Hoarder (25 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

Missy arrived bitching at the top of the staircase to the living room. “And don’t you dare turn off any more lights!”

The butcher knife had been retrieved from the waste bag on the second staircase and was held in her right hand. The blade was thickly caked with the bag’s contents. Gripping the railing with her other hand, Missy easily stomped down the clothing lined staircase. She knew exactly where to step to avoid slipping. She thought of them as safe stairs, with none of the neck breaking hard edges that had killed her parents (a few extra kicks to their broken heads had helped). The clothes piled over the stairs weren’t just there for safety; they were working to cover the scene of a crime that Missy didn’t want to be reminded of. Thoughts of her parents were never happy-happy.

Various garments stuck to the doo-doo on her shoes and trailed behind her. This was nothing new to her. She was frequently followed by similar hoard-streamers.

Missy stopped when she reached the bottom of the stairs, scanning the room. “Where’d you go!?”

Missy was not given an answer. She came upon the cage that Ian had opened. The cat inside had not yet taken its pardon, but it had stopped circling. The emaciated animal was staring her down. She didn’t think that was how friends should look at each other.

“Where’d he go, Daffodil?” Missy asked her long time prisoner.

Daffodil was not the cat’s original name, and the animal had long ago grown to hate this human’s high-pitched wail. Not-Daffodil leaped out of the cage with a screech at its cruel captor, clamping over Missy’s head and clawing at her.

Missy dropped the butcher knife in her surprise, and she pulled the cat off with both hands. She twisted the cat’s biting head until she heard its neck break, once again feeling the pleasurable snap of bones in her grip (she equated it with the satisfying cracking of her knuckles). She kept twisting until she heard the sickly skin rip, and she pulled until the cat’s head ripped off of its body. Missy threw the cat’s head to the left and the body to the right. Not-Daffodil’s jaws were still trying to bite as the head flew.

“You ungrateful pest!” Missy screamed. And to think she had treated Daffodil like a princess inside her home! Never mind that Daffodil was a prince and not a princess. Gender was never a consideration when Missy named her cats.

Missy picked up the fallen butcher knife and moved to a dusty mirror on the nearest bookcase. She saw bleeding claw marks on her crap caked forehead and cheek. She couldn’t believe that cat, making a mess of her face when she was supposed to be on camera.

“Bad cat! Bad bad bad!”

Missy abandoned the mirror and climbed toward the kitchen. Missy had a feeling Ian was raiding her yummy-yum box just to spite her. Weren’t they supposed to bring craft services with them anyway? She shouldn’t have to put out her good food when Hollywood was supposed to be footing the bill.

As Missy passed within a few feet of her nest, Ian leapt out of it and grabbed Missy’s left leg with both hands, pulling with all his might. Missy pitched over the side, falling into the nest, screaming. The butcher knife was held out high above her.

Ian fell backward onto what he thought would be the cushioned bottom. Instead he landed on the broken mirror. Missy landed directly beside him on her side, their limbs entangled.

Ian and Missy sat up simultaneously. Ian ducked to the side as Missy thrust the butcher knife at his face. It was coming fast, but Ian could see it was caked with shit. He could smell the rancid blade as it stabbed into the cushion beside him.

Missy let go of the knife handle, and her hand clutched Ian’s throat instead. Barely able to breath, Ian grabbed the knife handle beside his head, withdrew it from the cushion (the blade was much cleaner now), spun the knife around, and thrust it back at Missy. Missy’s other hand grabbed Ian’s wrist, squeezing with crushing force.

Ian flung the knife up, and it spun over the top edge of the nest, out of sight.

Missy’s crushing hand, stained with Daffodil’s blood, landed on the side of Ian’s head and slammed it down onto the broken mirror, which cracked further.

“You’re fucking crazy!” Ian yelled defiantly.

“I should wash your mouth out with soap, but I don’t want to waste good soap on you!”

“Of course not, you cheap bitch!”

Missy couldn’t believe the brat’s dirty mouth. Did his father teach him to speak like that? Missy wasn’t going to let this little snot talk to her that way. She was the star! She simply couldn’t allow it.

“I got something to shut your dirty mouth.”

Missy reached into an untied plastic bag and pulled out a used sanitary napkin that was so sopped with blood, it had yet to fully dry. Ian saw what Missy held and clamped his mouth tight a moment before she pressed the moist pad to his lips.

“Eat it! You’re used to filth in your mouth!”

Irritated that she couldn’t get the bloody pad into his mouth, Missy smeared it all over Ian’s face. His disgust fueled his adrenaline and strength, and he pulled his head free of Missy’s hand. He pushed his body back off of the mirror and kicked up into the center of Missy’s face, stunning her.

Ian added insult to injury. “You eat it! You made it!”

