Shelter Page 10

  There was a mini Maglite in his coat pocket and he withdrew it too, shuffling it around to his left hand so he could hold the gun with the right. He left the flashlight off, though. Better not to draw attention to himself, wait until he needed the thing.

  As his eyes adjusted, the hulking wreck of what once been a checkout counter came into focus in front of him. Ceiling tiles had rotted and fallen loose one at a time, littered the floor in front of him like stepping stones. Exposed wiring hung down from the rafters at intervals, giving the building the air of a man-made jungle.

  Carlos took in a big breath of the stale air and pulled up what he remembered of the floor plan in his memory bank. The main floor was a blank canvas, half-walls here and there, what had once been store rooms and dressing rooms in the back. That was where the staircase up to the second floor was too.

  He allowed himself one last inventory of his immediate surroundings, then headed toward the back.

  He encountered the first strip of left-behind crime scene tape at the base of the stairwell. He thought the CSIs would have pulled out their industrial strength solvents and cleaned up the mess that had been left behind. But the sight of one of his own bloody boot prints on the concrete had him staggering to a halt.

  The boots were still stuffed in a garbage bag in the back of his closet, along with the jeans and shirt. But as always, each new reminder of that event triggered a whole new onslaught of guilt and grief.

  When he blinked, he saw it all in a split second. He’d called Sean after 911. His hand had been pressed over Sam’s wound, blood bubbling up from between his fingers. And from between Sam’s lips. His cousin had been breathing with shallow, wet, slapping sounds, like his lung had collapsed, or maybe it had just been all the blood that was trickling out of his mouth. Carlos hadn’t known, the tears had clouded his vision until he couldn’t tell where the blood was coming from anymore. The sirens had risen up from the silence, soft and growing louder. Sean had told him he had to leave, and he hadn’t wanted to. He couldn’t. Sam was, was…and he had to be there for him. Sammy had always been like a brother to him, he…

  But Sean had screamed at him through the phone line and Carlos had known. He’d cursed and yelled and hated himself, but he’d run down the steps and out the back exit, had stumbled through the alleys until he finally collapsed, sobbing, against the side of a dumpster. Sam hadn’t been breathing anymore when he’d fled, and that was the only consoling thought he’d had about the whole thing: he couldn’t have done anything further.

  He’d left him, though. He’d run away like a little pussy afraid to get caught while Sam’s blood ran all over the concrete.

  A shudder rippled through his body, put goose bumps on his arms, made the short hairs on his arm stand on end. He adjusted his grip on the nine and ducked under the crime scene tape, heading up the stairs to what he knew awaited him on the first landing.

  The stained tracks were more vivid the higher he climbed. Up and to the right, around the corner out of sight of the first floor, he hit the landing, and there it was. The once-crimson puddle had turned black and dull, like someone had mopped it up and scrubbed it. But the evidence of Sam’s demise was still there.

  Carlos put his back to the wall and let it hold his weight a moment. As he breathed in through his mouth, he thought he could still taste the coppery tang of blood.

  Focus, he reminded himself.

  If there had ever been security cameras, they were long since gone, so that left him old fashion Sherlock magnifying glass kind of evidence snooping. The second floor had obviously served as office space and storage for the various businesses downstairs. The top landing ended in two hallways, one straight ahead, one that went off to the left, the windows at the ends not boarded up, so light streamed in, showed him that a half a dozen closed doors lined each hall. An EXIT sign was affixed to the ceiling at the end of the hallway to his right, its arrow pointing around the corner, so that was the direction he chose to begin his search.

  Carlos quickly realized, though, that he had no idea what he was looking for. Some of the old offices still had desks, wall calendars hanging askew. Others were empty. There were rat droppings everywhere, and a few rat skeletons. Drifts of paper and trash that indicated kids or the homeless had been crashing up here.

  Of course nothing jumped out at him as proof that a drug buyer had shot his cousin and then fled through this hallway. He knew though, that’s how it had to have happened. The shooter had gone back up the stairs and – Carlos started walking toward the indicated exit – left in a hurry. The sign directed him to another alcove and another stairwell. He followed it down to a door that, after a quick look without locking himself out, let out a hundred feet further down the alley. Carlos frowned as he ducked back inside, frustrated at having proved absolutely nothing. He wasn’t sure what he’d thought he would find. He wasn’t a cop; he couldn’t dust for prints or look for tiny hairs with skin tags still attached so he could analyze their DNA.

  Okay, so he’d watched way too much TV.

  His hand was on the release bar of the door that would take him back into the main area of the first floor when he heard a sound. Footsteps. Slow, even, as if whoever it was had an interest in keeping quiet. As if, maybe, whoever it was, knew he wasn’t alone in the building.

  Carlos sucked in a breath and held it. His heart hammered against his sternum and he tried to convince himself that he was spooked and imagining things. His haunted memories were now affecting his auditory senses.

  But there were definitely footsteps on the other side of the door, echoing across all the concrete and exposed sheetrock of the cavernous room. They sounded almost like dress shoes, the heavy thud of a man’s tread emphasized with a crack of an expensive dress heel. Which ruled out a vagrant.

