In the Nick of Time (89 page)

He walked carefully around, his shoes sinking into the plush, light colored carpet. He ran his foot over his path every few steps, sweeping his trail away, ridding the evidence of his excursion. Not a thing appeared out of place and he had to ensure it stayed that way.

Though the furnishings were somewhat dated, they were quality made, the construction solid. The classic décor featured lots of solid wood furniture mixed in with a touch of vibrancy in the form of modern decorative pillows and sculpted, clear glass knick-knacks splashed here and there. On the walls hung replica oil paintings with frosted, gold frames depicting ponds, mountains, and nature scenes galore and there appeared to be one too many Tiffany styled lamps dotted across the small living room. The only sound proved that of a rather plain looking clock ticking on the wall and the motor of an old refrigerator that hummed from the kitchen, a short distance away.

The living room boasted a large screen television that swallowed one entire wall. Oddly enough, two frilly rose red curtains framed it, the old fashioned kind with a scalloped detail as if a show were about to start in a fancy funeral parlor. The thought of it sent a chill up his spine. Using caution, Nick opened one closet door after another, and studied the contents. At one in particular, he paused and swallowed harshly as he took note of two jackets hanging inside, far too small for a grown man of Christopher’s stature. The fellow easily stood six feet tall, and the jackets were a spring green, each of them with pearly pink buttons and faux sapphire adornments along the mint-colored collars.

He pushed them aside, pulled the old cord inside to switch on the light and looked in the back of the closet to find a strange looking chart with numbers and letters on it. The poster reminded him of a growth diagram, and included countless initials by each possible height record. One set of initials had a heart drawn by it, colored in dark pink from what appeared to be a marker.

… So many initials… so many…

As the evidence grew, his heart beat faster, then broke, the pieces pulsating at each new discovery. He closed the closet door with care, but was certain to put the jackets back together just as he’d found them before he’d moved them apart like draperies to see the light of dawn. Taking a deep breath, he made his way into the kitchen to take a closer look. All of the appliances were older, yet meticulously clean and built to last. The scent of bleach overwhelmed him.

“Damn it…”

Placing his arm over his nose, he coughed a time or two, blinking from the fumes and lack of exhaust to cart the strong odor away. He approached the stove and looked inside a large white pot sealed with a clear lid. Removing the top to view the contents, he found nothing except a shallow amount of lukewarm water. Yet, beside the pot, on the counter, lay a pair of green metal tongs, almost as if something had been recently pulled out from the pot.

Nick opened the refrigerator, noting the carefully placed items, all facing forward—the thing a person suffering from OCD would dream to see on a daily basis and bask in the restricted, methodical glory. The shelves were immaculate, with items arranged just so. He opened the crisper, taking note how all the fresh fruit was stored on one side, and all the vegetables on another. His lips kinked in a grin as he also realized the items were placed in alphabetic order…

The apples on the far right, followed by blueberries, sliced cantaloupe—and so it went.

He closed the refrigerator, then walked out of the kitchen, casting his attention up the short flight of stairs.

He struggles with his sexuality…

Oliver’s words rang in his mind just at that very moment… Next in the mental parade was Floyd, the brief fellow officer who was afraid of his own shadow and addicted to the fear of all that went bump in the night…

The 73
^rd
precinct… Seven plus three is ten… Ten in numerology is one…You’re number one… front line…

Oliver’s world was comprised of an obsession, similar to OCD. He had little to no control over his attractions, and hated himself for the sick, twisted weakness that thrived within him. His intellect struggled with his illness, yet his body yearned for that which was forbidden, and his desire grew in the most obscene of ways. Regardless, he was aware of his plight, tried desperately to wrestle it under control. Nick saw to it that he had, in one way or another…

Floyd’s world was comprised of a strong desire, almost a deep need to make sense of the unexplainable, to create reason and rationale in a confusing, distressed world. He found it in prophesies, graphs and patterns. He found it in numbers… Numbers are rational, numbers are order… numbers are infinite.

And finally, there was Nick’s
own
inner demon to contend with…

The one that needed recognition, but wanted no attention at all… The old part of him that straddled the fence, doing slick, sneaky, despicable things behind a turned back and a restful eye.

A successful thief relies on order, too. He’s gotta know where everything is located in advance, map a plan. You don’t just walk in a damn place and take it over. That’s sloppy, that’s how fuckers get caught, but I survived. A skilled thief uses the principals of hide and go seek, relies on order to catch his prize … He lives for the thrill, but doesn’t let the thrill become so addictive that he loses focus. You gotta keep track, you have to know where you’ve already been, figure out the labyrinth, the maze of new surroundings—and then you have to continue to move forward… unseen, unscathed, and weighed down with your loot…

The twists and turns in Nick’s mind meandered on, rusty wheels spinning, thankful for the encore. He made the shit go round, play out like a vinyl record from his mother’s old collection, one he’d never heard, but that sounded oh so familiar nevertheless.

If this is the dollhouse, the place Christopher feels most comfortable in, where would he put his ornaments, his playthings?

In the bedroom…

Rest. Sex. Getting dressed. Pretty dolls getting their hair combed in the mirrors…

He tiptoed up the steps, slowly… so slowly, they creaked under his weight.

Though he’d cased the place, he wasn’t convinced the man hadn’t put some sort of booby traps in place to deter intruders. After all, he’d gone to great lengths, albeit rudimentary ones, to capture unauthorized visits and incidents on camera. Nick never put much past anyone, so he braced himself, remained careful, alert, and ready to shoot on a fraction of a notice…

As he ran his hand ran along the banister, he took note of a slight stickiness.

