Ghost of the Past Page 3

  Elliot is on his feet and making his way to the hallway. The noise came from there. The apartment is dark, but not so dark so that he will not see a figure if it is there. Whoever was in the hallway is not there anymore. Carefully, he steps around the boxes in his apartment. Should have unpacked these boxes, you never know when someone might break into your apartment and you have to shoot them.

  He steps around another box with care, making sure to not brush against it with his foot. His gun is held out in front of him. He still remembers the first time he had to pull his gun. He was fresh out of the academy, a rookie cop, less than three weeks on the job. He and his partner were called to an incident at a high rise. There had been an anonymous call, and they were the first to arrive.

  As they were about to enter the building, they heard gunshots. They stopped dead, returned to their vehicle and radioed in for backup. Both of them were new, and neither wanted to go into the high rise. How times have changed. If this had happened yesterday, Elliot would have gone in first, alone, and without backup. Back then, he was a different person. The two of them stood by the vehicle, both looking at the other nervously, both praying that they did not hear another gunshot, something to prod them back towards the building.

  When the sirens were heard in the distance, they both sighed in relief. Four more officers arrived on the scene and in three seconds flat, they had split into two groups of three. Elliot was in one, his partner in the other. Elliot looked at the faces of the other officers and saw something which he would gain over time—not bravery, but acceptance. It was part of the job. You could be bravest person in the world, or you could be the most cowardly person, but you still just had to do it.

  Elliot followed the other officers up the stairs. They opened the door to the fourth floor and walked out with purpose, covering each other, putting years of repetition into practice. Elliot was not aware that he had drawn his gun. He must have drawn it at the same time as the other officers. He held it out in front of him, partly to follow the lead of the others, partly to stop his hands from shaking. They reached the door of the suspect's apartment. One of the officers pounded on the door, and shouted that the police were here. The three of them could hear someone behind the door, and all three of them were stood back, just in case, guns pointed at the door.

  Suddenly, the door flew open. Elliot stood still, frozen to the spot. In the doorway was a man. He looked smart enough—regular dress, and you would not look twice at him if he was walking past you on the street. The only distinct thing about him was the gun he was holding above his head. He was holding it with his finger, barrel pointing up, handle pointing down. His other hand was in the air, palm open.

  One of the officers read him his rights and put cuffs on him while the other took the gun. Elliot had holstered his weapon somewhere in there. It turned out that the man had been having an argument with his brother, who was inside the apartment, and had fired his gun in the air. No one was hurt. No one was in real danger. The case was open and shut. Elliot would have harder cases over the years. He would draw his gun in more dangerous situations. He would fire his gun many times and kill a handful of people, but that was the first time he drew his gun. He would remember that moment forever. The other times were a blur of acceptance and violence.

  Now he is standing in his apartment, with his gun drawn once more, a look of concentration on his face. He walks slowly down the hallway. The bedroom door is open. The bathroom door is not.

  They must have gone into the bedroom.

  Elliot tries to picture the bedroom in his mind. He has not been in the apartment long and has not committed the layout of the place to his subconscious. He thinks about his entry angle and where they may be hiding, and if they are aware that he is making his way to the room. A face appears at the bedroom door, looking out. He jerks back, flattening himself against the wall in the hallway while keeping his gun pointed towards the door.

  They must have seen me. What is their endgame? Is it her? Has she come back for me? No, she would have planned this better. She would not let me get so close. If she was here, I would not know it. She would not let herself be seen and then hide again. Or would she? Was it a woman’s face? It looked like it. It almost looked like she saw straight through me. She obviously has no fear.

  Elliot makes a quick decision. He raises his gun in front of him and moves with speed and agility. He keeps to the wall, staying low and making himself look small. He reaches the doorway and does not stop. In one continuous motion, he whips himself around the door jamb and into the room. There is a figure slightly to his left. He turns with speed and points the gun straight at her. The woman is stood there in her undergarments.

  “Freeze!” shouts Elliot.

  “Freeze!” shouts the woman. She has a gun pointed at Elliot.

  Chapter Five

  Joyce

  He had been taken by a woman. It had happened two years ago to the day. He had not realized it until now. Until he was standing in front of a woman with a gun. Happy Anniversary.

  Two years ago, Elliot was in a bar. The day had been long, like most days he'd worked through. He had been investigating a rape case. The woman had survived—just—she had been beaten to within an inch of her life. It looked like whoever had done this had been disturbed before he could finish the job. He was disturbed before he had chosen to take this path. The woman was found by a passer-by. The rapist was long gone by the time the passer-by got there. He'd thought that the woman was dead, but she jerked her wrist back as he tried to check for a pulse.

  An ambulance was called and it took some time before the woman would let anyone touch her. They had to touch her, but what was to come was almost as horrifying as the incident itself, almost as invasive. But it had to be done if they wanted to catch the monster. Most women are raped by someone they know, but this woman had no clue who it could be. The man had worn a mask. Dark, unmemorable clothing. No scent.

