Killing Red (28 page)

All four of the walls had been painted a deep shade of red. It was a thick glossy coat that reflected the overhead light and gave the impression of a fresh bleed. Chapa looked inside before entering.

The center of the room was completely empty, as though it had been hollowed out. But that was not the case with the walls. This place lacked the other room’s rancid smell, but it was replaced by a heavy stillness that was every bit as uncomfortable. The stale air embraced Chapa the moment he stepped through the doorway.

He studied the carefully spaced rectangles that lined the walls. There were nine of them in all—three along the wall that led from where he was standing to a closet door, three more across the room, two on the wall directly to his right. There was just one, perfectly centered, on the back wall.

As he walked toward the nearest one on his left, Chapa saw these were not merely flat collages inside rectangular frames. Each of the nine wall hangings was a small medicine cabinet. The mirrors had been covered with photos and drawings of children.

A yellow-haired boy, about the age of nine, looked out at him from a photo on the first cabinet. His blue eyes perched above cheeks full of freckles. He was standing in front of a playground and seemed confused that someone was taking his picture. The child appeared more at ease in the other two. He had a kind, winsome smile as he stood there in the clothes his mother had picked out for him that morning.

Chapa did not have to wonder if the boy would ever get the chance to grow up, and he began thinking of this room as a streamlined version of the trailer tour. When he opened the cabinet he knew it was something far worse.

The latch was tight and Chapa had to give it a firm pull before the mirrored door swung open. Inside, on the second of three narrow shelves, he found two shirt buttons matching ones in the photos. A small toy truck that the boy had been holding in the pictures sat on the bottom shelf.

Chapa gently placed a finger on top of the toy and pushed it the length of the shelf. It clickety-clacked all the way across and he imagined how much the child must have loved that sound.

Extending just beyond the edge of the top shelf was a newspaper clipping. It detailed the search for James Allen, age eight, who had been missing for two days. This had to be one of the children Grubb told him about.

As he closed the cabinet door, Chapa saw a face reflected in the mirror. He quickly turned around, but found no one there. His imagination had conspired with the images on the other walls to send a rock-hard bolt through his system.

This was not a place for browsing. He needed to get moving. The next cabinet had pictures of a solemn-faced little girl whose dark frizzy hair had gotten the better of her brush that morning.

A drawing of a child who bore a passing resemblance to the girl was included among the snapshots. Waiting for him inside was a sock and a bracelet. Chapa didn’t bother with her newspaper clipping. He already knew what it was from the first one he’d read. Those stories were always the same. At first hopeful and desperate, but ultimately tragic and devastating.

The boy in the next series of photos had nothing in common with the little girl. He was smiling and playful, sticking his tongue out at the camera in one of the shots. Unruly strands of light brown hair poked out from underneath his baseball cap. Two rocks rested on the bottom shelf of his collection. A piece of paper, wrinkled and curling up at the edges, had been placed on the middle shelf. It was a drawing, a self-portrait of the little boy. Chapa could feel his heart breaking, then noticed the red crayon inscription in the bottom right corner.
For my new friend Mr. Grubb.

Chapa slammed the door shut with so much force the whole thing shook against the wall. At that moment he wanted to punish someone, to avenge the world of hurt that Kenny Lee Grubb and his gruesome followers had inflicted on so many innocents and the adults who loved them more than life itself.

He was certain now that Annie was gone. Her cruel life reduced to butchered remains and trinkets in a madman’s trophy collection. But Chapa also knew that if he was right about Annie, his hunt would not end until every one of the monsters responsible was found, tried, and executed.

His stomach was churning even worse than before. Turning in the direction of the remaining units, Chapa decided it was best to not imagine what they might be hiding, let alone continue his search. The closet door was less than ten feet away, but first Chapa wanted to check out the one cabinet that had been given a special place on its own wall.

Chapa had a pretty good idea whose pictures would be on it.

There were four photos of Annie, and it was clear she had no idea someone was watching her when they were taken. Two seemed recent, while the others were a couple of years older.

He hesitated before forcing the cabinet door open. Annie would be the prize of this collection—the room had been painted in her honor—and that meant the souvenirs of her death would likely be the most personal.

What he found inside surprised him, not because of how horrible it was, but rather, how ordinary. Bright orange hair lined the bottom shelf, reminding him of the way Jimmy had died.

A red journal, the same one that Louise Jones dedicated to Annie, sat on the middle shelf. Chapa wanted to flip through it, but that would have to wait. That shelf also contained a black drawing pencil, and a small piece of soft pink cloth. It had been cut or torn away from a larger section without much care, and bits of thread dangled from uneven edges.

There wasn’t a newspaper cutout anywhere in the cabinet, so he ran his fingers along the top shelf until they found something cold and sharp. He closed his hand around the small object and brought it closer. It was an apartment key, most likely Annie’s.

