The Monocle Man Page 15

  While driving, Reynolds thinks back on the call from his brother. Not about the case exactly, but just in general. Some time had passed since Ben last called him. Even longer still that Reynolds called Ben. They didn’t have frequent conversations. Not that there was anything wrong with their relationship. In fact, they were tight as brothers go. But they led two very different lives. Ben’s was one that started and stopped in the little town they’d grown up in, in Northern New Hampshire. A quaint, quiet little place called Brookwise. He’d gone to the academy, following in his big brother’s footsteps. But he found contentment where he was. And of course, like small-town people do, he’d met a girl, settled down and gave Reynolds both a niece and nephew. Ben also had another on the way in two or three months. Reynolds had always been happy for Ben. He had a great life. A content one. But not one where Reynolds saw himself.

  Reynolds was a driven man. Determined to a fault. Like most with that amount of determination, he kept himself busy at moving forward and continuing to excel. This left little time for other things. Some would call it obsessive. His little brother did such a thing on occasion. Though it unnerved Reynolds, he also understood where Ben was coming from. Reynolds watched his niece and nephew grow up through holiday postcards and email. If asked, he might guess the oldest was now somewhere in the vicinity of eight years old. He’d see them and the rest of his family on occasions where he could get the time off. No, that wasn’t right. Not in truth. When he took the time off. And that was always a hard decision for someone who worked all the time. Time has a way of passing; fleeting before our very eyes. Reynolds, thinking back, is a little ashamed so much of it passed since last they spoke.

  And now this. He’s inspired to believe the call had been about nothing more than the missing boy. But he knows Ben better than that. Or at least, thinks he does. There’d been a certain kind of pause in his little brother’s voice when asked about his reasons behind the call. Reynolds clenches his jaw, jutting it out and back as he often does when pondering, and holds tighter the steering wheel, trying to sift through Ben’s words. But so little was spoken. Maybe Reynolds was allowing himself to assume more of the matter, regardless of what his gut tells him. And so, instead… the case.

  Reynolds’ car crosses the state line into New Hampshire before five in the morning. Approaching the state, the sky had grown darker, even though the sun hadn’t come up yet. But the moon soon found itself lost behind burgeoning cloud cover, and a slight drizzle bounced off the hood and windshield of his car.

  Now a full twenty minutes into the state, the drizzle turns to large, fluttering flakes of snow, and Reynolds wonders how he missed the forecast. He reaches forward and turns up the radio, surfing the dial for some news and weather. Moments later, he catches it. Sure enough, the news is not good. What’s supposed to be a little snow now looks to be much more in certain areas. He frowns as the weatherman talks.

  Ahead, his headlamps graze across a small green sign pointing toward a township. Reynolds takes the right and stays along the road until he comes to a four-way. The roofs of the building are collecting a light dusting, but the streets here are still wet and black. He turns right toward a glowing neon sign fastened above an old-time looking diner. The perfect place to grab another coffee and breakfast for the road. The snow doesn’t scare him much. Not at all really. He’s a New Englander after all. But his stomach screams for a bite to eat. If he wants to keep his concentration with the weather blowing in, he’ll need a cup of caffeine.

  THE WAREHOUSE

  THE WAREHOUSE…

  Some time later, the first of the girls, the tall, skinny blond pulls open her eyes. They don’t flutter open, but shoot open in violent remembrance of the man who’d been smiling from the front seat of a car. Her head pounds from the residuals of whatever he used to incapacitate her. Though Heather doesn’t remember being attacked. Or the moment she’d been injected with something. But the lingering fog in her head remains a reminder that something transpired. And of course, the man. That smile. His eyes burned into the back of her mind, now surface in a rush of fear.

  She’s lying prone, but squirms, hands tied behind her back and struggles to sit. Her hair hangs in long strands across her face, some having pulled free of her ponytail. She blows at these errant strands. Especially the locks toying with her vision. Someone stripped her outdoor attire, leaving her in a t-shirt, jeans and socks. She swings her head, finding the garments in a pile not a few feet away, recognizing the jacket her friend Kaitlin wore among the pile. Wonders where her friend is now.

