the unanswered questions that it posed. How had she known to run her tongue along his scar and why had she called him Flash? Ann, and only Ann, would have done those things. Ann, and only Ann, he thought.

He needed to see Judy again. He needed to ask her about the kiss. He needed to ask her about Ann. But first he needed to deal with the Ragged Man. And now he had no doubt, the killer was the Ragged Man.

He took the steps from his landing to the ground below, one hand on the rail, the other holding the thirty-eight, but he kept his finger off the trigger. He had been suckered into using up his starting offense and he didn’t plan on throwing away his last quarterback.

On the ground, he made his way to the loft, then he knew what had bothered him earlier. He had become used to the billing and cooing of J.P.’s pigeons. It took him awhile to miss the sound of the birds, but he missed it now.

When he got closer to the cage, he saw why. The bastard had killed them all.

He tightened his hand on the butt of the gun as he passed the cage, making sure he took in the horrible sight. He didn’t want to forget it. When he caught the son-of-a-bitch, he wanted to make him pay. Pay for the birds. Pay for J.P. Pay for Ann. Pay for his friends. He wanted the bastard to pay and pay and pay, and then he wanted him to pay some more.

He went up Judy’s landing, the way he’d gone down his, one hand on the rail the other holding the gun out in front of himself, finger next to the trigger, but not on it. He would be hard to fool this time.

He cautiously peered into the laundry room and recoiled. The washing machine and dryer were covered in blood and feathers. The walls had been smeared in the stuff and the remains of several mangled, headless bird bodies covered the floor.

Clenching his teeth, he waded into the laundry room, avoiding the rent and torn bodies. He moved as quickly as he could, without slipping on the blood-greased tile. In the kitchen, he saw red footprints going into the dining room and he followed, inserting his finger inside the trigger guard. He didn’t want to be fooled again, but he didn’t want to be caught off guard either.

In the dining room, he saw that the carpet had soaked the blood from the Ragged Man’s shoes as it was soaking the blood off his. The footprints vanished by the time he reached the living room. He checked the front door and saw that it was locked with the latch thrown from the inside. The Ragged Man was still in the house.

He checked the downstairs den and the room Judy used as an office. Both empty with no signs of having been disturbed. The man had to be upstairs.

Again he grabbed onto a rail with the gun out in front. He was nervous, tense and excited. Every fiber of his being was awake and taut. He was ready to kill and he was ready to die. Either way, it made no difference.

At the top of the stairs, he checked J.P.’s bedroom, the bathroom, the guest bedroom, and last on his list, Judy’s bedroom. He took in the room as he made his way to the closet. He opened the door and eyed her clothes. This was a woman’s private place, with a woman’s private things, and he had no business spending any time longer than necessary.

He started toward Judy’s private bath, then stopped. An uneasy feeling crept up his spine and niggled at his mind. He hadn’t checked the downstairs bath. He turned and hurried through the bedroom and down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he knew that the Ragged Man had been hiding in the bathroom, for scrawled in blood on the living room wall were two words:

OUTSIDE MOTHERFUCKER

Sam Storm looked between the kitchen blinds and couldn’t believe his eyes. Gordon had another gun. Where did the son of a bitch keep getting them? He tried to study the man’s face. He wished he was close enough so that he could see his eyes. He wasn’t sure, but the man didn’t seem afraid.

He watched as Gordon made his way to the loft and inspected the scene inside. It seemed like he spent too much time studying the slaughter and it seemed like it didn’t frighten him as it was designed to. When Gordon turned away from the loft and continued toward the house, Storm saw the determined set of his jaw, and when he closed the distance, he was able to see the cold-green hate radiating from his eyes, and Sam Storm was afraid.

He didn’t mind killing, but he didn’t want to die. Not now, not ever, and he didn’t want Gordon to win this battle. Caution was called for, so when he heard Gordon’s steps on the back landing, he jumped into the half-bath that adjoined the kitchen and hid in the small shower, drawing the curtains.

He hated the fact that he was cowering like a girl, but there was something about Gordon that he hadn’t counted on. A fierce determination. Somehow the man had gotten past the police roadblocks and into town. Somehow he’d managed to acquire an awesome amount of firepower. And somehow he’d had managed to turn Sam Storm’s spine into jelly.

He had become convinced there was nothing left, alive or dead, that could frighten him, and the thought that he was frightened of Gordon threatened to loosen his bowels.

He felt more than heard Gordon enter the house and pass by his hiding place. He shivered, unable to move. He leaned back against the tile wall and wished the man would go away, but he knew he wouldn’t.

After what seemed forever, he heard footsteps overhead and he knew Gordon was upstairs. He left the shower covered in sweat and a foul odor and, not wanting to seem the complete coward, he went to the service porch and wiped his hand in the blood. Then he went to the living room and wrote his message on the wall. A challenge he didn’t intend to keep.