The Killing Hour

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The clouds look like bruised cotton candy, the lights from the street and from the city making them glow. Night has arrived and with it my fears. I have to hold my watch up to my face and twist it to get some illumination from a streetlight flooding across the hands. It’s quarter past seven.

I step past the gate and climb the two steps to my back door. I carved a weapon out of a broom handle and now it’s all I have to protect myself, and I point this thing ahead of me even though I know my house is empty. I’m not sure if I can get any crazier.

The first thing I do is turn on the lights. I head from room to room switching many of them on. When Cyris arrives he’ll think I’m home. I try to put myself into his mind, subjecting myself to his dark thoughts. He’ll figure I’m thinking it’s safe to return since he’s already been at my house. He’ll see the lights on and he’ll want to come in and check it out.

I head down to the bedroom. I look at the cardboard box and try not to feel intimidated by it-but fail. I need to check what it is. It won’t be a head, because both Kathy and Luciana had their heads when I saw their bodies. The corner of a piece of paper is sticking out from under the cardboard flap. I grab it. It’s covered in patches of dried blood. Written across it in Kathy’s handwriting is my name and number. I’d completely forgotten about this. I don’t know whether to feel relieved that it was Cyris who found it and not the police.

A car pulls up outside and a door opens, then closes. I stand motionless, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. I’m like some mindless bunny caught in the headlights of a car, paralyzed with confusion and fear. A few moments later knuckles are banging on my door. I tighten my grip on the stake. Would Cyris knock? No, I don’t think he would. Then who is it?

I shouldn’t have turned on the lights.

I step into the hallway, but I don’t want to answer the door because my mortality is going to leave through it. Then the knocking comes back. I’m now Action Man, ready to defend my home and castle. I keep the weapon behind me. Cyris is here.

Only Cyris wouldn’t knock. The police would knock. The police would want to know if I knew where Jo was. They wouldn’t be too thrilled with the way I looked, all beaten up and bruised. They wouldn’t be thrilled with the way my house looks, or with whatever is in that box.

Action Man: hold no fear. Action Man: save the world.

“Who’s there?” I ask, feeling nothing like Action Man.

“Mr. Feldman?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Mr. Charlie Feldman? My name’s Bill Landry,” a small pause, then, “Detective Inspector Bill Landry. With the Christchurch Police Department. Mr. Feldman, I’ve a few questions for you. How about you let me ask them inside?”

“I’m quite busy.”

“I figured as much since you didn’t come to the door straightaway.”

“Sorry about that,” I say, “but I didn’t hear the first knock.”

I put the chain on the door, unlock it, and open it enough to look at him. The man standing there looking at me is around six feet tall and heavily built. He has the same build as Cyris, but is far better groomed. He’s wearing a shirt that looks like he’s slept in it, and a tie that is one of those unique items of clothing that will never cycle back into fashion. He’s standing on a slight angle that makes him appear as though he could pounce forward just as easily as he could jump back. He looks like he’s expecting me to do something. Maybe run. Maybe attack. He has one hand behind his back, perhaps reaching for a gun, or for some handcuffs. His other hand is holding out his identification. I take a look at the photograph. A good, long look. Same buzz cut graying hair, same brown eyes, same strong jawline, same long nose. The sort of face you’d expect to see cast as the hero in some war movie. The sort of face you don’t want on your doorstep behind a policeman’s badge with the intent of arresting you. His lips have little or no color in the photograph, but even less in reality, just like the rest of his face. The dark smudges under his eyes make him look unhealthy and tired and remind me of the guy who sold me the broom handles. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him in the background on the news. I suddenly feel like I’m going to faint.

I close the door, toss the stake into my bedroom, close that door, then take the chain off and hold the front door open, standing in the way so as to not invite him inside.

“Expecting trouble?” Landry asks.

“Huh?”

“The way you inspected my badge, it looked as though you were expecting somebody else. Or maybe you’re just looking for an excuse not to let me in.”

“I’m merely being cautious. Is that a crime?”

“Not at all, Mr. Feldman.” His smile has about as much warmth as ice. “In fact I wish more people were as careful as you. Have you finished taking a look?”

When I nod he closes the ID and tucks it into the back of his pants.

“You look anxious, Mr. Feldman. Like you think half the world is out to get you.”

“What half are you in?”

“That depends on how you answer my questions. Perhaps we can step inside?”