  The footsteps come from behind; a casual gait. She squirms more when a hand brushes the hair from her face, fingers sliding across the skin on her cheek.

  “I’m glad to see you’ve woken.” A voice says. The cadence, even and unrushed. An average voice of a man calm, collected. “The fog will soon clear.”

  Heather mumbles something incoherent, now aware of the rag stuffed in her mouth. Her arms struggle to pry free of the bonds, with no success. And as the hand brushes a few more strands from her face, she leans forward onto her knees, and before she falls, catches herself with one foot planted on the ground. Soon, she’s up on the other foot and before she knows it, they’re moving beneath her. Running. She barely notices the cold of the concrete seeping in through the thin fabric of her socks. Her eyes scan the surroundings.

  The warehouse is huge. Empty. To the left and right, either side fades into shadows. But ahead, she makes out the door that will secure her freedom. Ahead, there is enough light streaming through an overhead window to show her the way. Her feet move faster in response to this discovery. She shrugs forward in her gait a little. Her hands bound behind her back almost cause her to stumble. The soles of her feet pad against the concrete floor of her prison. The door to her escape nears. She gains ground every moment until she’s within ten feet from the exit.

  From nowhere, a hand reaches out and grabs the back of her neck. A bolt of pain rushes through her spine and the grip tightens; yanks her backward. She almost collapses at the violent nature of her recapture, but instead falls to one knee. The tears come. And someone lifts her. Not with grace, but in a jolt, up off her feet. The fingers and thumb of that hand grind into the base of her skull as she’s carried back across the warehouse. She wonders what manner of creature holds her so tight; with such strength. She isn’t a large girl, but still, feels the tips of her toes scraping against the floor as he hauls her back to where he’d first bound her.

  With a thud she hits the floor. He doesn’t let her down delicately, but rather, drops her. And with her hands tied she lands awkward, one foot twisting, ankle wrenched and plummets to the floor on one shoulder. A burst of bright light hits her eyes as the pain in her shoulder explodes and an additional discomfort creeps up in her mouth. She tastes blood. She swishes her tongue around inside her mouth, feeling the raw, torn edge of the muscle and wonders if she didn’t bite a piece off. Though the pain is excruciating, it also helps maintain clarity. Heather tumbles over onto her back and looks up into the face of the man who holds them hostage. He’s not in the least, what she expects.

  “Get up,” he instructs. The command isn’t forceful, though holds so much weight. He speaks soft, just above a whisper, but the voice is far from strained. A voice which demands of her and relents in making obvious he’s not to be trifled with. A voice which requires no repeats or second commands. On some other day, she thinks a moment, though only a moment, she might find the warmth of that voice welcoming. But not today.

  His eyebrows raise in the slightest as if to reiterate that which he desires. She struggles a time, trying once again to anchor herself and allow a position which would help her get to her feet. Finally, she gets both tucked beneath her, propping up on her knees, and manages one foot after the other till she stands. In silence, he circles. His chest brushes the side of her arm as he runs a hand across the back of her shoulders to her neck, where they linger a moment too long, before running to her hands tied behin
d her. She shudders at the touch. He snickers. His hands, warm and gentle, undo the restraints, but hold tight each hand in his. She understands the warning. To run would be futile. Escape would only lead to things unimaginable. But then, what did he want with her? She let the thought linger only a fraction of time before conceding whatever it is, can’t be good. The thought of what he might do makes her stomach lurch, and she leans forward an inch, a reaction to the pains in her abdomen. His hands clasp hers even tighter. And yes, she understands, he’d never let her go. Not until he gets what he wants. Panic closes her eyes.