So unlike a man who keeps such a nice home…

Nick looked at his hand to identify the substance, noticing redness upon his palm. He sniffed it…

Jam. It’s strawberry jam…

He continued up the steps and spotted three closed doors to his right that extended down an unusually long hallway for such a small house. Two closed doors stood to his left. The corridor was unnervingly dark; only whispers of light reflected from a window all the way at the other end, and those ray rations proved meager. Painted sepia, the window looked as if it had been covered with thick motor oil that began to break down after years and years of exposure to sunshine. The truth always came out in the light…

The dollhouse had cracked, and now, he crawled on in…

Which one of these is the master bedroom, hmmm?

He took hold of a dented and bruised doorknob on his left and opened the thing, hating the way it squeaked and whined, told his stories to the gloomy surroundings. The old, shabby floorboards compressed and groaned under his weight with each careful step he took. He flicked on the light. A dull, lion clawed bathtub with a sheer curtain pulled around the back of it came into view. On the nearby soap dish sat two reddish brown bars. The pedestal sink showcased a little water in the basin as if something had been recently rinsed or washed in it. Nothing appeared out of place, but he knew better—for the human eyes lied too, although not quite as often as the artificial lens. He made his way to the small trash container. Inside lay a plastic grocery bag tied neatly in a bow fashioned like that of a hobo knapsack. He made a mental note to grab it on his way out…

Tick tock…tick tock…

He journeyed down the hall, persistent, trudging onward, pushing himself further and further.

Where is the goddamn prize?! Which one of these doors, huh?
Taking a gamble, he decided to go for the door that was farthest away.

If I cherished something, was obsessed with it, I’d want to keep it safe… away from the world… afraid someone may steal it.

HIDE. AND. SEEK.

Where is the King’s treasure?

He made his way to another door and jiggled the knob.

Locked.

His chest rose and fell, hard and tight. And he smiled.

Hmmm, you wanna play? This is child’s play. What the fuck you got in here, man? Let’s find out…

Pulling out the two bobby pins out of his pocket once more, warming them to his touch, he dropped to his knees and worked them inside the keyhole, peeling the black finish away in the process. The damn thing resisted him, the keyhole fought back, but he was not one to throw in the towel at such a minor setback. A few moments later, the white wooden door sprung open. He hit the light, revealing a crystal ceiling fixture and an area covered in pink and white, a frilly ménage—the things dollhouse dreams are made of…

Well, well, well…

Nick stormed the place, opening and closing closet doors, dresser drawers and the like. It seemed each compartment was filled with lacey, pastel colored dresses and little sparkling shoes…

…Like a bed or couch. Somewhere closed off, hidden, you know?

His baby’s words came back to him; he suddenly halted and looked towards the king-sized bed with its pleated canopy in a cream shade. When looking for criminals, derelicts, and simply people in a world of trouble, he and his partner
always
checked under the bed if the person that let them inside declared the perp wasn’t there. The attempt to squeeze under bedclothes or to fool them with sophomoric attempts at disguise proved commonplace for someone trying to escape the police. This bed, however, appeared undisturbed. The damn thing looked as if it hadn’t been touched in ages. It was simply perfect,
too
perfect.

He dropped to the floor, wiggled about, and flung the bed skirt upward, hopeful he’d see a few young girls with their mouths taped and hands bound in fetal positions, or worst yet, the remains of some—but instead, he found nothing but the mouth of darkness, and the blackness remained silent, its lips sealed.

“Goddamn it!”

Streams of sweat dripped down his face. The room felt unbelievably hot and a hard-hitting headache had started to throb within his skull. He got to his feet and surveyed the place like an overseer gifted with new land.

Why is it so damn hot in here? That’s not my nerves… no, it’s like there’s a furnace running nonstop…

He noticed an intricately carved fireplace in the room, yet it was unlit, dark, and ashy. The deep, murky four-sided gateway of the thing hung onto a cloak of blackness. It definitely had not been used anytime recently and Nick surmised it was no longer functional, a simply ornamental feature. Furthermore, two two-by-four boards had been laid across the fireplace, shutting it out, with shiny silver nails nailed into the wood, as if trying to keep the Devil from entering the dwelling…or in this case, escaping it.

He looked back at the bed, trusting in Oliver’s theory and believing in Taryn’s vision of a doll hideaway. But if he believed them, why did his eyes tell him otherwise?

Nick, you’re a leader…

Floyd’s words reverberated, haunting him in his time of despair…

You gotta find them! You have to!

Aren’t leaders kings and queens, too? Kings have a throne and dungeons, too…

He dropped back down onto his knees, pulled up the bed skirt again and pushed along the sides of the boards, beating them like bad habits. Led by premonition—a monster seeking a monster—he dug into his mind hard and heavy, got on the man’s level, sank to an all-time low. Pushing and prodding, he clawed away as moisture oozed from every pore of his upper body and his eyes burned with freshly fallen perspiration…

And then, his moist palms hit something small, metallic…

He cracked a grin, tasting his salty sweat as it rolled over his upper lip, and got a good grasp of the metal thing, lodged snugly between the bed rail and thick mattress.

“Mmm,” he grunted. Maneuvering himself in an upward position, he pulled it out and admired his prize for a second or two…

A golden door key…

My, my, my, Christopher… Now what do we have here?