Apartment 7C (4 page)

Chapter Eleven

The next morning she called her doctor and made an appointment. Two days later she found herself in his office. She explained that she wasn’t sleeping, hadn’t been for weeks. He checked her over, telling her she looked run down. Her blood pressure was too high, especially for a woman her age. He was concerned.

“You’ve always been the epitome of health,” he said. “My most in-shape patient.”

“Like I said, Doctor, I haven’t been sleeping. I just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to nod off until the early hours of the morning. Then I’m woken up by the construction going on next door. Bastards are building a new condo. They make enough noise to wake the dead.”

Using his computer, the man sent a prescription to Beth’s pharmacy, the days of prescription pads gone.

“I want to see you again in two weeks, see if the pills are helping with your insomnia.”

Beth assured him she would be back and that she would be okay.

After the doctor’s visit, she stopped off at the drugstore and picked up her prescription, receiving a month’s supply of sleeping pills. Then she went to a department store and purchased a pair of tight-fitting black leather gloves. From there, she went home.

It was 3:00 p.m. by the time she walked into her apartment; four hours before Carl was due home.

Beth crushed up the sleeping pills, putting the powdery substance into a sandwich baggie. She then stuffed the bag into the front pocket of her pants. Next, she upended the department store shopping bag, dumping the leather gloves onto the table, and pulled them on. She flexed her fingers, making fists. The leather felt nice.

She walked over to the window leading to the fire escape. Heights weren’t a problem for her, but being seen was. It was still light out, but lucky for her it was late November and the sun went down shortly after 4:00 p.m., leaving the fire escape in darkness.

Unable to do much else but wait, she paced her living room until it was dark out.

She unlocked and opened the security gate, then slid the window open. Wintry air immediately entered the apartment like unwanted vermin. Beth didn’t mind the cold, just hated having to go out in it. And up on the seventh floor, the wind was really blowing.

Carefully and slowly, she climbed over the windowsill and onto the steel bars of the fire escape. She held onto the railing and worked her way to 7C’s windows, gleaming inwardly at the sight before her. Carl didn’t have any security gates on his window. The overconfident, pompous bastard. And upon closer examination, she saw that one of the windows was open about four inches. Beth knew immediately the reason for that. The heat, at times, on the seventh floor could be overwhelming, even for Beth who liked it warm. Carl must have forgotten to close it, or left it open so he wouldn’t have to come home to a scorching house. Stupid, overconfident Carl. No-one-would-rob-a-cop’s-house Carl. Little did the man know.

Beth lifted the window and climbed inside the apartment, landing herself in the kitchen. Without wasting time, she opened the refrigerator door and found an opened bottle of Gatorade. According to Marcy, the sports drink was Carl’s favorite after-work beverage. “It’s the first thing the bastard drinks when he comes home,” she had said, during the cake visit.

Beth unscrewed the cap and poured about a quarter of the crushed-pill powder in, making sure to shake the bottle. There was also a half-finished container of orange juice. To play it safe and increase the odds in her favor, Beth poured the remainder of the pill-powder into the orange juice container.

Each dose—unless he finished off the orange juice, in which case he’d probably die—was enough to knock out an elephant. He was most likely to finish off the Gatorade as it was a relatively small bottle, whereas the orange juice was in a larger container and he probably would only have a glass or two. Beth hoped if that was the case, that her dosage would be enough to do the trick.

She made sure to put the beverage containers back exactly as they had been, with the labels facing front. Satisfied she did her best, Beth climbed back onto the fire escape, leaving the window open as she had found it, and returned to her apartment.

Chapter Twelve

Beth sat at her kitchen table twiddling her thumbs. It was something her mother and her grandmother did when they were anxious. Beth was anxious. Her cup of tea sat before her, untouched and cold. Her thighs had welts from her fingernails having dug into them. Time seemed to move slower than it ever had, but that’s what time did when you watched it.

Beth couldn’t do anything. She was too uptight, hoping that everything would go her way. Hoped that it wasn’t one of those nights when Carl came home and went right back out. He did so at least twice a week.

When Carl did finally come home, Beth’s anxiety only flourished. She sat unmoving, praying that he would remain home and drink the Gatorade with the crushed sleeping pills in it.

