The Crucifix Killer

Fifty-Five

Darkness was absolute and wakening had come very slowly. The residue effect from the drug still lingered in his aching body. A throbbing invaded his head, reaching down into his neck and shoulder blades and even the smallest of movements felt like agony. He was trying to come to terms with what had happened and where he was, but his memory was still fuzzy.

Confusion reigned for several minutes before details started to emerge.

He remembered the store, the attractive blond shop assistant, choosing a bottle of wine and a bouquet of roses for Anna. Anna… he hadn’t called her to let her know he’d be coming home earlier than usual. She wouldn’t be expecting him.

He remembered someone’s dark reflection on his car window, but not being able to turn around quick enough, the sharp pain on his neck and then nothing.

Squinting in the darkness he tried to understand where he was but nothing made any sense. The air was humid and foul with a fetid odor.

He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. He tried looking at his watch, but he couldn’t make out its hands.

‘Hello!’ He tried calling out. His voice was too feeble. ‘Hello!’ He tried once again and heard the sound reverberate off the walls. As he struggled to sit up he felt something grab at his right ankle. He tried to pull clear, but whatever it was it just snapped taut. He ran his fingers over it.

A chain.

A very thick chain attached to an iron ring on a brick wall. He tried pulling it as hard as he could to no avail.

‘Hello, is anyone there?’

Silence.

He took a deep breath trying to contain his nervousness. He needed to stay calm and think clearly.

What’d happened? Someone had attacked me, but why?

His gun was gone, but his wallet and detective badge were still with him. Suddenly the realization of who could’ve taken him made him shiver.

The killer – the Crucifix Killer.

If he was right, he knew he was as good as dead. No one would ever find him until the killer was done with him.

He closed his eyes and thought of Anna.

He’d never be able to tell her how much he really loved her, how much he would miss her. He wished he’d given her a better life. A life of not having to wait up wondering if her husband would come home or not. A life that wouldn’t have required her to play second best to his job.

‘Get a grip Carlos, you ain’t dead yet,’ he whispered to himself.

He needed to identify his surroundings, to understand where he was. He reached for the chain around his ankle once again and ran his finger over it to find out how much movement he had. Standing up for the first time he realized how weak his legs felt. He quickly grabbed hold of the wall closest to him. His legs ached with thousands of pinpricks. He stood there for a long moment waiting for the blood to resume its normal flow.

With his hands against the wall he started moving to his left. The wall bricks felt moist but solid. He managed to move only about five feet before he reached the next wall. He carried on moving left, but before he reached the end the chain on his ankle held him to a stop. He extended his arm and touched the third wall. Garcia turned and walked in the opposite direction. He reached what felt like a heavy wooden door. He pounded on it with his clenched fists but it produced nothing but muffled thuds. Wherever he was, it was certainly a very solid prison.

He started walking back to his starting point when his foot kicked something. He stumbled back on instinct and waited, but nothing else happened. He crouched down and felt for the object cautiously. He touched it with his fingers – a plastic bottle full of liquid.

He undid the lid and brought the bottle up to his nose. It smelled of nothing. He dipped his right index finger into it. The liquid felt light like water and that brought on the realization of how thirsty he felt. Warily he brought his finger up to his mouth and touched the tip of his tongue – no taste, just like water.

Maybe the killer didn’t want him dead, at least not yet. It wasn’t unheard of, killers keeping their victims alive for a period of time before killing them. If Garcia was to stand a chance in any kind of struggle against this killer, he needed all the strength he could muster. He dipped his finger into the bottle one more time and brought it back to his mouth. He was certain – it was water. Slowly he moved the bottle up to his lips and had a sip. He kept the liquid moving around in his mouth without swallowing it for a while, testing for any abnormal taste. He got none. Finally he let the liquid run down to his throat and it felt like heaven.

He waited about two minutes for any kind of stomach reaction but he got nothing. He quickly gulped down three or four mouthfuls. The water wasn’t cold, but it filled him with life.

He replaced the lid and sat facing the wooden door with the water bottle between his legs. That door was the only way in or out of the room and he hoped that sooner rather than later it would open. He needed a plan, but he had no time to hatch one.

Fifteen minutes later he started feeling drowsy. He slapped his face vigorously with both hands trying to keep himself awake, but it made no difference. Feeling faint, he reached for the water bottle and threw it against the wooden door. He knew what he’d done. He had willingly drugged himself.