The Monocle Man Page 20

  He shivers as the snow drifts in on his head. Dusts the interior. With his good arm he grabs the sill, not caring if there’s broken glass, and tugs. It takes three or four before he’s got himself mostly out of the car. Reynolds tries to keep his time on the ground short, the chill settling into his clothes and skin. But it seems like an eternity. Finally, on his feet, he looks at his surroundings.

  The car, on its roof, lays with its hood propped up by a tree. The driver’s side front end has crumpled away, taking bits of the tree it collided into with it. One headlight points out into the surrounding woods, straining to cut through the darkness. The brake lights remain on, with one turn signal blinking on and off. The road, several yards off is hard to distinguish in the surmounting snow. What his car had pushed away as it slid and tumbled has already filled with fresh powder. And endless blanket of white, broken in spots only by the forests which line the road. It’s an odd thought Reynolds has at that moment. He thinks it a beautiful sight. Worthy of a Christmas card even.

  Reynolds searches his pockets for his Blackberry. Though he knows he won’t be so lucky. He maintains a habit of losing the thing in his own living room. He knows the odds of finding it are slim to none. That’s if it’s even still in his overturned car. The search proves fruitless. He drops to one knee, bending as best he can to peer into the car. No sign of his phone. It’s quite possible, and more than likely resting somewhere in the snow, having tumbled out of one of the windows when they broke. Reynolds sighs and grunts as he stands again. He’s not sure things could get worse. No phone. No idea where he is exactly. Not sure of the extent of his injuries. And he can hardly see out of both eyes.

  He bends over and scoops a handful of snow. Pushes it into his eye, the one he can’t yet open. At first impact, a searing pain hits him, but soon the snow numbs the area. He rubs it around, trying to wet and unstick the blood he’s sure has congealed. As the snow melts against his palm and face, he feels the lid loosen. He opens the eye through a haze of a reddish mirage. But soon he’s got himself clean; seeing clear. He leans against the car, taking some time to steady both his nerves and the nausea sweeping over him. His shoulder is racked with pain. The urge to vomit, overwhelming. Though he knows there’s little he can do. He doubts very much whether he can pop it back into its socket. That’s even if it’s only dislocated. Reynolds does the only thing he can think of. Scoops up another heaping of snow, and readying himself for the shock, pushes the clump beneath the collar of his coat and shirt, resting it on the dislocated appendage. The pain is bearable at least. This should help slow the swelling. He tries not to apply too much pressure. Soon his skin and muscles absorb the cold. He’s not numb exactly, but the pain has feigned a degree.

  Watching his breath on the air, he considers his options. It doesn’t take him long to conclude they’re few and far between. In fact, there’s only one that seems plausible. He looks up and down the road, not seeing any tire tracks and doubts very much he’ll stumble upon another motorist in this weather. He’s the only one who’d ventured the road this morning. That only leaves one option. Reynolds takes in a deep breath as he grabs another fistful of snow, which he places on his shoulder. Kneels down in the snow and retrieves his jacket which fell from the backseat. Considers himself lucky to also see a pair of gloves on the far side of the interior. He shakes these out, hoping they’ll be dry enough. He then steels himself and turns from his car. After several steps he swipes his foot to the side and back, finding the pavement beneath. He can’t be too far off from a house out here. Reynolds starts walking.

  THE TRAP

  SATIN CITY/THE Warehouse…

  Kaitlin looks on helplessly while the creature feeds on her best friend. It’s inhuman how wide his maw opened; how much of Heather’s neck he’s consumed. Over and again the only thing running through her mind is… this can’t be happening. This is stuff of story books. Stuff of badly acted movies with predictable plot lines and cute boys as the monsters. How can this be real?

  The man closes his eyes, savoring the moment. Heather leans slightly in his arms, with one around the girl’s waist keeping her stable, and the other free to keep brushing back the hair from her neck. The moments pass in slow motion, and Heather wonders if maybe things aren’t so bad. But then the trickle starts. A tendril of crimson trails down her neck and pauses a tick, before it gradually congeles into a droplet, hanging from her skin for what seems forever, before dropping to the floor in a small spatter. Others follow, until the spattering grows into a small puddle.

