Dead By Midnight
If all went well, I wouldn’t have to kill anyone tonight.
Breaking into a man’s house while he’s inside can be a messy business. A lot can go wrong. If blood was spilled, a life snuffed out, better it not be mine. And I was getting into his house tonight. Deadly or not, a confrontation was guaranteed.
I drove slowly through the Chapel Hill neighborhood, where housing prices started at around half a million, making it a haven for the wealthier citizens of Logan, Michigan. Plenty of security systems, thus low crime. A clear problem for me, as I was planning a home invasion that would likely involve assault or worse. But this was where the teddy bear ordered me to go, so this was where I went.
I saw the man through a large picture window as I slowed to pass his house. Saw him in his living room where bookshelves lined the walls. Saw him reading a hardcover book in a rocking chair next to an unlit fireplace. This was my first time laying eyes on him. I didn’t know much about this asshole, not even his name.
He was an older man with a fox-like face, his gaunt and bony features accentuated by his combed-back graying hair. Easily twenty years older than me, and I was in much better shape. If it came to fists, he wouldn’t stand a chance. But if he was armed, that could be a different story. Yes, I had a gun as well, but if it came down to who drew first or who had better aim, the bastard stood a fighting chance against me.
A gunshot would bring cops. Even if I prevailed in a gun battle, my chances of ending up in custody – already a significant risk – increased greatly.
He lifted a glass and took a sip of red liquid, the blood of a virgin, keeping his eyes on the pages.
“In there, huh?” I asked, reaching over and rubbing the brown fur on Mr. Boof’s shaggy head. I’d buckled him into the passenger seat for the drive over, having swiped him from a young girl’s bedroom earlier in the evening.
Mr. Boof was mangy, at least a decade old. Still had both eyes attached, with a dopey grin sewn onto his face and a red lipstick smudge on his forehead.
I parked my car in the lot of an elementary school four blocks away. Mr. Boof stayed in the car. He got me here, so his work was done. Walking back to the asshole’s house, I found a baseball-sized rock in the gutter. I donned rubber gloves to avoid prints and picked it up. It would be my way in.
It was after ten at night and the street was empty, but several nearby houses had lights on inside. I’m sure I was visible on a few cameras, but all they were seeing was a white guy in a hoodie, slightly taller and bulkier than average, keeping his head down on this cool April night.
Even if the footage got turned over, no one would be able to identify me. Yes, I risked getting caught no matter how you sliced it, but my hastily planned mission was vital.
#
I whipped the rock at a window at the back of his house, triggering an alarm that whoop-whoop-whooped. Figuring it would take at least twenty seconds for him to get to the back of his house, I dove through the shattered window. With my arms raised and a bulletproof vest around my torso, the glass tore my clothes, but didn’t cut my skin.
I risked knocking over furniture and alerting him to the fact that I had come inside, but fortunately only fell to the floor. I’d planned on scrambling under the bed once inside, but saw his bed rested on a base of drawers. Improvising, I got to my feet and ducked into a closet. I faced clothes hanging from a pole but scrunched under them and slowly shut the door.
About two seconds later, the light flipped on, and I heard the son of a bitch mutter “son of a bitch”. He’d seen the broken window and the large rock, and hopefully assumed the vandal had taken off rather than come inside.
I stayed quiet, assuming the alarm was connected to a security company who had alerted local police, and cops were on their way.
This plan relied on a fair amount of luck on my part, that no neighbors had seen my entrance into the house, that he wouldn’t be aware of my intrusion, and that I could locate a hiding spot inside whatever room I landed in before he found me.
But luck was on my side. Fortune had, as promised, favored the bold.
Police arrived a few minutes later, and I heard the shithead talking to them at the front door, then leading them around the side of the house to show them the broken window. The cops left after a few minutes. I knew the procedure was to file a report and give him a case number. Maybe have an additional unit patrol the neighborhood in the event that this suspected troublemaker wasn’t done with their mischief.
He’d call a local company to take care of the broken window, but it wouldn’t be an emergency call since the night was warm enough. They’d take a few hours to show up, or more likely come during the day tomorrow.
I had plenty of time to finish what I came here to do.
I quietly exited the closet, making sure my ski mask and hoodie concealed my face properly.
When I walked into his living room, he looked up in confusion, dropping his book to the floor. He clearly considered this room some kind of peaceful haven, but I was about to turn it into his own private hell.
“Scream, and I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” I said, making my voice gravelly.
“Why the hell are you in my house?” he shouted, rising to his feet. “You have no right!” I had hoped to see fear in his eyes, but he seemed ready to take me on. If getting him on the floor took some effort on my part, that was fine with me.
I slammed a fist into the middle of his face. He went down quickly, as people tend to do when their nose breaks, falling back into his chair.
I dragged him out of the chair by his feet, then flipped him face-down to the floor. I reached into my hoodie pocket and whipped out two big black plastic zip-ties. I pulled his hands behind his back and bound his wrists, then did the same to his ankles, looping this zip-tie through the other one and pulling tight. Less than ten seconds after I entered, the motherfucker was hogtied and bleeding freely.