  Gradually he lets each of her hands go, and his footsteps land on the concrete until the man moves in front of her. Her breathing, heavy and sporadic, sounds off the walls of the cavernous warehouse; a nervous echo which grows louder with each breath. She can’t say how much time passed, but soon pulls open her eyes. He stands several feet away, arms placed at his sides, gaze fixed on her. When she sees him and flinches, his smile grows wider.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says. The girl remains silent, unsure how to interpret the compliment. Is it even a compliment? She isn’t sure. He raises his eyebrows as if expecting a retort.

  “Tha… tha… thank… you,” she stammers, not wanting to say the words.

  “You’re welcome child.” He steps closer, eyes running the length of her body. She can’t help squeeze her arms in front of her as if embarrassed. There’s a small part of him which still hungers for the flesh, even though he no longer feels the warmth of it upon his skin. He wonders for a moment whether he should indulge himself further than he intended. He knows also, the impact his eyes are having on the girl. Even dressed, she feels stripped of everything.

  THE DINER

  THE DINER…

  “What’ll it be?” The lady behind the counter asks, even before Reynolds drops his backside on the stool. The red vinyl seat, though faded and worn, much like the chrome that used to surround it, is surprising still resilient. He settles down on the cushion and laces his fingers in front of him on the countertop, leaning in on his elbows.

  “Coffee. Please.”

  “Cream and sugar, honey?”

  “Black will do, thanks.”

  The waitress, in her late forties maybe, saunters away, her wide hips swaying and nearly missing either side of the counter. Reynolds looks around, swiveling on his stool. The place is reminiscent of every diner he’s ever seen on television or in the movies. There’s one like this a few blocks down from the precinct, though it’s been renovated and somehow lost all of its charm. A forced vintage fakery. This place however, retains all the charm of its age. Everything is worn down, used; a portrait of the lives which have come in and out of here throughout the years, leaving the smallest pieces of themselves behind when they go. His attention is disrupted by the clanging of the saucer and cup the waitress sets in front of him. She does this with one hand. Even before the cup settles, her other hand tilts the coffee pot and the hot black liquid cascades into it, threatening to jump the rim, but falling short, and swirling into place.

  “Thank you,” Reynolds nods.

  “Anything else dear?”

  “What’s good?” The woman guffaws at his question. The choppy laugh hangs in the air a moment while her wide mouth shows her teeth, a few turning a nicotine brown.

  “It’s all good,” she answers when she done cackling.

  “Suggestions?”

  “You eating here, or taking with?”

  “Taking with,” he says, knowing he should be back on the road as soon as possible.

  “Breakfast or something else?”

  “Isn’t everything breakfast if you eat it before noon?” She laughs again, slapping the counter with one hand and holding the other across her stomach.

  “You got that right! But it’s a wide open menu here. You can have whatever you want whenever you want.”

  “If you had to choose?” He asks.

  “The hangover is pretty damn good if you’re looking for beef on a bun. It’s got fried egg on it, so I guess that makes it breakfast,” she adds with a wink. “Otherwise, I’d lean toward the sunny-side piglet. That one comes on a croissant. But you can have it on any damn thing you like.”

  “The hangover then,” Reynolds concedes, thinking even though it’s barely breakfast for most, a burger sounds good. “On the rarer side if you can.”

  “Sure thing! And we can.” she speaks, slapping a hand on the counter. Yells over her shoulder, “One hangover Charlie! Red!” She turns her head toward the window looking into the kitchen. “To go!”

  From beyond the window Reynolds hears the suction of a fridge door being pulled open, a man humming and soon after, the clanging of metal utensils. He realizes how hungry he is as soon as the meat hits the grill top. He can’t see it, but he sure can hear it. The sizzle whistles through the opening followed by the smell of cooking beef. The whole time, the humming never stops. Reynolds strains to listen a moment, piping one ear in that direction, attempting to make out the tune.

  “Careless Whisper,” the waitress says.

  “Sorry. What?”

  “Careless Whisper. The tune Chuck’s humming. Looked like you were listening.”

  “Oh, yes. I was. I couldn’t place it,” Reynolds adds with a smile. “Careless Whisper? Really?”

