Don't Read After Dark: Keep the lights on while reading these! (A McCray Horror Collection) (47 page)

“That won’t be necessary.” He looked over at Cecilia. “However, I do have six tickets burning a hole in my pocket.”

Even Francesca was beside herself. “Oh, we’ll be your bestest of friends!”

“So, are you girls interested in going?”

“Yes!” Helen and Francesca yelled.

Horrified, Cecilia countered, “No!”

Michael frowned, but Helen threw her arm over Cecilia’s shoulder and pulled her in tightly. “Don’t you worry, Michael. We’ll get her to come around.”

Normally, Cecilia appreciated Helen’s jubilance. It helped to counteract Cecilia’s distinct lack of jubilance. However, in this her friend had gone too far.

“Well, I certainly hope you can,” Michael responded.

Abruptly, Cecilia removed Helen’s arm from her shoulder and said, “Don’t hold your breath, or anything else that might give you a headache while waiting.” She knew that she had been too harsh, but all Cecilia wanted to do was get out of there and get home.

“See you tomorrow,” she said, slightly less angered, and headed off.

“Hold on,” Michael said as he trotted up next to her. “How about I drive everyone home?”

Helen and Francesca clapped their hands with joy. They really were easy to please.

“I really need to find Jeremy and walk home with him.”

Helen rolled her eyes rather theatrically. “
Please!
He hasn’t shown up to walk with you since elementary school.”

Cecilia was about to argue when John drove up in his convertible. “How about a ride home?”

What was it with John? She thought he had accepted her thousandth “no.” But looking over at the dark-haired Michael, Cecilia was pretty sure what had stoked John’s renewed enthusiasm. Jealousy.

While she really did
not
want a ride home with Michael, the thought of walking home and having John trail her the whole time kind of spooked Cecilia in a way it never had. John’s earlier outburst had lingered throughout the day.

With all the stress at home, she really did not need any more now.

To everyone’s surprise, and particularly her own, Cecilia said to John, “Sorry, but Michael’s already offered.”

There was the slightest delay, and then Helen and Francesca whooped.

Cecilia was glad someone was happy about it.

* * *

As the car skidded around the corner, Paxton noticed that Ruth grabbed the door handle. At their speed, he wasn’t surprised. However, it seemed that her hand still shook. The aftermath of adrenaline from the near miss back at the bookstore. She hid it well, but not from him. He had felt her sigh of relief when the owner of the store had agreed not to lodge a complaint. Of course, Paxton doubted that the guy knew exactly how close he had come to getting shot. How could he?

But Paxton had seen Ruth’s stance change. Her arm had stiffened, and her back leg was ready to take the kick of the recoil—all those subtle movements one’s body makes right before firing. Paxton hadn’t even been sure that the guy wasn’t Darby. Sure, he had told Ruth that he realized the body over the store owner’s shoulder was a statue, and therefore couldn’t be Darby, but he had flat-out lied to his partner.

He no more knew that the bookstore owner was innocent than Ruth had. Paxton simply did not want Ruth to have to be the one to pull the trigger. In another split second, Paxton would have done it for her. It wasn’t that he wanted the glory of taking out a serial killer. No, he wanted to be the one to fire in case it wasn’t.

Paxton knew of Ruth’s last partner. How she had left Cincinnati under a cloud of suspicion. Not for any of her actions, but for her partner’s. Everyone felt she was covering for the guy. That she had torpedoed her own career for a dirty cop.

Paxton never, ever wanted to put Ruth in that position. If anyone was going to go down for something on his watch, he would. Which, given his current state of disarray, would be a pretty easy sell.

Luckily, no shots had been fired, and if anything, the owner, Mr. Howard, had turned out to be completely helpful to the investigation. Not only did the guy know their suspect, he too thought that Darby was≠ a bit “off.” The guy had volunteered that Darby often went to the YMCA to shower, since he thought Satan stalked the bathroom at the halfway house. Which seemed pretty much on par with Darby’s mental state.

Siren blaring, they streaked down the road as cars pulled to the side, giving them a nearly empty street. They were making great time, which actually concerned Paxton. What would they find at the YMCA? If Darby was their guy and they did corner him, how would Ruth react?