“You don’t have to do this,” he moaned, rolling over onto his side. “Please, just…don’t hurt me.”
“Too late for that, asshole,” I mumbled.
The large window in his living room made me visible to any curious neighbors or passers-by, so I dragged him out into the hallway for a bit of privacy.
I removed his wallet from his pocket and flipped it open. His name was Anthony Crow. I pocketed the wallet, then patted him down to make sure he didn’t have a cell phone on him.
“So, Mr. Crow. How about we make this short and sweet and you tell me where you keep your cash?”
“My wallet,” he said through his mangled nose, so it sounded like by ball-it. “That’s all I have.” Dat’s all I ‘ave.
“Uh-uh. A guy in this neighborhood has gotta have a stash around, right? Maybe in a wall safe? How about you tell me where it is, and I just grab it and leave? Or we can stretch this out, and I can tear up your place looking for the safe and help myself to some of your nice things. Maybe put you through something terribly, terribly painful. Would you enjoy that, fucker?” I patted him on the cheek.
“I-I-I don’t have a safe, but there’s some cash in my bedroom. In a box in the bottom drawer of my dresser. Upstairs. Take it and leave, please.”
“That’s a start.” I dragged him to a closet in the entranceway, shoving him inside, then shutting him in. I went off in search of his upstairs bedroom. Sure enough, there was a wooden jewelry box with about two hundred dollars cash, which I pocketed.
I came back downstairs and dragged him out of the closet. “Where’s the rest? I know you got more around here somewhere.”
“No. I swear. Please, just leave. You have it all. I won’t tell anyone you were here.”
I leaned close to his ear. “Where is it? Tell me or I go get my tools. I got a drill with your name on it, asshole.”
He flinched, his eyes going wide. “There’s no more.” Deers doe moe.
“I don’t believe you, old-timer! Where’s the rest? Maybe in the basement?”
“No!” he wailed, struggling to get out of the zip ties for a few seconds before realizing it was pointless. “Look, my watch is expensive. It’s a Raymond Weil, worth fifteen hundred dollars. It’s yours! It’s not even stealing, because I’m giving it to you! Keep it! Keep the cash! It’s yours!”
“What, you don’t want me going into your basement?” I asked.
He stopped to catch his breath, then started speaking calmly, though there was still panic in his eyes. “Nothing’s down there. Just my furnace. My washer and dryer.”
“I don’t believe you, Crow.” I walked along the hallway, opening doors and peeking inside, until I came to a locked door in a corner. “This it? This go down?”
“No! I mean yes! But nothing’s down there! I swear!” Dutting’s down dear! I dwear!
“So why’s it locked? Afraid someone’s going to break in and do their laundry? Where’s the key?”
“I…I lost it.”
“Bullshit!” I walked back to him and reached into his front pocket for his keys. He tried rolling around to stop me, but I pinched his broken nose, starting a fresh flow of blood, and that stopped him. He retched and opened his mouth, spewing red vomit.
I snagged the keys, then returned to the door. The third key unlocked it, and, yes, it was a set of wooden stairs, heading down.
He rolled onto his stomach and spun so that he faced me, smearing blood and vomit all over the pristine hardwood floor. “Listen. Listen. Please. Don’t go down there. Please! I beg of you!”
“Why don’t you want me going down there, Crow?”
“Because…” His eyes were pleading with me for some kind of understanding.
“Why?”
“She’s mine,” he muttered.
#
I turned on the lights and cautiously crept down the stairs, my heart pounding. I checked for traps while Crow’s screams rang in my ears, begging me to leave. I feared a neighbor would hear but was still hoping for the best.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I peered across the cool, musty basement. The washer and dryer were situated in front of me, and the furnace stood in the far corner on the left. His basement was rather empty, a few boxes piled up along a wall to the left of the stairs.
To the right stood a cheap metal bed with a single ragged mattress. It was pushed against the wall, with no box spring. An unexpected sight, out of place in this upscale Chapel Hill neighborhood.
Even more out of place was the battered teenage girl handcuffed to the frame, suffering from severe blood loss.
Patricia Padwell was fifteen, a sophomore at Eastern High School. I’d only seen pictures of her before that moment, and she was incredibly photogenic with long strawberry-blonde hair and freckles, a smile in each photo. An honor-roll student, also on the girls’ basketball team.
Sometimes when a kid disappears, no one really notices. Other times, the story spreads like wildfire and everyone’s looking for them. This was a definite wildfire. A security camera from a convenience store captured a pixelated image of Patricia, almost two blocks away, being snatched off the street while walking home from school after basketball practice. She put up a fight, and her attacker beat the hell out of her, then spirited her away in a vehicle. The entire city knew she was in danger, not simply a runaway. And, yeah, being pretty was always an attention-grabber.
As a Detective in the Logan Police Department, my job was to find her. Okay, using psychic abilities to discern her location and then pretending to be a robber in order to get inside the house isn’t exactly part of the job description. But with time running out for her, it was all I could come up with.
She had a split lip and two black eyes, and could barely open her left eye. Trisha was semi-conscious, watching me with a puzzled look on her face, like she wasn’t sure if I was really there or not. She wore red basketball shorts and a white sports bra.