Before I can answer he tilts his head and gives me a direct look. “Unless of course you have something to hide?”

“Come on through,” I say.

“After you,” he says, and I realize he doesn’t want to turn his back on me.

I walk down the hall. I can feel his eyes on me. I hear the front door close. I wonder what Jo is thinking. I lead him into the dining room. A light sweat has formed across my forehead, but I do nothing about it. I drag a seat from the table for him and sit opposite. He pulls out a notebook and rests it on the table before he sits down. He doesn’t open it, just slowly taps a fingernail against the cover. I rest my right elbow on the table, cross my legs, and don’t offer him a drink.

“I’m curious-if you didn’t hear me the first time I knocked on your door, how did you know you were answering it after my second?”

I open my mouth to answer, but can’t come up with anything. He smiles, but it seems he doesn’t really want an answer. He saves me from the awkward moment by taking me into another one.

“Who hit you?” he asks.

I raise my hand to the bump on my forehead. It stings on contact. I try not to wince, but fail. Gets me every time. “Nobody hit me.”

“Walked into a door, did you?”

“A tree.”

“Wouldn’t be the same tree that broke into your house?” The detective twists his head and points his thumb at the back door. “Who broke in?”

“I don’t know. I only just got home.”

“Anything taken?”

“No.”

“Damaged?”

“Just the door.”

“Why would a man who comes home to find his house has been broken into not call the police?”

“I was about to,” I tell him, trying to figure out if he’s here because of Jo, or because of Kathy and Luciana.

“Would you like me to help you look through your house?” he asks.

“No, no. That’s fine,” I tell him, and I know he’s driving at something.

“You said you just got home. From school?”

“Yeah.”

“I rang your school today, Mr. Feldman. They said you weren’t in.”

“I took the day off, but I had to go pick up some work.”

“Where were you on Sunday night?”

“Sunday night? Umm, let me think.” I run my hands through my hair trying to look like I’m trying to remember. Trying to act as though Sunday night was no different from any other night. Nothing to make it stand out. “I was at my parents’.”

“Doing what?”

“Just catching up. You know what it’s like.”

“What time did you leave?”

I shrug. “Not sure. Maybe somewhere around eleven o’clock, give or take.”

“Where did you go when you left?”

“Home.”

“You came straight here.”

“That’s right.”

“And went straight to bed.”

“I had a shower first.”

“Anybody see you?” he asks.

I shrug. “My shower isn’t outside.”

“Did you spend the night alone?”

“That’s right,” I say.

“You’re sure you came straight home?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Uh huh. Well, I guess that pretty much sums it up,” he says, but he doesn’t make any attempt to get up. He just sits there, staring at me, maybe pissed off because I haven’t offered him coffee, or because he thinks I’m a cold-blooded killer. He hasn’t put his pad away.

“Good.” I lean forward and start to stand.

“Just two more questions.”

“Just two?”

“First, why haven’t you asked me why I’m here?”

I sit back down. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t ask what I’m investigating. All these questions. It’s like you already knew. You just opened the door and resigned yourself to the fact that I was here to arrest you. I’ve seen that look many times, Mr. Feldman. It’s the look of somebody who was hoping they wouldn’t get caught, but aren’t surprised they have been. I saw it in your face. You didn’t ask what I wanted because you thought I was here to take you into custody for murder. You didn’t go through the whole routine of trying to figure out why a detective inspector would show up on your doorstep late at night wanting to ask you questions. An innocent person would have. Or a good liar. Your problem, Mr. Feldman, is that you’re neither.”

It’s buzzword time. “That’s crazy.”

He stops tapping his finger and points it at me. “Have you ever heard of Camelot Drive?”

I know what’s coming and can’t see a way out of it.

“Mr. Feldman? Just a yes or no will do.”

“No,” I answer quickly.

“The body of a young woman was found there yesterday morning. But you know all about that, don’t you?”

“Sure, it’s been on the news. Everybody knows about it. Does that make everybody a suspect? Unless you’ve got-”

“Why would we think of you as a suspect?”

This guy is annoying. I have the urge to tell him to stop playing games. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“But you must have done something to think that we would regard you as a suspect.”

“Look, if you’ve got a point here maybe you should get to it.”

He nods. “Fair enough,” he says. Then he follows that up. “You knew those women.”

“No I didn’t.”