  “Yes sir. And don’t ask me why. He’ll tell ya he’s just humming any old tune. But I know it well enough.” At this she gives Reynolds a wink and a smile. “Old Chuck used to play the sax back when I still had legs for dancing. He was a hell of a player too! His band never did play that song. But I heard it a time or two when I’d walk up the street to see him at his apartment. Sure enough, he’d be standing in his room, window wide, belting the solo on his sax, just like on the record. But ask him about it and he’d deny, deny. I don’t think Wham worked into his idea of cool. But I’d be damned if he didn’t play that song when he thought no one was listening.”

  “Been married long?” Reynolds asks, intrigued by her story.

  “Married? We ain’t married. Been together long as either of us can remember. But Chuck never asked. It never bothered me. I loved him either way. Sure, it was quite a scandal. We were the talk of the town for a good time, till that Marcy what’s-her-face got knocked up by that colored guy. After that, two unmarried white kids didn’t seem too big an issue.” The waitress chuckles again, shaking her head, her eyes drifting; falling back into the past, finding the memories. “You married son?”

  “Me? No?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing… time. Not much of it.”

  “And the other?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The other thing.”

  “Oh, right! I haven’t met the woman of my dreams yet, I guess.”

  “Ha! Of your dreams! Take some advice from an old lady. You don’t need the woman of your dreams. Just find yourself someone good, someone willing to put in the time; someone you like to see smile. Then do the best for each other that your can.”

  “That’s sounds nice.”

  “And if that doesn’t work, settle for someone who’ll put up with your shit! Like I do with Chuck. Ha!” Her guffaw echoes through the diner, and Reynolds can’t help but join in.

  A bell rings from the window and the waitress spins on heel. A takeout container sits in waiting. She pulls it from the window and drops it in front of Reynolds, along with the handwritten bill. Reynolds looks around the diner once more, taking everything in.

  “You folks always open this early?”

  “You betcha.”

  “Is it always this quiet?”

  “Nah. There’ll be an early straggler or two. In another hour this place will be hopping. Lot of trucks pass through town on their way to the highway. But it’s likely to be a slow one for us. What with the weather rolling in. I’m sure a few might make it in and wait till the snow stops. Which way you heading?”

  “North. Brookwise. Back home.”

  “No ki
dding. Local boy? Great little town, Brookwise. But you’ve still got quite the drive ahead of ya.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, with this weather, you’d best make tracks before it gets too bad out there. Can I getcha’ anything else?”

  “Another coffee if you don’t mind. A large one.”

  She winks at Reynolds and turns. Pulls a large styrofoam cup from under the counter and fills it near the top. She slaps on the lid and places it in front of Reynolds.

  “How much more?” He asks, nodding toward the coffee.

  “That one’s on me honey. Can’t have you nodding off now can we? Not with so far still to go.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Reynolds fishes his wallet from his back pocket. His fingers toil inside for several bills which he lies on the counter to cover the tab. While the waitress makes his change, Reynolds jumps from his stool and finds his way to the back of the diner, and the door marked “mens”. When he returns his change sits before his takeout container. He scoops it up, dropping several bills back to the counter and thanks the waitress again, before gathering up his breakfast and heading for the door.

  THE WAREHOUSE 2

  THE WAREHOUSE…

  Heather tries to steel herself against where this afternoon is leading. He hasn’t said another word following his last statement. She watches his eyes run over her body. Nervously, she tries to cover herself up, as if it might do any good. Her mind reels at his intentions. Somewhere, in the back of her mind she can hear the warnings of her mother. The things men really wanted of her gender. She was no angel though. She’d kissed and been fondled. Touched a boy or two. Enjoyed their hands on her as best a girl her age could, not fully understanding why it felt good, only that it did. But those were boys her age. Boys she’d wanted to kiss and touch her. This. This is entirely different. ‘And never go anywhere alone’ her mother’s voice plays in her mind. A lot of good that did her. She’d been with a friend. But still, she found herself here, standing exposed, naked with fear, though the man before her only looked on, as if calculating his next move.