Would she hold back, not willing to commit herself to firing out of fear of another mistake, like the deaf man? Or would she be trying to
prove
she wasn’t affected and be a little too trigger-happy? He had seen officers go either way.

Paxton had been slightly disappointed that the bookstore owner hadn’t filed a complaint. He had no doubt that Ruth would have been cleared. Nearly firing upon a deaf man carrying a life-size statue while on the hunt for a serial killer was about as solid extenuating circumstances as you could get. But the complaint would have invoked paid leave for Ruth and given her the time to regroup.

Unfortunately, the bookstore owner seemed to understand completely how it had looked, and had even shaken Ruth’s hand in thanks. Which appeared to unnerve Ruth even more. Sometimes having someone yell and scream gave you something to push back against. While proving your case, you actually began to accept your own innocence. Now, Paxton could feel Ruth pulling inward, replaying the event over and over again. She hadn’t even argued with the decision to take his car. Fast food wrappers and all.

Despite their breakneck speed, Ruth stared out the window blankly, her eyes flickering back and forth, rewinding the tape of what went down in the dingy storeroom. Paxton had to do something to pull her out of it before they arrived.

“Are you sure we are heading to the right YMCA? The store owner wasn’t sure which one Darby went to.”

Ruth seemed as if she were waking up from a nap. “Oh, here.” She consulted the map on her phone. She seemed her steadiest with a task at hand. “This west-side location is on his route between the halfway house and the bookstore.”

Paxton pretended to look at the map, but she pulled it away.

“But you already knew why we were going to this particular YMCA,” Ruth said, with a halfhearted smile. “Look. I’m fine, really.”

Well, she’d best be, because they were at the YMCA. Paxton hit the brakes as they careered into the parking lot. He pulled them to a stop across two handicapped parking spaces. One of the few perks of the job. You got to flout parking placards.

Ruth exited the car first—wanting to put as much physical distance between herself and the bookstore incident as she could. They were through the door and to the check-in counter within steps.

Ruth flashed her badge, all the shakes gone. “Detectives Matte and Prover. Do you have a sign-in roster?”

The skinny guy behind the counter froze, his eyes darting left and right, like a mouse trying to plan an escape from a cat.

“We’re not here for you, dude,” Paxton tried to reassure him. “The sooner we are on to someone else, the less time we will have to look at you.”

That seemed to break through the guy’s panic. “Yeah, sure. Here it is.”

He pushed a plant out of the way to reveal a clipboard with a pen tied to a string. Very classy. Ruth’s finger went down the page until she tapped a name.

Darby’s name.

“Has he left yet?” she asked.

The guy looked down at the name. “You mean the fat guy with all the crosses?”

“Yep, that pretty much describes him,” Paxton replied.

“I saw him hit the showers a few minutes ago.”

“Where are the showers?” Ruth asked.

The guy pointed down a long corridor. “The locker room is down that way and the showers are all the way in the back.”

Without a word, Paxton and Ruth broke into a run.

Hopefully, there weren’t any deaf guys looking to take a shower this morning.

* * *

Leaving the hustle and bustle of the locker room, Arnie felt the steam hit him in the face as he entered the dry sauna. Yet, it wasn’t hot enough for him. He crossed over to the bed of heated rocks and poured more water over them. The moisture crackled and popped, dancing along the black surface. A loud
hiss
filled the foggy room.

Dipping the ladle into the water, he scooped more onto the rocks. He wanted the humidity to last. His workout had kicked his ass, and he wanted to sweat it out. Otherwise, he would be as rickety as his old man in the morning.

Pulling the towel from around his waist, he laid it out onto the wooden bench, then followed suit. Closing his eyes, Arnie let the heat soak into him. He really shouldn’t have done a third set, but that cute chick in the tight unitard had set up shop right next to him. What could he do but show off for her?

Suddenly, the light went out.

“Damn it! Who did that?”

He hadn’t heard the door open. It must be bad wiring. He really needed to get a raise from the pizza place so he could afford to go to a real gym.

Arnie contemplated just leaving the lights out, but he really didn’t want another guy coming and tripping into him. He wasn’t a homophobe, but come on—he really didn’t want another naked dude on top of him.