  They found DNA in various places. Enough to make a match, but they had no one to make a match to. They interviewed countless family members, countless friends, and acquaintances. CCTV was checked, eyewitness reports taken, more interviews, more reports, more police bullshit. In the end they could not make an arrest. They did not even have a suspect.

  Elliot should have known that it would happen, but he always carried a glimmer of hope with cases like these—the really bad ones, the ones which would be made worthwhile when they caught the monster and took them off the streets. Turns out that some monsters are here to stay. Elliot was called into Chief Monaghan’s office. That should have been the giveaway. The Chief did not like to call him into his office. Sometimes there was no telling Elliot. He was as stubborn as a mule.

  Elliot walked out two minutes later and cursed all who crossed his path. He wanted to hit someone, but no one gave him a good enough reason. He flew through the precinct like a tornado on the news, one which always destroys the lonely farm building. He wandered the streets for a while, ignoring calls from the Chief. What would he have to say? There was only one thought in his mind—no, two thoughts. The first was that he was the one who would have to tell Gwynn Jenkins. The second was that he would find this monster.

  Gwynn Jenkins. He never forgot her name. It was burned into his memory, like so many others. He remembered sitting down with her and telling her that they would not be working the case anymore. He did not tell her that he would work the case in his spare time, and gave her no assurances that he would ‘catch the monster’, like they always did on TV. He tried to carry on with the case in his spare time, but he found that it fizzled out. He did not have the resources of the police force, and he did not have any leads either. The evidence was what it was. It gave nothing more. There was nothing left to do but give up.

  It was on the day that he gave up that he found himself in the bar. Looking back, he called it chance—or fate. There was no way that he was singled out, followed or chosen. It was random, and that was what disturbed him
the most. Random events had led him to the bar. Change one and he would not have been there, but there he was. Random events had led to this one random event: his taking.

  He was sat in the bar, nursing a whiskey: Talisker. This was the fourth whiskey he had nursed that night. Enough to feel a little tipsy, but not enough to become an easy target. She was patient and confident—she had to be. He remembered getting up and paying his tab. He made no conversation with the barman. He had been here many times, but he was not friendly, let alone friends with the man who served him.

  He walked down the street. It was late, and people were still out, but only in dribs and drabs. About half way home, he got the feeling that he was being followed. He looked behind him, but could see no one. He quickened his pace and glanced behind from time to time. When he got to his building, he got his keys from his pocket with one hand, and with the other, he slowly unclipped his gun, ready to pull it out if needed. As he put the key in the lock, he looked round one more time. The street was empty. That was the last thing that he remembered.

  When he woke up, he was in pain. His head was throbbing. He tried to raise his hand, but found that his hands were tied behind his back. His head felt wet, and he could feel blood trickling down his neck—so he had not been out for long. He shouted out and waited for someone to come, someone to come and explain what had happened, Bond villain style. No one came that night.

  In the morning, or what he assumed to be morning, he woke to find a woman standing in front of him. She was beautiful, but that was not the first thing he noticed. It was the eyes, the way she looked at him. There was sorrow in those eyes. They pleaded with Elliot to understand that she had to do this, even though she did not want to. He looked deep into her eyes and found himself unable to speak.

  “Here is what is going to happen,” she said. “You will not talk. I will do the talking and you will listen.”

  “Who are you? What do you want with me?” asked Elliot. The woman walked out of the room and slammed the door. Elliot could hear it being locked. He slumped forward in his chair and eventually found sleep again.

  When he woke for the second time, she was standing in front of him again. It seemed to Elliot that she was dressed formally. She looked smart and elegant, as if she were on her way to a business meeting. Was she dressed up for him?

  “Here is what is going to happen,” she said.

  “Tell me why I am here!” shouted Elliot. Once more, the woman turned and left the room. Elliot watched her go and felt as if he had let her down, like he was a child once more, trying to please the adult.

  The third time he saw her, he had not just woken from sleep. This time she entered while he was still awake. He could see the room beyond his room, but it offered up nothing. He did notice that she had changed her shade of eye shadow. He decided to keep quiet this time. If he wanted to get information from her, it was going to be on her terms.

  “Here is what is going to happen,” she said. “You will not talk. I will do the talking and you will listen.” She waited a second, to test him. Elliot did not say a word. “Good. Now that we have established trust, I will give you the information that you need to know. I will not be telling you anything about me. I will not be telling you why you are here. I will not be telling you how you got here. I will not be telling you where here is. I will tell you what will happen to you and I will tell you for how long this will happen. As soon as you go back to sleep, I will inject you with a sleep aid which will keep you sleeping for four hours. When this happens, I will chain you to the ceiling. You will be chained to the ceiling for seven days. After seven days, you will be let go. During your seven days here, I will be carving your back wide open for my own pleasure. It will hurt a lot. I should know—you are not the first. When we are done, we will both go back to our lives. You will try to catch me. The others thought that the police would catch me too, but I am sorry to disappoint you—you will not catch me. I look forward to you falling asleep. Sweet dreams, and do not forget, this will fucking hurt.”