  Heather’s skin pales, even more so than her usual complexion. It stretches across her body, tightening as it were, and Kaitlin can’t help but wonder if he’s draining more than blood from her friend. Maybe her soul as well? Kaitlin holds back the gasp as Heather’s bones become more prevalent, jutting out from beneath their coverings in both jagged and rounded protrusions. Then her skin cracks. Dries and loses color. Goes from a pale flesh tone to a gray. In some areas it browns as well. Bruises. Kaitlin somehow manages to get to her feet. They move forward in a quick motion just as the man drops Heather to the ground. The husk rattles when it hits the concrete, and Kaitlin can’t bear to turn around. Her feet are swift, running strong toward the door. Her athletic legs pump, pushing her ever-forward. She wishes in some ways she could still hear the slurping; the sucking sounds of his feeding. At least then she’d know he’s still preoccupied.

  She lowers her shoulder, preparing herself for the impact with the door. Closes her eyes as she gets within inches. Her feet lift from the ground. Her head jerks back and her shoulders grate, threatening to come free of their sockets as her wrists are forced behind her. The rope she’s bound with grows taught, then yanks her back.

  He laughs as he holds tight the rope. She tried to escape. He’ll give her that. But her life is no longer hers to have. It belongs to him now. He gives the rope a slight tug just as she reaches the door, and watches her hands flail behind her as her arms are yanked backward. Her feet come out from under her and she lands hard on her backside. There’s a slight pop when she lands, and he guesses she’s broken at least one bone in the fall. The scream that erupts from her lips confirms this. He drops the ropes then, and brushes his hands together. Moves forward in her direction.

  The girl is convulsing when he reaches her, his gait casual. He squats down and turns her over on her stomach. The ground beneath her is stained with blood. Her forearm has broke, the bone sticking through the skin just below her elbow. He wonders what pain like this must feel like. It’s been so long for him, he doubts he’ll ever be able to consider those moments of his mortality. He traces a finger over the jutting white, feeling the slickness of the blood there. Lifts his hand to his lips and licks the substance from the tip of his finger. His cravings kick in a moment and he’s tempted to start gnawing at the broken limp, sucking the cavity dry as it floods crimson. His eyes close a moment as he breathes deep. No, he’s a purpose here. One he must stick to.

  His eyes pull open again, resolved. Without sympathy he pushes the girl over on her back. She screams again as her arm buckles beneath her.

  “Oh my dear. It’s going to get much worse than that. If I were you, I’d save my screams for later.”

  THE CRASH 2

  AFTER THE CRASH…

  The winter wind whips about his ankles, crackling his pants. It tugs at his coat. He’s long ago lost some feeling in his face. Even keeping his head down against the wind is doing little to stave off the cold. His shoulder has gone numb. The pain all but a memory. Every time he looks up, he gazes ahead through cloudy eyes, the snow spitting in his face with each step.

  He can’t tell how far he’s walked, but his watch tells him it’s been close to a half an hour. He figures at best, he’s only covered a few miles. A mile in fifteen minutes would be average, but he doubts he’s making that good a time in this weather. His hope for stumbling onto some shelter soon wanes. And he wonders how long he can keep this up. He’s not afraid, not yet. But wonders w
hether he should have stayed with the car. It wouldn’t have provided any heat, but at least he’d have been out of the weather. Out of the cold and snow. He laughs then. Aloud. Figures… “fuck it”! If they find him dead, it matters little whether he’s in the car or out here.