My heart sank as I took in the scene before me. Trisha was propped upright against the headboard, two handcuffs pulling her arms to the sides of the bed frame. A needle in her left arm was held in place with gauze and nursing tape, draining her blood into a medical bag that held a pint or two already. The bag hung from the frame on the bottom of the bed, touching the floor. With the blood Anthony Crow had consumed, she was down roughly three pints. A girl her size only had about seven or eight pints of blood in her body.
Proper channels were normally the right way to go, but they wouldn’t have saved her before the blood in the collecting bag exceeded the blood within her body. Hypovolemic shock, followed by her internal organs shutting down one by one. She’d be dead by midnight, the reason for my actions that night.
I couldn’t let her know that I’d come here to rescue her. I had to make it appear accidental.
“Holy shit!” I shouted, remembering to keep the gravel in my voice. “Are you…? Hey, who are you?”
“Who are you?” she asked, her weary voice brimming with fear.
I shuffled my feet and looked away, as if embarrassed to be caught doing something naughty. “Uh…well…I came here to…to rob the guy. Did…did he do this to you?” I jerked a thumb towards the top of the stairs.
She nodded.
“Oh my God. Are you that girl they’re talking about on the news? Patricia something?”
“Yeah.”
“Everyone’s looking for you! Jesus, this guy took you? Son of a bitch!”
She pulled at her handcuffs, rattling them. “Please…help me.”
“Oh, yeah, sure! Just lookin’ for a quick…” I ran over to her, holding out the set of keys I’d taken off Crow. One had been small, a handcuff key.
I lifted the gauze and withdrew the needle from her arm, then went to both sides of the bed and uncuffed her. I replaced the gauze and tape, not wanting her to lose another drop of blood.
She sat up, mumbling “Oh God” over and over while she rocked in place.
There was a blanket by the side of the bed, which I draped over her slight frame.
“I’m sorry,” I said to her, “but I can’t stick around. They’ll arrest me if I’m still here.”
She nodded in understanding but continued rocking in place and hugging herself. She was pale and cold, but seemed aware enough that I doubted she was going into shock quite yet. But the sooner she got some plasma in her, the better.
“Come on, kid. Let’s getcha outta here.” I put my arm around the girl and helped her to her feet, wrapping the blanket around her. As she walked, she was limping and wincing with each step of her right foot.
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, peering up with concern. “Is he up there?”
“Oh, I got him tied up good. You ain’t gotta worry about him, Trisha.” Damn it, I shouldn’t have called her by her nickname. They’d been calling her ‘Patricia’ on the news. I knew the nickname from talking to her folks. “Here, lean on me.”
I slipped an arm around her waist and led her up the stairs. Ascending was painful for her, as her ankle was badly sprained, but she couldn’t spend another minute in Anthony Crow’s suburban dungeon.
As we came out of the stairwell, the bastard started screaming at me. “No! She’s mine! Mine!”
I led Trisha into the kitchen, and she took a seat at the table.
“Her blood tastes so sweet, so very sweet,” said Crow. “Don’t you know that the blood of a virgin keeps you young?”
I was furious that he was further dehumanizing this poor girl within earshot, so I went over and gave him a swift kick in the stomach. “You sick fuck! She’s just a kid, you asshole!”
“Please, let me go. You don’t understand! You can also…”
I kicked him in the crotch this time, hard as I could. He started dry-heaving.
“Do us all a favor, and shut the fuck up,” I told him.
He looked up at me with terror, finally realizing that he might very well die tonight. Crow was a pitiful sight, covered in blood and vomit, and he’d pissed himself on top of it all. I knew that ending his life would be a stupid move. Killing him would make them search for me harder. As long as my own actions weren’t nearly as bad as his, I stood a decent chance of getting away with tonight’s crimes.
But I still kind of wanted to kill the fucker.
I turned away and went back to Trisha.
Still dazed, weak from blood loss, a thin smile had formed on her lips. I spotted a black cell phone on the kitchen counter, which I took and dialed 9-1-1, then handed to her, telling myself that killing Crow would make this even more traumatic for the kid than it already was. A part of her may have enjoyed seeing him take one to the snozberries, but watching him be slaughtered by her rescuer would certainly screw her up.
The operator asked her what her emergency was. Trisha didn’t respond until after the operator had asked it again, and she finally started talking. “My name is Patricia Padwell…”
I went to the sink and filled a glass with water, which I set in front of Trisha as she talked to the 9-1-1 operator. She needed some kind of fluid in her. She looked up at me and mouthed the words thank you.
Whether I got away with it or not, I’d made the right call tonight. I knew it at that very moment. Zero regrets.
I went back to Crow, who tried dragging himself away from me, shaking his head. “No…no…” Doe…doe…
I grabbed him and shoved him back into the closet, so Trisha wouldn’t have to look at him.
I left his home and ran back to my car, where Mr. Boof waited. “Your mistress is safe,” I told him. “Just a little longer, okay?”
He said nothing, though the grin sewn onto his face somehow seemed a little wider than before.
David E Anderson - Author 