Jack knocked on the hollow wood door to Goss’s apartment, then waited. No one answered, but he refused to believe that Goss wasn’t there. He knocked harder, almost banging. Still no answer. “Goss,” he said loudly. “I know it’s you. Answer the door!”
“Hey!” an angry man shouted from an open apartment doorway down the hall. “It’s ten o’clock, man. I got a two-year-old here. Cut the racket.”
Jack took a deep breath. He’d been so focused in his pursuit of Goss that he’d acted as if no one else lived in the building. That was a stupid approach, he realized. So he stepped back from the door and slowly headed down the hall, as if to leave. As soon as Goss’s neighbor retreated into his apartment, Jack quietly but quickly returned to apartment 217 and turned the knob. It was unlocked. He hesitated and listened for footsteps on the inside. Nothing. He pushed the door open slowly, about a foot, and peered inside. All was dark and quiet. He pushed it open further, about halfway, and stood in the open doorway.
“Goss,” he said in a firm voice. Then he waited.
There was no reply, only the sound of heavy tropical rain tapping on the roof and against the window on the other side of the room. Jack swallowed hard. As he saw it, he had two choices. He could turn and walk away, his tail between his legs. If he did, it would only be a matter of time before he got another threat, before the violence escalated further. His other choice-the only real choice-was to do something right then.
He discreetly checked the hallway, but saw no one. Then he stared nervously into the dark apartment. He could hear his heart pounding and feel his palms begin to sweat. He took a deep breath and reached deep inside himself for the strength he needed. Slowly and very cautiously, he entered the dark, deathly quiet apartment of Eddy Goss.
“Goss,” Jack said again, standing just inside the open door. “It’s Swyteck. You and I need to talk, so come on out.”
When after a few seconds there was no response, Jack reached out and flipped the light switch by the door. But no lights came on.
A huge bolt of lightning cracked just outside, sending his heart to his throat. The storm was worsening, the heavy rain pelting against the room’s only window. Another large bolt struck even closer, bathing the small room in a burst of eerie white light. Jack got a mental snapshot, hastening his eyes’ adjustment to the layout of he apartment. The kitchen, dining, and living areas were one continuous room. A ghostly white bed sheet covered the window. Furniture was sparse-he noticed only a beaten-up old couch, a floor lamp, a kitchen table, and one folding chair. The walls were bare, but there were a few plants. Not your ordinary houseplants. These were big and colorful crucifixes, Stars of David, and other tributes to the dead, all made of chrysanthemums and other fresh flowers, apparently stolen by Goss from graves at the local cemetery. Jack felt anger rising in him as he read one pink ribbon inscribed our beloved daughter. He looked away in disgust, then noticed a door across the room that led to the bedroom. It was open.
Whit-whooooo, came a sudden shrill-pitched whistle from the bedroom, like a catcall at the girls on the beach. Jack coiled, ready for an attack.
Whit-whoooo came the sound again, a little louder this time.
His heart raced. The urge to turn and run was almost irresistible, but his feet refused to retreat. Slowly, he forced one foot in front of the other, surprising even himself as he moved closer to the bedroom. He took deliberate, stalking steps, trying to minimize the squeak in his rain-soaked tennis shoes. He stared at the open doorway as he steadily crossed the room, his eyes wide with intense concentration, his every sense alert to what might be inside the bedroom. He flinched slightly as heavy thunder rumbled in the distance. He halted just two steps away from the open door.
Whit-whooooo came the whistle again.
The whistling spooked Jack, but it was also beginning to anger him. The bastard was taunting him. This was all just a game to Goss. And Jack knew the rules by which Goss played his games. He took the loaded gun from his pocket.
“Eddy,” he called out. “Cut the game-playing, all right? I just want to talk to you.”
Thunder clapped as a flash of lightning filled the room with strobe-like light. Jack took a half step forward, and then another. He glanced at the kitchen table beside him. There was a dirty plate with dried ketchup and remnants of Goss’s fish-stick dinner. An empty Coke bottle. A fork. And a steak knife. The sight of the knife made Jack glad he had his gun. He raised his weapon to chest level, clutching it with both hands. His hands were shaking, but he wasn’t about to stop now. He took the last step and peered inside the bedroom.
A sudden shriek sent Jack flying backward. He saw something-a figure, a shadow, an attacker! But as he took a step back and tried to squeeze off a shot, he lost his balance. He collided with the floor lamp, sending it careening across the carpet. For a second he was on his hands and knees, then he struggled to his feet, panting from the burst of excitement. The fight was over as quickly as it had started. “A stupid cockatoo,” he said aloud, but with a sigh of relief.
Whit-whooooo, the bird whistled at him, perched on his pedestal.
Jack flinched, suddenly panicked by what sounded like footsteps in the hall. He didn’t want to have to explain himself to someone checking on the noise. He shoved the gun into his pants, ran from the bedroom, and pushed up the window to open it. But it raised only six inches. A nail inside the frame put there by a previous tenant as a crude form of security kept it from opening all the way. Jack’s heart raced as he thought heard the footsteps in the hall getting closer. He quickly scanned the room, grabbed the steak knife from Goss’s dinner table, and used it like a claw hammer to work the nail free. At first the nail wouldn’t budge, but then it suddenly popped out. As it did, the knife slipped and sliced Jack across the back of his left hand. He was bleeding, but was too scared to feel the pain. He tossed the knife back toward the table and climbed out the open window. He climbed down the rickety fire escape like a middle-schooler on monkey bars, letting himself drop the last ten feet and landing with a splash in an ankle-deep puddle. He ran around the building and back to his car as fast as he could, then pulled away slowly, realizing that the faster he went, the more suspicious he’d look.
As he drove he took several deep breaths, trying to collect himself. He checked the back of his left hand. The cut was fairly deep and still bleeding, but it didn’t look like he’d need stitches. He steered with his wounded hand and applied pressure with the other to stop the bleeding.
“Damn,” Jack cursed at himself-and at that stupid cockatoo. That bird had scared the hell out of him. It seemed strange that Goss would own a bird-that he’d care about any living creature. But then it made sense as he thought of the bird pecking at his food around the pedestal. Seeds. There had been all kinds of seeds-the seeds of the Chrysanthemum Killer. Jack thought again of Goss’s comment: “I still have a lot of seeds to sow.”
As he put more distance between himself and Goss’s apartment, he re-evaluated the events that had drawn him there-the phone call, the map, the invitation to meet the “killer on the loose.” It made him think through Goss’s gradual escalation of violence and what might be the logical next step after killing his dog. He was suddenly afraid his instincts had been right. Goss was not luring him to his apartment to kill him but, rather, someone else.
“Cindy,” Jack said aloud, frantically weighing the possibility. Maybe he was giving Goss too much credit, but on the other hand, this madman could have lured him to his apartment at exactly 4:30 A.M. to make sure Cindy would be alone-so that Goss could sow another seed.
Jack punched the accelerator to the floor and raced toward Gina’s apartment, steering with one hand and dialing his car phone with the other. It wasn’t even midnight yet, let alone 4:30 A.M., but he was not taking any chances.