Chapa slipped it into the pocket of his sports coat and reached for his phone as he walked across the room toward the closet. Explaining the reasons for his being here to Andrews was no longer on his list of top ten concerns.

With the phone in his right hand, he reached for the knob with his left, but stopped when he noticed the closet door was not shut evenly. The lower third was bowing out, as though something was putting a great deal of pressure against it.

Chapa took a step back and gripped the knob. It did not turn easily, whatever was pressing against the inside of the closet door had jammed the latch. After a quarter turn, he heard the thick snap of a bolt pulling free, and the door swung open on its own.

The first thing he saw was the well-worn bottom of a woman’s tennis shoe, and an ankle that had been bound to the wooden leg of a chair. Both belonged to Annie Sykes, and she was not moving.

The chair lay tipped on its side, which explained the pressure against the door, as well as that loud noise Chapa had heard when he was outside the apartment.

“Annie, it’s Alex Chapa. You’re going to be okay.”

She did not respond.

Chapa slipped his phone back into his pants pocket, then reached around the backrest with one arm while wrapping the other across the front of her shoulders. She was heavier than he expected, and as he pulled the chair to a sitting position it became clear why.

Annie’s ankles were fixed to the legs of the simple chair with what appeared to be a small belt, and her hands were bound behind her back in the same way. Her mouth had been duct taped shut. But that’s not what captured Chapa’s attention.

Two thick chains led down from both sides of a dog collar that had been tightly fitted around her neck. Chapa followed the chains to where they disappeared under the chair. Squatting to get a look at the setup, he saw that a padlock was holding it all together beneath the seat.

He checked to make sure it was locked, which it was. The collar resembled the one Chapa had seen the DA introduce as evidence at Grubb’s trial, except this one was wider and thicker.

“Annie, can you hear me?”

He touched the side of her neck, just below the jaw line and above the collar. A pulse rose to meet his fingers.

“Come on, Annie, I’m going to get you out of this chair.”

Peeling the tape from her mouth was difficult, and Chapa stopped when tears began tracking down Annie’s cheeks and onto his fingers. Since it didn’t seem to be affecting her breathing, Chapa decided to leave the tape for her to remove.

“Annie, I’m going to unbuckle the collar, and it might get just a little bit tighter at first, but I’ll do this as quickly and gently as I can, and then you and I will get the hell out of here. Okay?”

He waited for any sort of reaction, but none came. Annie’s eyes were half-open, and she appeared to be conscious. Chapa softly pressed his hand to her face. She was warm, almost feverish.

“Can you hear me? Were you drugged?”

Nothing.

He went to work on the collar, careful to not let the chain links that were wrapped around its side dig any deeper into Annie’s neck. The buckle grabbed a pinch of skin as Chapa turned it just enough to loosen the leather tongue and slip it through, but Annie did not react.

The process was slow and entirely out of sync with Chapa’s sense of urgency. The prong proved even more stubborn, but he steadily worked it free, then wasted no time opening the collar and peeling it away from Annie’s skin.

Her neck was lined with ugly and uneven indentations where the collar or chains had tried to gnaw into Annie’s flesh. He carefully ran a finger along one of the marks. The bruising had already begun.

Chapa thought about all of the work and time he had spent trying to find Annie to warn her, and everything he had gone through. And still, here she was, on the eve of Grubb’s execution, drugged up and either near death or at least scheduled for it. Just as Grubb and his minions had planned all along. Chapa had failed.

“I’m sorry this happened to you, Annie.”

He slid the chair out of the closet a few feet so he could get to her wrists. Those were fastened in place with a smaller collar. Chapa shifted her hands just a bit, and unbuckled it. But even after they were free, Annie’s hands remained in place.

Clutching her elbows, Chapa gradually brought Annie’s arms around and folded them across her lap, like a father with a sleeping child who had half fallen out of bed. Her right arm was red, probably from landing on it when the chair tipped over.

Chapa was calculating how he could carry her out of the apartment. Annie was fairly slight, and should not be too heavy. Once free, he planned to take her straight to the elevator, then out the door and into his car. He would then create as much distance from this place as possible, and put a call in to Andrews.

But first he had to release her from the chair. The belt around her left ankle had been pulled at least one notch too tight, and its buckle turned toward the back of the chair, making it harder to reach. Chapa blindly picked at it until he finally determined there was no gentle way of doing this. He yanked the tongue back hard, and freed the prong.

Annie hadn’t made a sound.

“After I undo the buckle around your right ankle, I’m going to help you up. You’ll need to stand,” Chapa said, looking up at her as he shifted to the other side. “I’m hoping you’ll be able to—”

Something was different.