Forty-five minutes later and Carl hadn’t left. Beth was finally able to relax a bit—a little bit. She got up and went into the living room to try reading but after thirty pages she stopped, not remembering a thing of what she’d read. Needing to do something besides stare at the walls, she emptied the teapot, filled it with cold water—taking more time to boil, therefore wasting more time—and made a fresh cup of tea. When that was done, the whole process taking very little time, she paced the apartment, making occasional stops in the kitchen for sips of the cooling beverage.

Two hours later, Beth, growing weary in the legs, hadn’t heard a peep from next door. It was time she made her move.

She went to her bedroom and stared at herself in front of the full-length mirror.

“You can do this,” she told herself.

It had been some time since she’d really looked at her reflection. Her eyes were red, spidered with capillaries. The bags under her eyes were more pronounced then ever. Her skin had become chalky in hue. In a word, she looked haggard. “Do this and the nightmares will end; you’ll finally be able to sleep again.”

She turned and walked away from the mirror.

At the door to her apartment, her hand gripping the knob, Beth closed her eyes and prayed for the strength to do what must be done. Then she opened the door and walked out.

Chapter Thirteen

Without hesitation she knocked on 7C’s door. When no one answered, she knocked again, louder.

She tried the door. It was locked.

Beth hurried back to her apartment, put the leather gloves on and was about to go out the window when she paused. What if Carl wasn’t sleeping? What if he just didn’t want to deal with her? If he was awake, and she came crawling through his window, he could just shoot her on sight and chalk the whole thing up to thinking she was a burglar. He’d say the lights were off, he couldn’t see clearly. The story would be tragic. And after witnessing his acting skills, Carl would get sympathy for “feeling terrible”. And what would be made of the memory of Beth, an eighty-two-year-old lady, climbing through the window of her neighbor’s apartment? She’d be viewed as some senile old coot.

Too many doubts were sneaking into her mind. Maybe she should’ve stayed in Carl’s apartment, hidden in a closet or something. But the truth was she had no idea where a safe place might be. And if he found her who knows what he might’ve done to her. No, she did the right thing by leaving the apartment after dosing his beverages.

Just to be safe, Beth grabbed a steak knife from the kitchen, put on her apron with the big front pockets, and headed out the window.

The temperature had dropped, the air chilling her bones. She shivered, and felt an ache in her joints, as if the wind were trying to stop her.

Quickly and quietly, she moved toward Carl’s apartment, her mind in disbelief at the sight. The bastard had closed the window. Beth rushed to open it, but it didn’t budge. She needed to scream, to rip the brittle white hair from her scalp. Her right arm drew back. She made a fist, wanting to smash out the window and gouge her wrists on the jagged pieces of glass. It seemed fate was against her today. Or maybe Carl was awake, and this was fate’s way of helping her by not letting her go inside, saving her life.

A strong gust of wind swept by, causing Beth to lose her balance. She swung her arm out to catch herself and collided with the window. Her hand made a loud, dull thudding sound.

Beth froze, holding her breath.

A few moments passed and she exhaled. Nothing happened. If Carl had been home, or awake, he would have surely heard the noise and come to the window. And if he’d seen her from across the kitchen, he wouldn’t have stayed back. No, he would’ve come over to fuck with her. Maybe push her off the fire escape or yank her inside and do things to her, nasty things.

Still shivering, Beth went back to her apartment and grabbed one of her late husband’s hammers, having kept a few of his tools around, figuring they might one day come in handy.

She went back outside, and over to Carl’s apartment. Using both hands, she swung the hammer into the glass, closing her eyes as she did so. An explosion of shattering glass filled her ears like the scream of a banshee. Pieces of glass struck Beth’s face, but her flesh was so cold she hardly felt the sting, unable to tell if she’d been cut at all.

Opening her eyes, she saw what had to be hundreds of tiny pieces of glass, like badly cut diamonds, scattered across the windowsill and fire escape, many bits having fallen through the cracks of the landing.

The wonders of safety glass,
she thought.

Beth climbed inside, immediately noticing the handgun resting on the kitchen table, along with a pair of handcuffs. She put both items in the front pockets of her apron and proceeded through the kitchen. She glanced into the living room when she came to it, then moved down the hallway and found Carl in bed, lying on his back, wearing only boxer shorts. Beth couldn’t help but smile.

Normally, the shattering of a window would alert attention. Someone might call the authorities or investigate by knocking on the person’s door to see if everything was okay, but Beth knew no one would be coming to apartment 7C.

She placed the handgun on a low-standing dresser, then removed the handcuffs from her pocket and shackled Carl’s left wrist to one of the bed’s steel posts.
Steel bed posts
—maybe fate was on her side.