Ian saw Missy staring at him, frozen, and couldn’t resist taking another shot. He kicked her in the face again, and heard the sickening and satisfying cracks of her front teeth breaking. His shoe also hit the bill of the camera cap and knocked it off of her head, which was appropriate since it never belonged to this career thief.

When Ian pulled his foot back, he saw a couple of Missy’s teeth spill out of her mouth with blood. Missy clamped both hands over her busted face.

Ian knew this was his chance to get out of the nest, and he needed that knife. First he picked up Will’s backpack and slung it over his shoulder, and then he turned to where he had thrown the knife and climbed up out of the nest. He heard no sound of pursuit behind him. Ian thought he had hurt Missy pretty badly, and was genuinely happy about that.

Out of the nest, Ian searched the hoard for the knife. He thought he knew the general spot it had landed, yet the knife was nowhere in sight.

Ian sat on an uneven surface of garbage bags, boxes, and speakers. The knife could have slid out of sight into any number of dark crevices. Why waste time in search for it when the kitchen had a number of blades for his choosing? About one thousand.

As Ian decided to abandon his search for the thrown knife, Missy’s bloody right hand reached out of the nest, looking for a hold.

Ian stomped on Missy’s hand, and he hoped it was hard enough to break her knuckles. She wailed from below. Her bloody fingers spread wide and her hand dropped out of view.

Ian climbed toward the dining room. Getting to those knives was his singular mission now, and he did not deviate when he heard Missy grunting and climbing out of her nest. The big angry bird with a broken beak was in flight again, and it wanted the worm.

Once Missy was back atop her high living room hoard, she gasped as she saw a stranger ahead of her.

Will’s body was uncovered and sitting up against the tilted bookcase that had contributed to his death. The stab wound in the center of his face was still leaking. His eyes were open but they had the glassy look of doll eyes. The TV tray that Ian had grabbed was propped on its side on Will’s lap. Within the floral border and written in ketchup were four red words:

Missy was shocked at the stranger and his sentiment. She didn’t even know what his message meant. Hoards were collections, Ian had said so himself, and collections couldn’t kill people. That was some kind of crazy talk!

Missy caught movement to the left, and she saw Ian climbing toward the dining room. She climbed after him. Despite her stomped hand and face, which sent blood into her eyes, she could cross the hoard faster. Decades of experience gave her the legs for it, and a leg up on Ian.

Missy came upon a cage with a bouncing kitten inside. The mewling animal seemed to be worked up by all of the action going on around it. The night’s surprise party had the cat dancing. Missy considered the cage, but not its contents.

Ian skidded down the incline into the dining room. He was lucky to be back in a room where he didn’t have to crawl on all fours.

“Ian!” Missy cried behind him.

Looking back was Ian’s big mistake. A dirty cat cage hit Ian in the head, nearly knocking him over. He saw stars, and thought of the number three. Three severe blows to his head, in the last three minutes. Or maybe in the last thirty minutes, time had an elastic quality to it. The three blows were taking their toll, making him dizzy, muddy in thought, blurry in vision, and prone to moments of freezing. Like right now. He was giving Missy time to catch up.

Ian looked upon the cage responsible for rattling his brains, and he was horrified to see a kitten alive inside. The poor animal looked in worse shape than him. One ear was torn mostly off and two of its legs were broken. How could that bitch be so cruel?

Ian willed himself back into motion, stumbling toward the kitchen. When he heard Missy’s next scream, he was alarmed by its pitch and proximity.

“I want my bike back!” Missy demanded.

Ian had to look back.

Missy was in the dining room with him, a bull charging at its target. His face and hands were covered in red, and he probably smelled of fear and blood, any monster’s favorite flavors.

Ian goaded her on. “You want it, come and get it!”

Ian knew Missy would never touch Keith’s bike again. She just didn’t know it yet. This whole big nightmare, months for him and decades for others, had funneled down to the crucial few seconds and feet between them, in a race for stabbing weapons. This was their most primal battle, and the final act, hopefully for this ruthless, lunatic killer and not him.

Ian risked another glance back and saw that Missy had stopped. He didn’t know why, maybe to grab something else to throw at his head. He didn’t wait to find out. The kitchen was only a few yards ahead of him, and canting to the right. His head tilted, the path threatening to spin out of control. He didn’t hesitate despite his loss of equilibrium.

Missy’s stop lasted three seconds. She prided herself on knowing where every item was in her house of collectibles, and that wasn’t one of her delusions. Missy reached into the high-stacked kitchen table mound, stuck her hand into a mostly concealed dish strainer, and pulled out a six-inch steak knife. The knife was exactly where she’d left it. The blade still carried the residue of the steak she had used it on, which she remembered being particularly juicy and salty, her favorite Sizzler selection. There might even be a few bites of that steak left further back on the table, and she reminded herself to check for it later.