  His finger caressed the trigger guard of his Glock, and he asked himself, as he listened to the owner of the snappy shoes pace around, what he thought he was going to do. Shoot the guy? Put another murder in this building’s history? The obvious answer was to duck out the exterior door behind him and take off down the alley. But sick curiosity made him stay. That and the whispered promise of revenge that swirled around in the back of his mind.

  The owner of the footsteps lingered another few moments that felt like forever. Carlos had to remind himself to breathe. And then they retreated at a steady pace toward the other door, the one that had to be worked open through the hole in the wall, and the door hinges squealed. There was a clang as the lock slammed into place. And then it was silent except for the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears.

  He waited an extra minute or two, just to be sure, then he tucked away his gun and flashlight, punched the bar on the door behind him and slipped out into the vacant alley.

  When his phone rang, he swore, and then swore again for being so goddamn jumpy. “Stupid fuck,” he scolded himself as he checked the ID display. Alma.

  “Hey, baby,” he managed to keep his voice normal and upbeat.

  “Hey.” Just with one word, she sounded tired, but like she was smiling. “How’s your day off going?”

  “Fine.” He stopped at the street corner, checked both ways, then set off toward his car parked on the opposite curb. “What about you? First day. Did it go okay?”

  “Well, I didn’t get fired. So I guess that counts for something.”

  It was amazing how, only moments before he’d been a panicked wreck, and now, the sound of her voice had turned him inside out and doused him with sunshine. Deep down he knew he was no good for her, for a lot of reasons. But she was so very, very good for him that he kept hoping he had a chance of turning this Sam/Sean/drug situation around so he could be what she needed. Carlos chuckled. “That’s a step. Job retention’s a good thing.”

  She breathed a little laugh that warmed him until he thought he might not need his jacket. “True.” There was a pause. He imagined her taking a deep breath. “Are we still on for my place tonight?”

  “Absolutely. Whatcha maki
ng?” he asked as he hit the remote to unlock his doors.

  “I thought I might splurge for steaks.”

  Carlos frowned. “Only if you’re craving them. I’m not really in the mood for anything that bloody.”

  12

  Alma was surprised she hadn’t forgotten what her house looked like she visited it so little. The yard was going to absolute hell; it was late fall, so the grass wasn’t growing, but the weeds were, and they were getting thick. Leaves had piled up in drifts along the base of the four-foot chain link fence that ringed the front lawn, they spilled out of the gutters brown and orange and crackly. She’d been picking up the mail, though, and she shifted it around in her arms so she could insert her key in the back door and release the deadbolt.

  The rear entry led straight into the kitchen, and the air smelled stale. Not sour, just unused, like the windows needed to be left open a couple of hours. It was a modest house; as she set the mail on the counter, she could see the foyer and its coat rack, the living room, the hall that led to the two bedrooms and bathroom. It was a starter home in one of the more transitional neighborhoods on the edge of Marietta, it almost had a Powder Springs address. Their – her – neighbors were an eclectic mix of new families, day laborers and college students rooming together and splitting the rent. It was a messy little community with lots of character and though it lacked the elegance and style of her parents’ place, it was comfortable. Sam had bought the house for her which, of course, had made it special beyond words.

  Alma swore she could feel him as she paced across the floor to the cordless phone that was mounted on the far wall. The reminders were everywhere – his handwriting on the message board beside the door, the scratch in her Kitchen Aid mixer, the latest copy of Guns & Ammo that had come in the mail – and that was without going deeper into the house and encountering his photograph.

  The blinking light on her answering machine told her she had three messages, and she cringed as she hit the play button, worried she’d be bitched out by the recycling people for not leaving her bottles and papers out on the curb like she was supposed to for the past two weeks. Instead, she heard: “Hi, Alma, this is Sue from Dr. Laramie’s office reminding you that you have an appointment this coming Monday at three-thirty. You’re scheduled for an ultrasound. Please give us a call back to confirm. Thank you, have a nice day…”

  She tuned out the next two messages, instead chewed at her lip and recalled her last appointment with Dr. Laramie. She’d been an unkempt bundle of sniffles and tears, overcome with grief for Sam as the nurses had drawn blood and checked her vitals. Filling out paperwork had been torture, having to write his name in the blank labeled “name of father.” No one, from the receptionist to the doctor himself, had seemed to know how to handle her, so they’d been polite and upbeat, hadn’t responded to her miserable tone when she’d answered their questions as to whether the father would be joining her for the appointment.

  This time, though, was going to be better. She squared up her shoulders and walked out of the kitchen, through the living room back to her bedroom so she could change before she started cooking. She longed for the soft comfort of sweats, but instead compromised with black leggings and a long, fitted sweater. Part of feeling better was looking better, and so far it seemed to be helping.

  Alma was stepping out of the bathroom, massaging her scalp that was sore thanks to the tight braid she’d worn all day, when her eyes landed on the bed. Beneath the white down comforter and beaded pillow shams, she knew the sheets still smelled of Sam’s cologne and the harsh soap he used. They were the same sheets on which the baby had been conceived. She thought of Carlos, of the warmth in his voice when he’d answered her call earlier. The way he called her “baby” like she was the best thing on the planet.