In the dim light leaking under the door, Arnie swung his legs over the bench, got up, and groped for the light switch. He finally felt the cool plastic of the switch, but before he could flip it, he felt a sharp pain.

Gasping, he jerked his hand back. He couldn’t believe what he saw. Or didn’t see. His pinkie was missing. It was
gone!
Blood spurted from the wound, splattering and hissing on the rocks.

How could his finger be gone?

The reality hit him, though. No matter how, his finger
was
gone. Arnie screamed as he went for the door, but that same stinging sensation slid across his throat. Blood gushed from his neck, raining down on the rocks. A pink steam rose up. Arnie grabbed for the wound, but not even his hands could stanch the bleeding.

Slumping to the floor, Arnie saw a pair of dark shoes move out from under a black cape.

“Please, no,” he tried to whisper.

“Oh, please, do beg,” a mechanical voice replied. “It makes it all the more satisfying.”

* * *

Ruth went to open the door to the men’s locker room, but Paxton put a hand on hers.

“How about if I go in first?”

“I said I was fine,” she answered, getting a bit miffed at his overprotectiveness. She wasn’t really fine, but she hated being reminded of that fact.

“No, I was more talking about the whole ‘bunch-o-naked’ guys in there.”

She raised an eyebrow. “After ten years on the job, I think it’s a little late for modesty.”

Paxton still shook his head. “No, I meant
you
going in there is going to cause quite the stir, and we probably don’t want to tip off Darby.”

She went to argue, but a man burst out the door screaming, “Help!”

Before either of them could react, three more half-dressed men rushed out after him. Paxton frowned and pulled his gun.

“Police! Make way!”

As Paxton shoved another panicked man out of the way so that they could get into the locker room, Ruth could see the look on his face.
He’s here
. Pulling her own weapon, Ruth tried to block out the memory of the deaf man’s terrified face. How she had nearly killed an unarmed man.

But with the screams and shouts, Ruth doubted that whoever was in the locker room was unarmed. Men streaked by, literally, as they fled the locker room. She grabbed one of them by the arm, his skin still slick with soap. “What happened?”

Panicked, he shook his head—spraying her with water. “I don’t know. But they said they found a body in the steam room.”

Ruth let him go on as they made their way to the flickering “Sauna” sign. Paxton arrived first and waited until she was in position to back him up. Ruth gave him a firm nod. She wanted him to know that she had his back, no matter what they found on the other side.

Paxton jerked the sauna door open. “Police!”

Once inside the sauna, it was difficult to see. A pink fog permeated the room. The bitter tang of iron hit her nose as she tried to make out what had happened.

“Freeze!” Paxton barked. She followed his gaze down as the ruddy fog swirled. It parted to show Darby on his knees next to something. Darby rocked back and forth, mumbling a prayer.

Apparently, Paxton did not want to repeat the near mistake from earlier in the day as he grabbed the suspect by the back of the collar and hauled him backward.

“No!” Darby yelled. “You need to let me finish!”

As Paxton secured the suspect, Ruth moved toward the object on the floor. As the fog thinned, Ruth slowed. This was no mannequin.

It was a man,
eviscerated
.

Bowel was strewn across the tile floor. The pooled blood was bubbling in a sickening rhythm. Ruth suppressed a gag as she knelt down to check a pulse. It seemed extremely redundant, but she had to be sure.

Of course, she found no heartbeat under her fingers. She looked up at Paxton, who gulped and looked away.

“He’s dead.” She scanned the room. For all the blood and the ragged wound, there was no knife. Rising, she turned to Darby. “Where’s the weapon?”

The man seemed in a sick trance as he rocked back and forth. “It is in God’s hands.”

Paxton swung Darby around to face him. Anger radiated from her partner. “We need something a little more specific, asshole!”

Darby made a futile attempt to rush toward the body. “You must let me finish!”

“Um, that is so
never
going to happen, perv,” Paxton said as he slammed Darby against the wall. As some of the braver men gathered at the doorway, Ruth put a hand on Paxton’s arm.

“Just read him his rights, Pax. We don’t want any wiggle room in his confession.”

Her partner’s nostrils flared as he looked down at the defiled body. She squeezed his arm. Ruth understood exactly how he felt, but she did not want a major conviction,
another
major conviction, overruled because of allegations of police brutality.