Ed Gorman - Cold Blue Midnight

Then he placed the bloody scissors several feet from Eric.

This section of the office was a mess by now, especially the wall, blotched blood looking like Rorschach tests in some places.

Then it was time to go.

And go quickly.

Cini had never much liked elevators. As a little girl she'd heard a news story about a Loop elevator car falling twenty-six floors. A woman visiting from Iowa had died from injuries two hours later. The newsman, trying to reassure everybody, talked about how uncommon this wasless common than being struck by lightning was the example he usedbut Cini could never ride an elevator car now without a few moments of anxiety bordering on hyperventilation.

But not now. She was concentrating so hard on her game planretrieving her purse and getting out of the office without letting Eric Brooks lay a finger on herthat she paid no attention to the faint whining sounds of the powerful elevator system, nor to the way the car shimmied every half-floor or so, nor to the way the doors didn't part for long, long moments after the car had reached the top floor.

Ordinarily, she would have wanted to scream for help and start pounding on the door.

But now…

Now Cini got off the car and stood in the eerie silence of a Loop office building after closing hours. The corridor leading to the Brooks Agency's door was long and empty, and the wall-sconce indirect lighting, bouncing off the grid and tile system of the ceiling, produced a curiously alien brilliance.

She started down the corridor.

She was halfway there when the elevator doors rumbled shut behind her. She turned, startled, just as the two doors came together.

Just had to get this over with…

Just had to get out of here…

She no longer cared about the TV commercialor even Michaelanymore. She'd been so foolish…

As she started to open the door, she thought she heard a noise. A muffled shout, perhaps. Or scream.

She listened, hearing only the faint buzz overhead of the electrical system.

She went inside. The main reception area looked neat and empty, the massive front desk situated in front of a row of Clio awards the agency had won. The awards were kept in a glass case that was lit from inside and gave everything a theatrical-accent light.

The corridor leading right was the one she wanted. At the far end of that she would find Eric Brooks' own smaller reception area, and his impressive digs.

She had taken eight steps when she heard the scream and recognized it immediately as belonging to Eric Brooks.

Without wanting to at all, she edged closer to his office and there, framed in the doorway, were two men. One was Eric Brooks. His face, chest, hands were covered with blood and he was cowering backward over his desk, holding his hands up to stop the bloody scissors from stabbing him again and again. The man with the scissors was tall and angular and handsome in a hard way. All she could think of was the actor James Coburn.

Eric saw her but the killer didn't.

Eric tried to call out her name, wave an entreating arm in her direction.

But the killer was so intent on killing that Eric didn't have a chance, particularly after the man plunged the scissors deep into the area just below Eric's Adam's apple.

This was very different from the kind of violence you saw on TV programs. For one thing, both men were kind of clumsy. The killer stumbled a couple of times in his frenzy, and Eric, for his part, kept making a kind of wheezing braying noise, like one of the dusty old donkeys she used to ride at the Illinois State Fair. The killer made sounds, too. And that's what they weresoundsnot fine fancy words put in his mouth by some screenwriter. He grunted, he groaned, he yelped, he yippedand when his blade struck home, he made curiously ecstatic sounds… 'orgasmic' would not be too strong a word. His cry was pure pleasure as the scissors went in and out, in and out

Eric's head flopped backwards, soon followed by his entire body, his arms waving for balance as he fell across his desk, the killer staying right with him, ripping the scissors from the trachea area and plunging them once again into Eric's chest.

She was afraid she'd scream.

She was afraid he'd see her.

She ran.

She ran back down the narrow corridor to the main reception area then across the lobby to the front door.

She ran to the elevator and pushed the button ten, twenty, thirty times. But the elevator doors did not part. She kept glancing back over her shoulder, to see if the front door opened. To see if the man with the bloody scissors was coming for her

She pressed the elevator button ten, twenty more times. Then, more in frustration than anything else, she started banging her fists on the elevator doors until she realized how crazy she was being. He'd hear her for sure.

She ran to the neat red overhead sign that read: FIRE. Flung back the door. Started down the stairs two at a time. Stumbled once, slamming her knee painfully against the edge of a concrete step. Swore. Started to cry. Swore at herself this time for being such a sissy. No time to cry. Only time to run.

Run.

She ran.

He stood across the street from Jill's apartment, staring up at the only lighted window. She passed by it occasionally, her slender body provocative in silhouette. Probably wearing her Danskins.

Eric Brooks was less than an hour dead.

Full night now. Traffic a steady flow of lights and the smells of gasoline and rubber. The occasional booming, blaring radio.

The sidewalks were full, too. Lovers. He'd had a lover once. Been faithful, too. At least for a time. But then

He watched the window.

He was going up there soon.

Very soon.

Jill looked longingly at the fireplace. With autumn setting in, it was nearly time for a fire. But she hadn't bought any logs yet, nor cleaned out the grates.

Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow.

Her argument with Eric finally starting to fadeit took her a long time to calm down once she'd been angeredshe went into the kitchen for a glass of Chablis.

She'd spent a good share of last year's photography profits having custom-cabinets installed. At that time, she'd still had dreams of marrying Mitch Ayers. Following the divorce, Mitch would be poor. This would be a perfect place for them to start a marriage.

Or so she'd thought.

Now, reaching into the open refrigerator for the bottle of wine, she forcefully willed Mitch from her mind.

She wasn't dishonest with herself: she knew she wasn't over him completely yet. But one day she would be and when she waswell, maybe she'd meet somebody even nicer who wanted to move in here.

Somebody who actually would move in.

Not run back to his wife.

She carried the wine goblet into the living room. She enjoyed the eclectic nature of the furnishings in therethe antique fireplace mantel contrasting with the shining hardwood floors and off-white sofa.

She put on a Kenny G CD and strolled over to the window for her peek out at the street below. She'd always liked the excitement of this particular thoroughfare: it reminded her of her high-school days. She'd done a lot of cruising up and down streets in the company of boys determined to despoil her. But

She smiled. In college, it got even crazier, though it was still kind of funny. All that spluttering of Donald's. All his protesting. All his bring-down-the-Government talk. And all the while living on a big fat inheritance.

Then she saw him.

Across the street.

Looking up here.

She didn't have a detailed look at him but she was sure he was the man in the blue Volvo.

She wished she'd heard from Marcy Browne, the private investigator. Wished she knew who this man was for sure. And what he wanted.