She began rummaging through dresser drawers, finding nothing useful, then went into the closet. A large safe, bolted to the floor, rested in a corner. It had an electronic keypad combination lock, so Beth didn’t bother with it.

After going through the rather full, stuffed-with-clothing-and-cop-items closet, Beth had found another handgun, this one resting in an unlocked box. She left it alone, hardly having the knowledge to use the one she already had, and when she finished prepping Carl, she wouldn’t need one. Along with the handgun, she found another two pairs of handcuffs, which she used to secure Carl’s right wrist and left ankle to the bed, a stun gun, various knives—one a switch blade, a toolbox, from which she took pliers and a hacksaw, and a roll of duct tape. How on earth could she have forgotten duct tape? Did she think the man wouldn’t scream? There was also a hammer, but she preferred to use her own.

Beth used a couple of Carl’s ties to secure his right ankle, then stuffed a sock into his mouth. Using the duct tape, wrapping it multiple times around his head and mouth, she secured the gag in place.

Carl would be out for a while, so Beth went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. She was curious to see which beverage he had ingested. The Gatorade bottle was gone. Pleased with herself, she smiled.

She closed the door and eyed the stove. The teapot Marcy had boiled water with was still there. And why wouldn’t it be? For some reason Beth had imagined that the kettle belonged to Marcy. Carl didn’t seem like a tea drinker. He seemed like a coffee drinker. A coffee machine rested on the kitchen counter.

Beth picked up the teapot. Feeling it was empty, she filled it with water and set it to boil. When the kettle screamed, Beth made a cup of tea, finding the teabags in a ceramic jar on the counter.

“Well, Alice,” she said to the room. “I’m here. Ready to take care of Carl.”

Beth then closed her eyes, trying to feel if her daughter was present, or even Marcy, but felt nothing. Thinking about where she was and what she was going to be doing, she almost couldn’t believe it. She was in Carl’s apartment, the big guy in the other room, tied up and helpless. Served the asshole right, she supposed. Soon he’d know what Marcy, and all the other women who’d been made to suffer by the hands of an abuser, felt.

Another cup of tea later, and Beth checked on Carl. He was still out cold, snoring. She slapped his cheeks, but he didn’t wake.

Damn. It was getting late. Beth wanted to begin already, finding it almost scary that she was so looking forward to “taking care of Carl”.

It was something she had to do. The ghosts or whatever they were had said so. They wouldn’t stop appearing. Beth’s nightmares would never end…unless she did as she was told. And if she did nothing, then Carl would go on hurting women, like he hurt Marcy. Like how Jim killed Alice.

Staring at him now, she wondered how long he’d be out. A single dose was supposed to make a person drowsy. Two doses knocked the individual out. Carl was a huge fellow, so it might take two doses to make him drowsy, three or four to knock him out. Beth figured he had anywhere from seven to nine pills worth of the sleeping agent in him. Shit, she thought, hoping he wouldn’t die.

As long as he kept snoring, it meant he was still alive.

Two hours later, Beth found herself in the living room, sitting in a recliner. Probably Carl’s recliner, she thought. She was bored silly. Someone else in her position might snoop around, looking for things, private things, but Beth wasn’t a snooper. She wasn’t nosy. What would he do if he walked in and saw her in his chair? Beth laughed aloud.

“I think I’ve lost it,” she said.

And she must have, for who else saw ghosts and tied up the neighbor? Beth chuckled for a moment, then broke out into full-on laughter, unable to stop. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her stomach began to ache after a while. Eventually she was able to stop, realizing she was as frightened as she was eager. She couldn’t wait any longer.

Pushing herself up off the chair, Beth went into the bedroom. She picked up the hunting knife, the steel blade thick with a serrated edge to it. Standing next to Carl, she sunk the blade’s tip into his right shin, inches above the ankle. A tiny bead of red developed around the point of entry, growing larger as the blood seeped out, spilling down both sides of his leg.

Beth grinned.

Using both hands, gripping the weapon’s handle firmly, Beth dragged the knife up Carl’s shin, scraping the bone and leaving behind a trail of widening blood.

Still, Carl slept.

Beth wiped the blade clean using the bed covers, then returned it to the dresser top.

She went back to the living room, plunked down in Carl’s chair again and decided to watch some television while she waited for the asshole to wake up. A few minutes later, Beth nodded off.