He sat up and looked into her eyes, searching for some sort of recognition, but saw something else. Annie’s eyes grew wide, wider than he would have imagined they could. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

They were not alone.

From somewhere behind him Chapa heard the floor creak like a thin off-key note played on a busted instrument. Annie continued to gaze into some great beyond as Chapa slowly stood.

Even before he began his deliberate turn in the direction of the door, Chapa already knew who would be standing there.

Two hours earlier

Annie tore herself away from the newspaper she was reading to retrieve the Pop Tart that her toaster had just spit out. It was far from an ideal breakfast, but she planned to give them up soon and start that exercise routine she read about last year.

She’d slept well, no dreams to remember. A good thing. A blessing, after everything that had gone down the night before. Three hours of questioning by the FBI and the possibility of a threat on her life had earned Annie a small rectangle of comfort food.

Only two bites were missing from the pastry when someone knocked on her door. That didn’t happen very often, few people knew where she lived. The cops?

Looking through the peephole, it took Annie a few seconds to recognize the smiling face on the other side.

“Langdon?”

She unfastened the various locks without hesitation, then opened the door.

“What are you doing here? Did you read in the paper about what happened last night?”

“No, but it’s great to see you, Angie.”

She gave him a firm, friendly hug. That’s all it was, nothing more, never had been.

“C’mon in, I was just hanging out. What time does your store open?”

Annie stepped away from the door, but Langdon did not budge.

“Thanks, but I’ve got something really exciting to show you upstairs.”

“What’s upstairs?”

“A surprise. I’ve gotten my own place here in your building.”

Langdon was always upbeat, but Annie thought he seemed a bit more so today. Could be business was going well. The last time she’d seen him his store was becoming quite popular, and Internet and mail order sales of clothing and accessories were growing. Or maybe he was just one of those annoying morning people.

“I’m using the apartment for work, mostly. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Annie tugged at her oversize sweatshirt.

“I’m not exactly dressed to go out.”

“We’re just going upstairs.”

She threw on a pair of slippers. Her keys were somewhere in the kitchen.

“You won’t need them Angie, we’ll just run up there for a minute,” Langdon said then reached across and flipped the lock so it wouldn’t bolt. “There, now you don’t have to go scrounging around for your keys. C’mon, I want you to see what I’m working on.”

“A new design?”

“You’ll see.”

She nodded, and closed the door behind her. There was something odd about the way Langdon was acting. They were never truly close, but she did consider him a friend, though they had not seen each other in some time. Still, leaving her door unlocked would give Annie an excuse for cutting the visit short if she wanted to.

Annie was never a big fan of Langdon’s designs, though she had bought a few of his things, mostly to be supportive, and agreed to pose for a series of ad photos. She had always been a little self-conscious about the framed picture of her displayed in Langdon’s store, but he had explained that it could have the added benefit of helping generate some business for her artwork. That hadn’t happened so far. In fact, as far as Annie could tell, the only person Langdon had ever sent her way was Alex Chapa.

She meant to ask Langdon about that, but he did all the talking on the way up to the seventh floor and down the hall to 7G. Annie thought it odd that the only thing Langdon wanted to talk about was his business.

“I’m planning on achieving a long term goal very soon.”

“I’m thrilled for you, Donnie. I know how hard you’ve worked at your art.”

Langdon smiled a bit too broadly and keyed the lock.

The apartment was dark. The only light came from one of the bedrooms, except for a shred of sunlight forcing its way in through a narrow slit in the living room curtains. But she recognized the layout as being not too different from her own.

Annie noticed the work table and mattress.

“Have you been here a while?”

“Not too long.”

He was digging around a large old trunk that sat on the floor.

“Go ahead and check out what I’ve done with the room at the end of the hall, the one on the right. I think you’ll be impressed.”

Annie started down the hall, but something wasn’t right. She looked back at the front door. Langdon wasn’t by the trunk anymore.

“Donnie?”

“Go ahead, I’ll be there in just a moment.”

That sense that something is wrong, a child’s sense of danger, the same one that told Annie to run to safety on a cold black night so many years before, was beginning to take hold of her now.
Make an excuse to leave, Annie.

Each step down that hall was taking her farther away from where she wanted to go—out the door, down the steps, and back to the comfort of her own apartment. Why was she reacting this way? She’d never felt threatened around Donnie before, but there was something strange about the way he was acting today. Something wasn’t right.

The smell hit her in nauseating waves when she was just a few feet from the end of the hall. It seemed to be coming from behind the closed door on the left. She turned to go back, but Langdon was right behind her.

“Sorry about the odor. The previous tenants weren’t the best housekeepers.”

Still smiling, he put a hand on Annie’s back and nudged her toward the room where the light was coming from. She had spent all of her teen years and adult life waging war on the marrow-deep fear that Kenny Lee Grubb had injected into her.