“So if we take your fingerprints and DNA, we’re not going to get matches to those at the scenes?”

“That’s right,” I tell him. “I was never there,” I say, thinking I should come clean. I should tell this man everything that happened. I decide not to. If Landry were sure of himself then he would be arresting me, not questioning me.

“How well did you know them?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I thought you only had two more questions for me.”

“That was until you started lying. You’ve never seen or spoken to either woman?”

Again I shake my head. “I’m not lying,” I tell him. “I don’t know either of the women, I’ve never seen them before in my life, so if you have anything to back up what you’re-”

Landry stands up and tucks his notebook into one pocket, and from another he produces a plastic ziplock bag. Inside is a small pad. He holds it toward me and I reach up to take it. “You don’t need to hold it to read it,” he says.

I move closer toward it. It’s the pad on which Kathy wrote my details, only that isn’t the page that’s on the top. Sherlock Landry has used a pencil to rub over the page beneath it. My name and phone number have appeared, and with them any chance I have of talking my way out of this. The top page to that pad is in my bedroom. I try to explain this, but my mouth has gone dry and I feel as if somebody has poured glue down my throat. All I can do now is take my chances with the truth.

“I can explain,” I tell him, the words coming out slowly.

“I think it’s in your best interests to explain at the station, where you can have a lawyer present,” Landry says.

“I, um, I. .”

He pulls his handcuffs from behind his back. Maybe they were clipped to his belt or inside a pocket. Then he pulls out a gun. He keeps it pointing at the ground. “Turn around, Mr. Feldman.”

“You’re arresting me?”

“What other choice do I have?”

“You could arrest the right person. I didn’t kill anybody!”

“We’ll discuss it at the station. Where you can have a lawyer present.”

“No, no, this is all wrong. All wrong,” I repeat.

“Come on, Mr. Feldman. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

They’re similar to the words I’ve been using with Jo, and on the receiving end they don’t sound good at all. I put my hands out in front of me and start waving them around in tiny circles. “No, no, please, wait a second, let me explain.”

He raises his gun. He points it right at my face. “Turn around, Feldman,” he says, missing the Mr. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

I turn around and put my hands behind me. A few seconds later the cold bracelets click into place.

“What’s this?” he asks.

I turn back and face him. He’s holding the envelope with my story inside. “It’s the truth.”

He tears it open and drags the loose pages out. After a quick skim through he pushes them back into the envelope. “Unbelievable,” he says. “I knew you were with those two women.”

“You have to read the whole thing,” I tell him. “I was trying to help them, not kill them.”

He raises a finger to his lips. “No more talking, Feldman. How about you tell me about the box you have in your bedroom?”

“What? You were in my house?”

“The box,” he says. “Tell me about it.”

“I don’t know what’s in it. Cyris left it here.”

“Cyris. The man from your confession.”

“It’s not a confession. It’s an account of what happened.”

“We’ll see about that,” he says, as if it’s all up to him. “Let’s go.”

He pushes me ahead of him. He gets me outside and tells me to wait for a few seconds, then disappears into my bedroom. I look down toward Jo, but can’t see her. I think about running, but there’s no point. I wouldn’t make it far. Landry comes back out. He’s holding up a wooden stake.

“Want to explain this?” he asks.

“It’s because-”

“Shut up, Feldman,” he says.

“I thought you-”

“I said shut up.”

He stays a few feet back as we walk down the hallway and out to his car. His car is an unmarked, four-door sedan. The reflections of the streetlight off the side windows look like two moons. He ushers me into the backseat, twists me sideways, undoes the handcuffs, and reattaches one cuff to the handgrip above the door. He pulls out another set of handcuffs and attaches my other hand to the same handgrip. It doesn’t seem like standard protocol, but I guess that’s because this isn’t one of those police cars with a metal grille separating the prisoner from the driver. Plus he’s alone.

He gets into the driver’s seat. He needs to know about Jo.

“Listen, I need to tell you about-”

He turns around to face me. “This is quiet time,” he says. “You say one more word while we’re still driving I’m going to put a bullet in your head. I’ve seen what you’ve done, Feldman, and I suggest you believe me.”

“But-”

He points his gun at me. “If you don’t believe me, Feldman, just say one more word.”

I believe him. He faces forward. He starts the car and we pull away from my house, leaving Jo tied up in my car watching for Cyris.