  “Hey! Hey! Where are you going? What do you want from me? Why are you doing this? What did I do to you? Come back here!” The door slammed shut and Elliot broke down. He tried to stay awake as the hours passed. Who knows how many? Day and night blended into one, or perhaps neither passed. Perhaps his body accepted what was to come and shut itself down. He does not remember falling asleep, but he does remember the pain. The pain that did not stop. The everlasting pain which gave him his life. He knows that he will never experience pain like that again, and in that knowledge, he has lost all fear. Not even death could be as painful as that.

  Now he is standing in his apartment, staring at a woman who is holding a gun. It is not her, though he has no doubt that she might shoot him.

  She has held a gun before. Used it, even. The way she carries herself, the way her eyes scan the room while always looking at me, suggests someone in the same line of work—a private investigator maybe? But why the hell is she in her underwear? And old underwear. It looks like something my grandmother would wear. Not that I have ever seen her underwear, but not the kind of thing a young, alluring woman would be wearing. A woman, stripped down in my bedroom, holding a gun. Seriously, what has my life become?

  The woman with the gun is a sight to behold. She stands a few inches shorter than Elliot and is very beautiful—classically beautiful, more than movie star beautiful. She has a lived-in beauty, which gives her an intelligent look. Her blond hair hangs down, just past her shoulders. Her eyes are brown, intense, and never stop watching Elliot.

  “Just put down your gun and I can help you, okay?” says Elliot.

  “Your offer of help is appreciated, but I am going to have you lower your gun first,” says the woman.

  “Look,” says Elliot. “I don’t know what you are doing here, and dressed like that, but give me the gun.”

  “Put down your gun,” says the woman, firmly.

  Elliot takes a step back and keeps the gun pointed at her. She is batshit crazy. “How did you get in here?” asks Elliot.

  “What are you talking about? Look, put the gun on the dresser and we can talk about this. If you put your gun down, I will lower mine. I am not going to put my gun down until we have talked about this. Trust me sir, put the gun down and we can talk about this.” Elliot lowers his gun slightly. “On the dresser,” she says. Elliot takes the gun in one hand and places it on the dresser, he keeps his hand on it and watches her. She motions with her gun for him to let go of his. She lowers her gun and points it to the floor. Elliot lets go of his gun and raises his hands slightly.

  “Okay, gun is down. Now put yours down,” says Elliot.

  “I told you, I am not putting my gun down. I have it lowered. That will have to do for now. Now tell me, who are you?” asks the woman.

  “My name is Elliot Lankford. I am a Detective.”

  “I seriously doubt that,” says the woman.

  “I can show you my badge, if you’ll let me,” says Elliot.

  “Before we do anything, I want you to tell me where my family are.”

  “What are you talking about?” asks Elliot.

  “Just tell me where my family are and everything will be okay,” says the woman.

  “I don’t know where your family are,” says Elliot.

  “Just tell me where they are!” shouts the woman. Elliot reaches for his gun, but the woman lifts hers too quickly. He stops and stares at her.

  “I don’t know where your family are. I don’t know who you are. And I have no idea what you are doing in my apartment.”

  “My apartment,” says the woman. Elliot begins to worry that she will shoot him.

  “What are you talking about? Your family? Your apartment? Who the fuck are you? Look at yourself. You’re in your fucking underwear.”

  “Get out my apartment!” shouts the woman.

  “This is my apartment!” shouts Elliot. “I moved in here last week. Take a look around you. L
ook at the boxes. What the fuck is wrong with you?” The woman falters for a second and takes a look around. Elliot thinks about grabbing his gun, but the woman’s grip on her own gun and her current mental state persuade him not to. He watches her as she looks around the room. He watches as she discovers the evidence, builds a case. She has to be on the force.

  “What is going on?” says the woman to herself. “Where are they? Where is my stuff? I do not understand. This is all wrong. It is different. What is going on?”

  “You tell me,” says Elliot.

  “What… What is the date today?” asks the woman.

  “July 24th,” says Elliot.

  “The year,” says the woman.

  “2012,” says Elliot.

  The woman lowers her gun.

  Chapter Six

  A Night To Remember

  “Can you please put down the gun?” asks Elliot. The woman puts her gun down on the dresser and looks around the room. She does not understand what is going on. Which puts her in the same boat as me, because I do not have a clue.

  “Let’s start nice and slow. What is your name?” asks Elliot.

  “Joyce. Joyce Green,” says the woman.

  “I’m Elliot,” says Elliot. “Elliot Lankford. I think that I have as much of a clue as to what is going on as you do. Can we go through and talk?” Elliot motions towards the living room. Joyce looks at the guns on the dresser. “We leave them here?” asks Elliot. Joyce nods and lets Elliot leave the room first. He notices her looking at the guns as he leaves.

  “I’ll give you a second to put something on, if you want to. Not forcing you or anything,” says Elliot. He walks through to the living room and sits down in his chair, pouring a generous glass of whiskey for himself. He takes a large sip and places the glass back down on the table.