((ooc: Continued from
Old Friends.))
Katrina had taught him how.
The missing posters were simple. Just a picture of a black kitten in a light blue collar that matched its eyes. Contact information was below. Since no one would be finding the kitten, Calley hadn’t bothered making it real. Only real enough to let eyes pass over it, finding no flaws.
The address was local. The blonde secretary was soon seeing the poster every time she went in and out of her apartment building, on her way to work for Hunter Antonescu. There was another on the wall of the subway down the street, where she caught her morning ride, and more around central park, where he’d seen her go to jog. He taped his poster over an older one: the black kitten covered over a picture of a ginger-stripped tom and a little white cat with black spots here and there. It was weathered and torn. Like his, no one would ever be calling the number listed. Katrina Dumond’s name disappeared from view.
He waited.
Henrietta, Lenna, and Lori had taught him how.
That Friday night, as Ellie climbed up the subway steps after returning from her day at work, she saw a black kitten with a blue collar shivering under a bus stop overhang. Its fur was damp from the drizzle; its legs tucked under its body, and its tail curled around it for warmth. It looked very small, and very alone. The young woman paused, and adjusted her hand bag on her arm. Then she slowly stepped closer, her voice pitched low.
“Hello, sweetie. You’re lost, aren’t you? Just stay right there, I’ll—”
The kitten watched her with wide blue eyes, gathering its paws under it. Still, it seemed that her soothing voice was doing the trick. It stayed where it was as she approached.
When she stretched her hands out, it bolted.
Ellie cursed as its tail disappeared into an alleyway just a few feet away. She looked around, one hand brushing her hair back behind her ear. It was still drizzling. Her apartment was only a block away. This wasn’t her problem.
She knew that alley was a dead-end, though. It was only about ten feet deep, and blocked by a chain link fence at the end. This wasn’t a bad area of town. There was nothing in there but an old dumpster and a kitten. She dropped her hand with a sigh, pushed her purse up onto her shoulder, and stepped into the shadows.
A hand wrapped around her neck, containing her struggles until the potent rag over her mouth and nose took effect. Ellie slumped in the young man’s grip. She saw the blue-eyed kitten watching, its tail curled around its feet.
The green-eyed man had taught him how.
The sewer cover at the alley’s end was heavy, but he managed. After he’d placed her down on the concrete below, he climbed back up the ladder and pulled it closed. The sounds of street life, of New York City, were capped. The sound of the dirty water flowing through the tunnel was soothing, actually. It really was. He stood at the bottom of the ladder, and let himself just listen to it for the space of a few breaths.
His hands were shaking. It took him two tries to get the hand cuffs on, locking her to the pipe.
Hunter had taught him how.
Calley sat next to her, his arms dangling loosely over his drawn-up knees. He couldn’t tell if the wall was damp, or just cold; it seemed to make his shirt cling to his back. It might have been the sweat. Or the blood. He didn’t know how blood would have gotten on his back.
He didn’t know how so much had gotten on his hands.
He didn’t look at them. He looked past them, to the water. It flowed sedately past, to places he couldn’t see. It was nice: calming. It made his heartbeat a little harder to hear. He didn’t even mind the smell, anymore. There were worse things.
On the Monday morning after Hunter Antonescu opened Spiritual Balance, his secretary did not come to work. The water accepted her body; she disappeared from view. It kept flowing. He held his hands in its cold until the blood was all washed away, carried off, done and gone. He couldn’t feel them, by then.
The simple paper note was tucked into her handbag, and left just outside the clinic’s door. He had to let the man know: he had to know that Calley wasn’t to blame. This wasn’t who Calley was. He didn’t do things like this. He didn’t. This was all Hunter’s fault. He had to see that. From Caleb Swartz, to Hunter Antonescu.
You did this.The water carried his words away, too. He couldn’t tell if it cared.
((ooc: Continued for Calley in
Not a word.
Hunter's reaction:
Message Received.
Body found by Detective Jocelyn in
Sewage.))