  His mind drifts off, playing through the reasons he’d even made the trip. Thinks of the little boy that’s gone missing. Wonders if he’s out there now, lost somewhere in the piling snow. Cold and afraid. He shakes his head and hopes to god that’s not the case. Unfortunately, the probability is high. Especially given the time he’s been missing. In Satin City, he wouldn’t even be allowed to take a look at a case like this. At least not till a longer period transpired. A day was hardly enough. But then, in the city, people went missing all the time. Men, women, children. It was more a way of life, a common occurrence than something to wake the neighbors about. But this wasn’t Satin City. No, this was a small town in rural New Hampshire. A town he knew well. A place where everyone knew everyone else. And a missing child was no small thing. It was cause for at least a little panic.

  And speaking of missing children, the disappearance of the Holly boy isn’t the only reason he’d come out here. No, not really. He also needed to get away for a while. Far away from his job and everything that linked him to his now ex-partner, John Dori. There was something about those events on the wharf that kept digging at the back of his mind. Something which didn’t sit right. His warning bells went off that night on the pier, and he should have listened to them sooner. They’d gone off a few times prior. At least a handful before that moment he walked into the second story office and saw what he thought was Dori caressing one of the dead girl’s legs. He tried to chalk it all up to an idea that maybe the man was a little strange. But it was more than that. A demeanor, both sadistic and unrelenting lurked beneath the surface of Dori’s character. And there was the way the big man, the “patchwork” man looked at him. Out here in the cold, shivering, watching his breath escape his lips in bursts of fog, he wonders now if he’s misconstrued who the true monster is.

  A flurry of coughs erupts from his chest and he pauses a moment to take stock. Leans over and places his hands atop his thighs, closing his eyes and steadies himself. He’s certain a rib or two is at least cracked. The pain of each hid well all this time behind the screams of his dislocated shoulder and bloody eye. Reynolds holds his breath a short time, regaining control while trying to stave off another fit of coughing. Satisfied he’ll be all right for another mile or two, he straightens.

  When he stands, he’s assaulted by the strong wind and falling snow. He scrunches up his eyes at the onslaught, putting a hand up in front of his face. And through his fingers he sees the first glimmer of hope. A light. Dropping his hand he squints against the storm, looking ahead and to his left. Off in the distance, he notices something glowing. It’s hard to tell from this far off, but if he were to venture a guess, he’d say it might be a porch light. Though that might be hope talking. In this dense a storm, in this unrelenting weather, it might just be his imagination.

  No, the light is there. Not just a figment of imagination. But what it is exactly, is impossible to tell. Still, it’s the best sign he’s seen since he freed himself from the wreck. He pulls the lapels on his jacket tighter around his neck and checks the terrain. He must walk off-road, up a small embankment and into a lightly forested area. Reynolds smiles. The trees might help to keep the snow and wind off of him. At least to a degree.

  “What the hell?” He says aloud. “Let’s do this.”

  THE TRAP 2

  SATIN CITY/THE Warehouse…

  The man tugs at the ropes, needing little effort to drag the girl across the warehouse floor. At first, Kaitlin stumbles. Her feet struggle to find purchase, ambling backward. Falls several times. The last, the worst, cracking the back of her head on the concrete and biting her lip and sending a bolt of fire up her shattered forearm. Things grow hazy from the impact. The aroma of the blood gives the man pause a moment. He stops; turns toward her, inhaling the sweet metallic scent. She shifts her head. The look in his eyes ignites a fear which consumes, at least for a spell, the pain coursing through her body. Is her fate to be the same as Heather’s? Will she end up just another meal for this creature? His eyes consider it as he sniffs the air. But instead, he licks his lips, turns from her, and continues. The rope tightens, yanking her arms back at an awkward angle. She moans, cries out trying to get back to her feet.

  Finally, the torment ceases. Exhausted from the backward trek across the warehouse, she falls to one knee. Her chest heaves. She licks at the blood on her lips and closes her eyes, ushering a silent prayer. The man walks around her a time or two, as if inspecting his catch. He then places a hand under her chin and directs her to stand. From behind, he unfastens the rope. In that moment her mind screams at her to run. To get the hell out of here. But where would she go? She thinks now, there’s no escape. Might be better to play along and hope for saving in some other way.

