2.3
At first, I think I'm in my room, on the floor next to my bed where I've woken with a splitting headache and a furry tongue. It's happened more times than I'd like to admit after drinking alone long into the night. The familiar feelings of self-flagellation rise. The cold of the cement floor is what brings me back here. To the Needler.
I jolt awake with the memory of that mask, and the needle, and I move an inch. I didn't expect to wake up, and I didn't expect it to be in the same place that I last remembered, on my side facing the rusted metal doors and what’s on the other side of them. How long have I been here? It could be minutes or days. I try to move again and nearly put myself back under. Forcing deep breaths, I do a scan of my body. Everything is still as it should be, aside from the paralysis.
That voice again. I still, closing my eyes, listening over the sound of my quick breaths.
But the voice isn’t speaking to me. No, I can't have been out long. Because his victim is still alive. The doors are cracked open just slightly more than before, and when I strain with all my strength to tilt my chin up, cheek grating on the rough concrete, I can see through into the room. Even then, all I can see is the end of the table, two bare feet sticking out over the end, men’s feet, Masker’s feet, shackled and strained. A figure stands on the side closer to me, his black-clad shoulder and arm just on the edge of my vision around the door. Beyond, if I squint, I can see the picture frames. They're in doubles this time, the only one I can make out with any kind of clarity propped on a chair, a picture of a young, pretty and smiling face, and next to it, a white mess of a mask, locked in death, the makeup painted on it all the more garish for looking like a child drew it.
Did Needler mean for me to see all of this? He did roll me onto my side. The other reason for doing that- so that I wouldn't choke in my unconscious state- seems unlikely.
His voice, laced with a detachment and clinical air that is exasperated by the mechanical alterer, asks, “Did they beg?”
More muffled whimpering. He shifts where he's standing by the side of the table. “All those women. They drowned like this, suffocated in plaster.” His voice turns to a hiss now, static and harsh. “You took your time.”
A thumping, wet sound makes me flinch, as much as I'm able. The feet try to kick. There's a tension. My heart quickens, and for several moments I watch those feet strain, knowing he's dying, the scream muffled.
“…Before you let them die.” Needler turns, stepping away, the black of his hood absorbing light. My eyes cut back to the feet; they've stilled.
Masker is dead.
Needler’s latest victim is gone, and I, the witness, am still lying here on the floor, unable to move.
By the time I realise Needler has walked back towards the doors, he’s opening them. I should close my eyes, fake unconsciousness until I can move again. But I'm too shocked, my reflexes urging me to watch him as he stands in front of me, the mask tilted down at me. I'm next, of that I'm convinced, no matter how I don’t fit the bill. There's a sharp glint in his hand, and this time it’s the needle, with a strong red tint over polished silver.
Maybe he'll show me pictures too. Of whom? My husband? But no, he's the one who killed my husband. My jaw works, trying to speak as he crouches in front of me, black holes of eyes peering at my face. I go utterly still.
“Be careful of what you so badly want to find, my Little Shadow. It might not be what you anticipated.”
Is he talking about what I just saw? I try to speak but only gargle. He stands, steps over me, and appears to leave. I listen to his footsteps recede, echoing on the stairs.
Suddenly, I'm alone. And I'm alive.
***
What seems like hours later, I've managed to shift my top leg, sliding it forward and off my other leg, which is numb from the weight as much as from the pressure of lying on cold cement. The sun is just starting to set aglow the interior of this place, and as it does it illuminates the work of the Needler. He left the door ajar, and the daylight brings a sharper clarity to the body on the table, the bright red rivulets running down his ribs and dripping to the floor. His head is encased in white plaster.
I’m just working up to rolling over, and I manage to scare away a rat sniffing at my shoe when I hear the other footsteps. My heart skips. Has Needler come back? Has he decided to remove any threat I might be after all?
“ What the fuck?” That voice might be the sweetest thing I've ever heard. I almost laugh with relief as the footsteps turn to running. Rats squeak in indignation, scattering. Then Dirk is pulling me up, lifting my head and back off the floor. “Eleanor, Jesus Christ.”
“I… the…” I croak, then clear my throat, ready to try again.
“What the hell happened to you?” He does a half-frantic scan down my still-limp body, propped on his knee, and finding no immediate wound, his wide eyes come back to my face. "Are you hurt?"
With sitting, the blood seems to flow better, purging whatever it was from my system. I manage more words and even a twitch of my head towards what was the Masker. “The Needler…”
Dirk looks up over me. His face changes, hand tightening on my arm where he’s gripping to hold me up, my side pulled against his welcome warmth. "Fucking fuck…" He does have a mouth sometimes. I suppose right now, that’s fair enough.
"How… did you find…" I manage.
Shaking his head as though to dislodge this new and unexpected development, Dirk's attention comes back to me. "You're freezing. We've got to get you someplace warm. And I need to call this in."
He scoops me up in his arms. I can only hold on and bear the indignity of needing to be rescued as he takes me back down the corridor, then the stairs that I feel like I crept up a lifetime ago. My cheek presses to the front of his shoulder, his arms firm and comforting enough around me to almost lull me back towards unconsciousness.
