“Yeah?”
“We should get to work, don’t you think?”
“We should.”
And they set to work in virtual silence, exploring Dr Marcus Delaney’s office, each of them locating a variety of objects that could very well act as pivotal clues in discovering the true man behind Richard
Sparke
, perhaps reveal a possible motive for his actions. When the items got to be too many, Kevin retrieved an empty copy-paper box from the reception area into which they began loading their discoveries. All the while Leonard did his best to breathe easy--not an easy feat--and avoid looking at the body that couldn’t be properly
chalklined
because there was so much blood on the carpet.
An hour passed. They swept every inch of the office, speaking only sporadically to share their finds and explain their logic for judging the items important, then added them to the box. By the time they were through combing the office--long after the medics came and took the body away--Leonard and Kevin had the box filled with items labeled as
evidence
.
“We’re gonna be up all night with this stuff,” Kevin said.
“Would you rather wait until morning?”
“Ain’t nothing here that’s gonna help us catch
Sparke
any quicker, but…I’ve gotta find out what’s in that file of his. No way can I wait until morning.”
Leonard’s heart pounded with excitement as he fingered the edge of the inch-thick folder labeled,
Sparke
, Richard
. “Let’s get some coffee before going back to the station.”
Excluding the security posts, they were the last to leave the building.
Outside the sun was dipping behind the Main Street buildings.
They got in the cruiser and drove away, the box labeled ‘evidence’ on the seat between them.
They stopped for coffee, not once mentioning the clues in the box; there would be plenty of time for that later.
And, like the setting sun and the reports he needed to file, not once did Leonard think of the wife and son he wouldn’t be going home to tonight.
A good five minutes passed before Richard decided to approach the house. He’d spent this time shifting his attention between the surrounding woods and neighboring homes, and, of course, the small ranch before him that drummed up the only memories of a life that still remained clear-cut and concise.
Like most residences in this section, the house stood on a small shelf of land between two gentle slopes, a medium-sized area serving as a backyard meeting two ten-foot wide strips of property on either side. The sun, now lost behind the trees, cast dark shadows across the mostly brown grass--it appeared Samantha hadn’t kept up on watering the lawn--allowing Richard to remain mostly camouflaged in his dark clothing. Flowerbeds circled a small concrete patio, zinnias and geraniums virtually de-
petaled
from a lack of care.
Even though it‘d been nearly two years since Richard was here, the house looked mostly the same. The brown wood shingles had faded only a bit, the casement windows were still dirty, and the black-slate roof remained as dark as ever. One window was partly opened, the screen inside slashed and dangling like a flag.
The back sliding door was open as well, at first giving Richard a skewed assumption of welcome. But, as he stepped across the backyard onto the patio, the open door immediately appeared to emulate the gaping maw of an angler waving the bait for its sniffing prey. He looked around. Anxious. Feeling eyes on him--not the watchful eyes of a resident looking out for his neighbor’s property, but that of a tenacious predator keeping a close-knit tail on his tracks.
First, sounds in the woods. Now...
He took a deep breath. He would go into the house. Find Samantha. Ask her for help. If his conscience had still been with him, it might have asked,
Hey Richard, what on earth do you think she can do for you? You haven’t seen her in two years. Do you really think she cares?
But he was alone, and that passing thought held no true volume without the counsel of his inner voice. He was a man stripped of all inner command, working solely on instinct and the desire to escape the threat.
A wind whirled about the yard, throwing up dust, stirring the flowers and lashing his face. He took this as his cue. Nearly breathless, he stepped through the opened back door, into the house.
Passing the threshold, he felt as if something had bristled against the back of his neck--it was as though the invisible predator from the woods might be reaching out to grab him, aiming to pull him to the floor, do to him what
he
did to Dr Delaney. He glanced back in fear, heart slamming.
Nothing--nobody--was behind him.
Am I dreaming?
If this were a dream then there definitely would be someone following me, reaching out for me. Something dark and sinister and...wearing black.
I am awake...I am awake...I am awake...
The sliding doors led into the kitchen. Directly before him was a small dinette table bearing a plate with the remnants of a half-eaten meal. A cloud of flies buzzed about the bits of dried meat and potatoes. A soup bowl containing mixed vegetables had fallen to the floor, the contents spread across the sandstone tiles like puzzle pieces.
Something’s very wrong.
He didn’t need his conscience to tell him that.
To his left, the basement door stood ajar, the dark inescapable gloom beyond sending chills throughout his body. He recalled this morning, while Pam was hiding in the condo, how he’d thought that maybe she was down in the basement, waiting for him to search her out below. With this tidbit of experience behind him, he very gently shut the door then grabbed one of the kitchen chairs and wedged it beneath the knob. If the slashed window screen was the result of a recent intruder, and not one of Samantha’s long-ago mishaps, then
he
might be hiding down there. Waiting for him. In the dark.
If the slashed screen is the result of an intruder,
he thought,
then maybe the open sliding door is a sign of Samantha’s escape?
He stood in the kitchen for a minute, listening. He could hear the torn screen flapping in the wind, striking the window frame. In the distance the crickets sang louder, as if calling him from afar, keeping certain that their perpetual song continued to grate against his brain.
He tiptoed into the family room. He looked to his left, down the hallway leading to the bedrooms, then right to view the entire living area. He saw that the front door was open as well, although not as wide. Here the setting sun was unobstructed by trees, its angled rays casting warm light through the front bay windows and across the faded blue carpet. Many of the trinkets Samantha kept, some of which Richard remembered, lay scattered on the floor: ceramic figurines, wood carvings, rose-petal vases. A few items had been smashed to pieces, as if trampled underfoot.