Annie told herself,
There is nothing here to be afraid of, Donnie is a friend.
But why would he need a workshop when he had plenty of space in the backroom of his store? And why would a
friend
wait so long to let her know they shared a building? It was clear that he’d been here for some time.

Who was Donnie Langdon, anyhow? How much did she really know about this man who had darted around the edges of her life since she moved away from home? How had she met him? That’s right, they seemed to always be at the same places and events. He introduced himself to her as a fellow artist, and took a great interest in Annie’s work. She found that flattering, but he also asked a lot of questions about her personal life and background. Annie had never been bothered by that. Langdon had a way of easing into and through difficult subjects. Annie had never given that much thought, really. Until now.

Who was Donnie Langdon?

Adrenaline was punching its way through Annie. But she couldn’t let it take hold, she couldn’t let it show. She refused to surrender to an undefined fear.

Then she stepped inside the room. Annie felt the red walls rush in on her, and saw the pictures on the cabinets.

“What are these, Donnie? What have you done?”

As she turned to face him Langdon wrapped his arm around her shoulders. In a flash of brown cloth, movement, and force, he covered her nose and mouth with a moist hand towel. The more Annie struggled, the harder Langdon pressed the wet cloth against her face. She tried to bite his hand, but got a mouthful of drug-soaked towel for her troubles. Its medicinal smell washed over Annie until she couldn’t fight anymore.

Langdon was standing over her when she awoke, bound to a chair in the middle of the room. He was looking at Annie like a lover who had awakened a few minutes earlier than his partner following a night of passion, as he wadded up a small, greasy old rag, shoved it deep into her mouth, and sealed it with several long strips of duct tape.

“Look at this.”

He had a drawing in his hands of a small boy with a troubled look on his face and a slump in his shoulders.

“He has been rendered. They all have.”

Annie recognized the drawing, the others too, they were all hers. Pictures of the sad children from her dreams.

“Little demons, who won’t get the chance to grow up and become killers. Preventive law enforcement, that’s what Mr. Grubb called it.”

No, not killers, Donnie. Victims. They haunt my sleep. Ever since that night—

“Just like you. Mr. Grubb knew you would grow up to become a killer, just like all those other little monsters whose families he spared the horror of seeing what they had created.”

Victims.

Tears slid down Annie’s cheeks.

“C’mon now. You fulfilled your destiny. By drawing them you helped destroy these little demons.”

She tried to scream through the filthy rag in her mouth, but it came out as a low-pitched grunt.

“At first, I didn’t know how to find the right children,” Langdon said, then leaned in close. “I don’t have Mr. Grubb’s gift. But then I saw your drawings, and I understood everything.”

Annie tried to scream again, but Langdon poured a clear liquid on the brown towel and once again pressed it to her face. When she regained consciousness, Langdon was dragging the chair and her with it across the floor.

“Okay, here’s the problem, Lorn was supposed to pick up some tarps and garbage bags, but you went and got him shot. So I have to run out for a short while.”

Something was gripping her neck, and she heard a clanging sound competing with the noise of the chair scrapping across the wood floor.

“Don’t worry, Red. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He steadied the chair, then pushed it the rest of the way into the closet. When she tried to move her head, Annie knew right then what was around her neck. Then she looked down and saw the chains.

Just before the door blocked out the light from beyond, Langdon leaned in so close that Annie could feel his breath on her face. Still smiling, he slid along the side of her cheek until his lips brushed against her ear.

And then he whispered, “Sit in one place Annie, motionless, still, like an object. Until someone comes and sets you free.”

In an instant, she felt all of the hope, and confidence, and courage, as well as everything good that had blossomed from those strengths she had worked so hard to cultivate, drain right out of her. It all cascaded down the chains and seeped through the floorboards below.

Sit in one place Annie, motionless, still, like an object. Until someone comes and sets you free.

Eyes closed, she began a slow drift down into an endless cavern, until a knock on a faraway door pulled her back like rescuer’s grip. Was it Langdon? Then a voice, muffled by walls and distance. Then nothing.

Annie was fading away again when the voice returned. This time she recognized it. How had Alex Chapa found her? She tried to call out, but couldn’t. Then she had another idea. Maybe Langdon hadn’t shut the closet door all the way.

She started rocking from side to side, hoping to tip toward the door and use her weight to force it open. But Annie miscalculated the third time she swayed to the right, away from the door. The weight of her body combined with the chains pulled her down, and the chair slammed to the floor.

Much of the weight had landed on Annie’s right arm, and pain rifled through her shoulder and down her back. The fall had made her even more lightheaded than before. Clouds began to gather.

Annie lay motionless, refusing to close her eyes, but still allowing herself to go for a long stroll deep into that endless cave.