  Her arms dangle at their sides as she shakes them, trying to restore some feeling there. Kaitlin regrets it immediately, the one arm, broken, bone still sticking through skin burns anew. She almost faints, her world starting to spin as she cradles the broken forearm in her hand. With a deep breath she closes her eyes; insists to herself this must be a dream. Caught in some nightmare she can’t seem to shake. When she looks up again, he holds the rope in front of her, fastened into a loop. She knows the meaning and begins to cry again. Holding her hands out, he wraps the first loop around one of her wrists, then makes a second which he uses to cinch her hands together. Her knees buckles with the pain and her eyes slam shut.

  She feels the tug on the rope again. Follows. Her feet drag as they cross more of the building. The toes of her shoes scuff against the gritty concrete beneath. Her eyes are heavy, tired, wet with tears. She hardly has the strength anymore to lift her head, but does when she feels the rope go limp. She wonders if her eyes are deceiving her as she watches the man contemplate a tall, iron, support column rising from the floor to ceiling. He places the end of the rope between his teeth and then jumps. His hands find purchase on the beam, and she shakes her head disbelieving as he scurries the structure, the movements both athletic and insect-like.

  Within moments he reaches the rafters which lay some yards beneath the ceiling. Standing, he looks down on her. Now? Now should she run? The smile he offers thwarts the idea entirely. In one swoop, he jumps from the rafters, the rope now in his hand. She hears the nylon rattle and hum against the metal, an increasing whine as he descends, having draped the rope over one of the rafters. He lands with a clap, his knees absorbing the impact, the only sound the heels of his shoes echoing in the warehouse. Still smiling, he pulls on the rope. Her hands lift upward. Soon, they are over her head. She pleads. Shakes her head. Tears fall in a torrent stream as she now understands her fate.

  “Please,” she begs. “Please, no.”

  The pain in her forearm erupts as the rope pulls tight. She’s yanked on her tiptoes. Cries out. He walks the length of it over to another column. Swings it around the beam and fastens it so she’s hanging limp, but enough that her feet can still support the majority of her weight. He then returns.

  Kaitlin’s shoes are removed first. Then her pants, and her underwear. She shivers at the exposure of her lower half, though she’s not sure its actually cold in the warehouse itself. It comes more from him. He radiates a chill. She feels it in every touch. When his hand slides up the length of her naked leg, around her backside. He breathes deep, then tugs at her shirts, tearing at the front and dropping it to the floor, adding to the garments piling there. Snaps off her bra with a twist of the fingers. He admires her small, pert breasts for a short while, but then frowns, as if she’s not enough for him to even consider. Her lithe, athletic form hangs before him on tiptoes, arms extended over her head. She sobs more at the humility of his eyes moving over every inch of her body. No, she realizes, he’s not admiring. He’s searching.
He steps closer to her. So close she can feel his breath on the side of her face. His presence almost numbs all other pain, the hurt being driven away by the sheer terror of the man.

  “A shame really. The way this must end.”

  “Please,” barely a whisper.

  “A young woman of your… endurance… might last me quite some time.”

  “No… please. Let me go.”

  “But every hunter needs bait.”

  He walks from her and takes back up the end of the rope. Unfastens it from around the beam, keeping it tight enough, keeping her on her toes. Then he pulls. With a stretch of the arm, first right, then left, the rope threads through his hands. A short cry escapes her lips the second her feet leave the ground. Her shoulders yank taught, the protruding bone in her forearm blazes. Blood from it runs down along her elbow. It trickles over the back of her arm and into her armpit, then courses down her side, the warm flow cooling as it progresses. With every pull she ascends a little higher, forcing another spurt from the wound. She screams a few times, kicking her feet. But the jostling only furthers the discomfort in her arm. She bites back the vomit, wondering if the appendage will even hold now the bone’s been snapped. She watches through eyes watered and feverish as the floor disappears altogether. The large second story windows come into view until those too pass her vision.