Chapter 3
Down Below
Scuffling footsteps and shouts drifted down into the sewers along
with dropped car keys and dripping rainwater.
He didn't mind. Down here was home. The sewers were his roads and
highways from place to place, taking him throughout the city without
detection. Quicker than up above and less crowded. Down here he could
travel over a few streets and re-emerge above-ground to blend in with
the populace, leaving no trail or tracks for the police to follow.
Soon he would move on. But for now, he listened. The sirens shrieked,
growing louder. They had started not long after the first startled
yell of discovery. An old woman had stumbled upon his kill and
sounded the alarm. No doubt she had gone through the deceased's
pockets first, but found nothing. He had been thorough in cleaning up
his mess. The longer it took for the authorities to identify the
victim the more time he had to cover all his tracks.
The sirens stopped and more feet thundered overhead. Medics racing to
save an already dead girl. Officers spoke in low whispers about the
state of the body and what could have caused damage like that.
Then came the statement that caused the blood to chill in his veins.
“Hoof prints. Earhart found hoof
prints near the body.”
Dammit.
Despite all his careful planning and execution he had slipped. Shoes
were clumpy and uncomfortable, so he'd go barefoot, er hoofed,
whenever possible. Getaways were swifter when he wasn't tripping over
unnecessary foot coverings. No one ever noticed the weirdness of his
feet, generally because they were too fixated on the weirdness
sprouting from his forehead.
“...thinks it's was a lance.
Hunting down jousters now.”
He perked up at that bit of news. If the investigators were
questioning men riding horses, he was still safe. They put two and
two together to arrive at twenty-two rather than four.
Easier to believe the crazy but known than the unbelievable unknown.
Letting out a sigh, he slipped down the tunnel, pocketing the set of
keys as he went. After the hectic confusion of the day cleared out,
he may just be a new car richer. It'd need some bodywork, but he was
resourceful. A coat of paint was nothing compared to the cost of a
new set of wheels.
His hooves clicked against the cement, too muffled by the sounds of
the busy city to be heard. A left down a tunnel and a right down
another and he reached his destination. He disliked the metal ladder
rungs, a necessary evil to use the underground system. His hooves
slipped and caught on each step, but he continued his ascent.
Getting into the sewers was so much easier than getting back out of
them again.
Ten minutes later he pushed the metal cover up and over.
A hand clad in a yellow rubber glove reached down and grasped his. He
accepted the helping hand, pulling the rest of his body out of the
hole and into the stark white room.
The man attached to the yellow glove relinquished his grip. “What
took you so long?”
“Listening.”
With a grunt, the killer replaced the sewer lid and sat panting on
the floor.
“Is she taken care of?”
“Won't be snooping around here
anymore.” The killer swiped his arm across his forehead, the sweat
soaking into his coat sleeve. Murder and making a getaway was hard
work.
“No evidence?”
“Left a hoof print.” The gloved
man raised a white eyebrow. “Don't worry. The police are
questioning jousters. They still have no clue.”
The gloved man snorted and settled into a chair. On a table behind
him beakers and jars bubbled and popped with bright colored liquids.
One let out a loud 'pfft' and expelled a foul odor, somewhere between
fresh dog poop and old gym socks.
The killer covered his nose and wafted the air in front of him with
his other hand. His co-conspirator opened a tiny window above the
table, letting some of the smell out.
“Have you figured it out yet?”
“I'm close, but I can't be
disturbed by any more nosy reporters if I want to finish.”
The killer leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “Now,
Fredrick, she was only a girl. It's not like you have people lining
up to knock on your door every day.”
“One is one too many. If word got
out about us...about you...” He left the rest of the statement
hanging.
“I understand.” He took off his
hat and allowed his horn to expand. “That feels so much better.
Hats cramp my style.”
Fredrick snorted and shook his head. A cloud of white hair floated
above his ears. “Not wearing a hat will cramp more than you style,
Bud.”
“Touché.”
The killer yawned and stretched his arms.
“You should get some rest. We'll work some more once you're ready.”
He said nothing, nodding his agreement and patting Fredrick on the
shoulder as he passed by. In the far corner of the room was a cot
that he flopped down on. Seconds later his snores filled the space.
Murder was tiring work.
No comments:
Post a Comment