  Then she stepped forward and took the corner of the comforter in her hand, peeled it back. She didn’t lean down and breathe in one last whiff of the sheets like she wanted to, afraid she wouldn’t be able to go through with this if she did, and yanked them off the mattress. Don’t turn back, she told herself as she stripped the linens and bundled them up in her arms.

  Into the washing machine they went and she pulled out the knob, watched the water start pouring into the drum with a hiss. In went the Tide. And she didn’t cry as she watched a clinging piece of her life with Sam literally wash away.

  But she wanted to.

  Carlos arrived about an hour later, just as the aroma of the baked herb chicken in the oven was starting to permeate the kitchen. As she’d chopped and diced and sprinkled, stirred and steamed, she’d been fixating on the new crisp, white, untouched sheets on the bed, asking herself if she was really going to be able to lay down on them with Carlos and maintain her composure. But seeing him walk through the back door felt so right it took the apprehension in her belly and turned it on its head.

  His eyes found hers as he said, “Hey,” in a voice that indicated he was worried if she was handling this new, great big step or if she was about to crumble. It was so similar to the look he’d given her that first day he’d come over, when he’d been dripping with rain water and when both their emotions had been so raw, she felt her heart swell. Carlos was a good man. More considerate and sweeter than anyone she’d ever had in her life.

  “Hi,” she smiled. “How’s chicken sound?”

  “Well, it smells great.” He glanced around the room and she thought he seemed rattled. Paranoid no doubt. Or maybe he felt Sam’s ghost in the room with them. His eyes landed on hers again. “How are you doing?”

  She closed the distance between them, slipped her arms around his waist and buried her face in the hollow of his throat. “I’m good.”

  **

  “I love this movie.”

  Carlos chuckled. “Then why’ve you spent the past hour making fun of it?”

  Alma was tucked up under his arm on the sofa, using him as a body pillow. The soft blue glow of the TV was the only light on in the room and it flickered across her face. She looked serene, peaceful. “It’s not so much ‘making fun’ as it is pointing out helpful suggestions the characters should have taken to heart in order to not die a horrible death.”

  He chuckled again. The last time they’d watched Jeepers Creepers, she’d been sixteen and had missed out on all Halloween festivities thanks to the flu. Tom and Diane hadn’t been too keen on one of the landscapers spending the evening on their couch, but Alma had been so pitiful and weak, they’d been willing to put up with him because he made her laugh.

  “For instance,” she continued, “early on, when they go back to see what the monster threw down in that drainage pipe? You never double back! Least of all where the monster’s been!”

  Do you double back when it’s your cousin bleeding out in a stairwell? He asked himself purely for torture. But he shook the thought away.

  “But you know,” Alma said. “The whole premise of all horror movies hinges on the fact that people must act as stupidly as possible in order for any of the madness to occur.”

  He loved that she was a nerd. “But what about something like The Sixth Sense? No one was overly stupid in that.”

  “True. But, I like to think of that as more of a supernatural thriller. There was actually a story there, and the plot didn’t revolve around teenagers being torn to pieces.”

  “You know, I think you’ve put waaaaay too much thought into this,” he teased. Really, it was a good sign to see her back to her chirpy, analytical self.

  She flung up her hands in mock indignation, also a good sign. “You can never think too much, Carlos! I don’t think anyone ever accused Shakespeare of thinking too much – it’s kind of the most important part of writing.”

  “Guess you’ll have to get famous and prove that to everyone, huh?”

  He’d meant the prod to be gentle, light and supportive, but he saw a frown put shadows in the corners of her mouth. “Yeah…don’t count on that happening.” She sounded sad. Then her head twisted around and her blue-around-the-
edges dark eyes flipped up to meet his. “And don’t gimme that inspiration crap. Getting published is not one of those if-you-set-your-mind-to-it kinds of things.”

  He grinned and poked at her temple. “Not for just anyone, but your mind, I dunno, I think it’s pretty great.”

  She returned the grin, teeth gleaming white. “You are so cheesy, you know that?”

  He shrugged. “Little cheese never hurt anybody.”

  The moment was so exquisitely normal, put him in such a trance, he didn’t realize he’d spoken until Alma’s expression shifted dramatically. She sat up straight, shrugging off his arm. “What did you just say to me?”

  She hadn’t balked at his I love you, so he wasn’t sure what could have sent her reeling backward like this. “I…” he wanted to kick himself when the words came back to him. Staring down into her eyes, warm and safe beneath the shelter of their bond that grew tighter by the day, he’d opened his mouth and said, “You always shoulda been with me instead.”

  Shit!

  “Alma - ”

  But she was already getting to her feet, struggling to untangle her long legs from the fleece throw she’d had tucked in around the both of them. “How,” her hair fell in front of her face and she pushed it back with aggravation. “How could you say that? Do – do you really think that?” Even in the dim light of the TV, the hurt in her eyes was like a physical entity that reached through the distance between them and slapped the shit out of him. “Oh my God.”

  “Alma, wait.” He tripped over the throw in his attempt to stand. “Fuck…Alma!” By the time he was upright, she had gone down the hall.