Outside, the sun is up and light spills across the abandoned compound. The rain has generously lightened to a drizzle. I'm about to ask how I'm going to get over the wall, but Dirk seems to know where he's going and takes us past the point I climbed over, further on where wide gates are usually chained shut. But they're not now. A pair of bolt cutters lie on the cracked pavement.
Back across the sad green strip is his car. I find I can move my arms as Dirk bundles me into the passenger seat. Stepping away for a beat, he grabs the bolt cutters and tosses them onto the backseat, then comes around onto the driver’s side, turning the heaters up to full blast. I sigh, reaching my hands towards the vent.
Picking up the police radio attached to the centre of his console, Dirk lifts it to his mouth. "New Needler vic, wastewater plant, top floor, deceased. Looks like Masker. Bring an ambulance."
I cringe at the last request. At least he hasn’t mentioned me yet.
A moment later, the dispatcher’s voice comes back through. "Copy."
"Media already on the scene," Dirk adds, confusing me, but then he puts the mouthpiece back down and speaks to me, "I couldn't sleep this morning, so I tuned into that reporter’s channel. They were talking about a car outside the waste-water plant, mentioning that it looked like yours. So I came to check it out." As he’s speaking, he directs the vents towards me.
With the question of how he found me finally answered, I nod weakly. Past him, through the window, I now see the other cars, too new and shiny for this Crennick, with tinted windows. The reporters are already here. I wonder if they saw Dirk carrying me out. They'll have a field day with that. With any luck, the wait had put them to sleep.
"They’ll be here soon to secure the scene. God knows how long the ambulance will take. I'm taking you to hospital."
I reach over, gripping his arm as he goes to turn the ignition. "Please. I'm fine." Clearly a lie, and I add, "I can move." If he takes me to hospital, they'll do bloodwork. The alcohol will still be in my system. Which won't look good, to say the least.
Dirk holds still, staring at me. "Are you serious? You were attacked."
"I…" my voice dries up, and Dirk reaches into the side of his door, passing me a bottle of water. I drink the whole thing, feeling immediately better. I wriggle my toes, warm now thanks to the quickly heating car.
"You need to be checked over." That’s the opposite of what I need. He lifts his hands off the steering wheel, aghast now that the shock of finding me like that is wearing off. "What the hell were you even doing here, El?"
“I…” my voice shakes. “I thought about that sand more… and remembered this place, the excursions as a kid. I just thought I'd check it out…”
Dirk looks at me incredulously. “In the middle of the night? Jesus, do you know what could have happened?”
I close my eyes and nod. I already know how idiotic it all was, but I deserve to hear it again.
Dirk rubs his eyes, taking a moment and a deep breath as he leans his elbow on the window base, his forehead in his hand. “Did you see him?”
“Yes, but he was masked. Nothing the sketch didn’t already show us.” Then I realise that’s not entirely correct. “He has a voice alterer.” I gesture at my throat. “But it was dark.”
“Really?” Dirk asks with a heavy dose of biting irony. “An abandoned factory in the middle of the night was dark ?” I look down at my hands clamped around the empty bottle of water. “You know I should report this, report you. It's too far El, you’re going to get yourself fucking killed!”
“I know. It was stupid." I'm talking fast. I know what’s at stake- my job and with it everything that keeps me going. “I… please.”
He eyes me. “Had you been drinking?”
I hesitate.
“If you lie to me, I swear to god…”
“Yes.” I wouldn’t be the first agent to have a drinking problem. Silence. I can't meet his gaze. “Are you going to report that?”
For long enough that my palms start to sweat, Dirk says nothing, only stares out his window. I stay as quiet as a mouse, like a naughty child who hopes current good behaviour will forgive them of past bad behaviour. Then, without a word, he turns the ignition. “I'm taking you home," Dirk says, deadpan, as he pulls away from the curb. "And you’re going to stay there. Call in sick, don’t, I don’t care. But I better not see you in the office until next week. You'd better come up with something good to tell Tawill by then. I'm not going to cover for a drunk.”
That’s better than I could have hoped for, even if his words, the fact that he won't look at me hurts. My eyes sting a little and I bite my lip, but swallow down anything that might come up. "Thank you. My car…"
"Figure it out." Dirk's tone tells me that’s the end of our discussion. So I keep my mouth shut for the rest of the drive.
Thanks to my using Dirk’s car radio and patching through to the house line, Olivia meets me outside our building, and though my legs are working again, my balance is far from ideal. As a rule, she doesn't ask me about my work, and that stays true now as she slings my arm over her shoulder and beams through my open door at Dirk. "Thanks for the delivery!"
I'm facing the wrong way to see his expression, but Olivia taps the door closed and takes us towards the lobby.
"Alright! Let’s get you in front of the TV with a hot water bottle, huh?" Olivia starts chattering and doesn't stop until she's done exactly as she said. "Feel like a bath? I'll run you one. You smell like you need it, no offence. Your partner is cute! You never told me that. Is he single?"