Also on the floor was a drawer that had been yanked from the kitchen cabinets, its contents dumped out, spatulas, ladles, spoons, forks, and...
knives
.
Steak knives.
Richard peered uncomfortably at the strewn knives, their blades gleaming mercilessly beneath the rays of the unhindered sun. He bent down and picked one up, then turned toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms. The wind died down suddenly, making Richard feel very nervous. It created a profound silence that seemed to grow like a restless crowd of teenagers awaiting a rock band to hit the stage, the sudden darkening of the stage the culmination of something explosive about to happen.
He eyed the three closed doors. Two bedrooms, one bathroom. Where could Samantha be?
He moved down the hall, footfalls light against the floral runner. The bedroom door to his right was closed tight, as well as the bathroom to his left. The master bedroom door straight ahead was ajar an inch. He paced forward, pushed it open with the point of the knife and went through with watchful eyes.
The room was empty, or so it appeared. The bed was mussed, the sheets and comforter on the floor, the frame and headboard slightly askew as if she’d moved it to dust underneath. Given the untidy appearance of the room, this hadn’t been the case. Beside the bed on one of the end-tables, the telephone was off its cradle, the handset dangling, tapping eerily against the wood finish. He turned and rolled aside one of the large folding doors on the closet, but found nothing of interest inside.
He exited the bedroom and stared warily at the two remaining closed doors, peering intermittently down the hall and listening to the wind now picking up, whipping the torn screen into a dissonant beat. The rustle of the breeze-roused trees carried through the open back door, producing a breathless moaning sound.
He decided to check the other bedroom first, Debra’s old room. At once he felt his body growing tenser, his mouth parched, his heartbeat rapid. Feeling the onset of panic, he wanted to call out for Samantha instead of having to open the doors without the knowledge of what awaited him on the other side. As ridiculous as his thoughts and actions may have seemed at the moment, he decided that in view of the events of the day,
all
adverse occurrences were fully possible, and that all cautions had to be taken. He remained quiet.
He reached for the door, then froze, remembering vividly the moment he went into this very room two years ago in the middle of the night and discovered his little girl devoid of life. The six-month old hadn’t cried out for her nightly feeding, and he and Samantha had awakened automatically wondering if the baby had finally matured to the point where she would now sleep through the night. Like a
big
girl. He’d opened the door, gently so the knob didn’t click, and walked inside, taking his steps gingerly. Then, peered into the crib. The baby was lying on her stomach against the sidebars—it’d appeared she’d grown to the point where she could now turn over all by herself. He’d grabbed her, gently of course so he didn’t wake her, and felt a chilling coldness on her hands; but they were always cold. Then he felt it on her face. And her legs. Her arms. And then the dreadful chill of her body seeped through the blanket-sleeper. She’d fallen limp in his grasp as he brought her to his chest, and he remembered his heart suddenly slamming in his chest, the pain it brought, the
agony
. The screams that shot from his lungs when he jostled her and she didn’t stir, her body dull and lifeless in his trembling embrace. She’d looked like a ragdoll...
Richard took a deep breath, shunned the awful memory. There were more critical matters at hand right now, he reminded himself. He didn’t need the distraction.
He kept his silence. Grabbed the doorknob; a tiny blue shock tickled his hand. Opened the door.
Nothing. Empty. The room had been stripped bare, the crib gone, the furniture gone, every last remembrance taken away. All that remained were dust mice settling in all four naked corners. Samantha had rid herself of all memories of Debra. Clearly there was too much pain and suffering, and this was her only way to becalm it.
He shut the door, biting his lip. He turned and faced the bathroom door, fighting back his tears.
Why couldn’t I forget this painful memory?
he wondered, wishing he could trade it in for a more pleasurable recollection of the past life he couldn’t recall beyond three years ago.
The house was still and silent, save for the wind and the tolling of the torn screen against the window frame. He was certain that Samantha would not be here: for some critical reason she’d left the house alone, unlocked and unattended. Richard was also certain that the police would arrive here soon to question her about him, perhaps even look here for him. Suddenly, he felt the urgent need to get moving, lest he be captured.
Feeling convinced of her absence--heck, there was food left out on the table; she
never
did that--he walked back down the hall and turned into the living room. He tossed the knife back down on the floor with the others, then had the notion of gathering some food from the kitchen before leaving; he may not get another chance at food for a long time.
He was just about to raid the kitchen, when he heard a faint noise.
Not the wind. Not the screen.
A voice.
The same voice I heard whispering behind me in the woods?
No, this voice was
human
, a slight grunt, high in pitch.
A woman. In pain.
Samantha!
He marched back down the hall, instantly unconcerned with keeping himself quiet. “Sam?” he called out, his voice a notch above a whisper. He still didn’t wish to make his presence known should the voice end up being the playful gibberish of a child coming home from school. He needed at all costs to remain hidden.
“Sam?” he called again, this time a bit louder.
He heard it again. A grunt. Coming from behind the bathroom door.
Could she have been in there the whole time?
He knocked on the door. “Sam? You in there? It’s me, Richard.”
No answer.
He took a deep breath, tried to swallow but the thick coating on his tongue wouldn’t allow him. He took his trembling right hand, placed it on the knob, knowing very well that his conscience would’ve advised him against his next move.
He turned the knob.