He’d had to abort their meeting, again! Could it be coincidence that an undercover cop was in the park at the same time he and Shelby were to meet? He could hardly believe the police had intercepted their communications. It had seemed like a foolproof system. He’d send Shelby what appeared to be a spam e-mail, it would go directly into her junk folder, and she’d mark it as unread after she copied and pasted the hidden message into a document and changed the font color so that the words were visible. They’d used her existing e-mail account because having her establish a new e-mail account had seemed riskier, more likely to raise suspicions if the police came sniffing around a second time after the initial review of Shelby’s computer. Something sent through the existing system seemed less likely to draw attention. Maybe the cop had been at the park for another reason. Maybe someone had been seen selling drugs there, or maybe there’d been a mugger or pickpocket preying on people in the area. After all, the park sat in front of a bank building, where people would be expected to make cash withdrawals.
Still, he didn’t dare send another e-mail message using this method. He wanted to get in touch with her, but he’d have to find another way. Had the police confronted her directly? Were they checking her mailbox? Had they put a camera in the parking garage at her office? Were they watching her building? He had no way of knowing.
For now, though, he needed a drink. A stiff one. Luckily, a liquor store sat on the next block.
He tucked sixty bucks into his wallet and took the stairs down to the first floor, exiting at the side door at the end of the hall. It was after 8:00 and fully dark, the sun having set over an hour before. The streetlights provided meager illumination but he stuck to the shadows anyway, trying to be as invisible as possible. The day’s events had left him feeling exposed and vulnerable.
He reached the store and slipped inside on the heels of five college boys who were yukking it up about some stupid thing one or another of them had done at a frat party. He went straight to the whiskey section, grabbed a large rectangular bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and headed to the register, avoiding eye contact with anyone along the way. On a Friday night, the store was packed and he had to wait in line behind three other people stocking up on spirits for the weekend. Finally, it was his turn to pay. He set the bottle on the counter and forked over two twenty-dollar bills when the cashier gave him the total. He took his change and the tell-tale tall, narrow paper bag the clerk had slipped the bottle into. He was out the door having spoken not a single word to anyone. While he used to enjoy the peace and quiet of solitude, it was becoming far too much. He felt disconnected, deserted, desolate.
As he drew near the hotel, he heard the sound of wheels on asphalt and saw a trio of what appeared to be teenaged boys riding toward him on skateboards. All were white, and wore dark hoodies, jeans, and the expressions of hungry predators seeking prey. When they spotted him, the one in the lead popped a wheelie with his board, the back end dragging across the road as he sailed to a graceful stop in front of the Slasher. The other two followed suit, pulling up on either side of their leader to form a semi-circle around the Slasher, forcing him to a stop.
“Whatcha got there?” The leader reached out and yanked the bag out of the Slasher’s hands. He pulled the bottle out of the bag and held it up in victory. “Score! Looks like there’s going to be a party tonight!”
The Slasher grabbed at the bottle, but the boy jerked it back out of his reach. He signaled his two friends. “What else you got, dude?”
Before he knew what was happening, the other two boys had shoved him to the ground. His knee hit the asphalt, bearing the brunt of all of his weight, and a sharp pain shot up his leg. One of the kids wrangled with him while the other pulled his wallet from his back pocket. If they take the driver’s license and cash, I’m fucked!
The boy held the wallet up in victory, like his friend had done with the bottle. “Let’s see what’s in here.” He opened the wallet and looked inside. “Got about thirty-seven in cash and a credit card.” He pulled out the driver’s license and read the name on it. “Samuel Leftwich.” He barked a laugh. “Sounds like one of the bunnies from Peter Rabbit.”
The boy danced a little jig around him, putting out his pinky and pretending to sip tea. “Another scone please, Mr. Leftwich,” he chirped in a terrible British accent. His friends cackled and hooted.
The Slasher reached up to snatch the license, but the boy held it up, out of reach. He used his other arm to backhand the Slasher across the face. Smack! His skin stung, as if seared by a branding iron. The damn kid was awfully strong for as skinny and scrawny as he looked. The second boy backed off, and the Slasher pushed himself to a shaky stand.
“Look,” he said. “Take the money, but give me my license. I need it.”
The kid sneered at him. “Tough shit.”
He launched himself at the boy. WHACK! If he’d thought being backhanded across the face smarted, it was nothing compared to the agony of being whacked upside the head by a skateboard. His brain seemed to wobble inside his skull, and he stumbled involuntarily to the side. He fell on the same knee again, and this time it felt as if his kneecap had splintered into sharp shards of bone. He raised his head and howled in pure agony. The boys laughed and took off, skating away into the darkness. The one who’d taken his wallet pocketed the cash, but dropped the wallet and license behind him as if they were trash.
Drawing deep breaths to fight the pain, the Slasher forced himself to a crooked stand. He reached a hand up to his temple, finding it wet. He pulled his hand back and looked at his fingers. They were covered in fresh blood. His head nearly exploded as he bent over to round up his now-empty wallet and the driver’s license.
A voice came from across the lot. The hotel desk clerk stood in the front doorway, the glass doors pushed aside. “Are you all right?”
He was anything but. Thanks to the shattered knee, he couldn’t stand up straight. His head throbbed and his brain felt thick and gooey, his thoughts stuck in the muck.
Before he could gather his wits, the clerk hollered, “I’ll call for police and an ambulance!”
“No!” The cry was like another blow to the brain, a fresh explosion of pain ricocheting through the confines of his skull. He fought the urge to vomit as he raised a palm to stop the man. “I’ll be fine. They were just kids. Besides, they’re gone now and I didn’t get a good look at them anyway.” He staggered to the door.
The clerk eyed the Slasher’s head and grimaced. “That wound looks bad. You should probably get it looked at.”
“I’m an easy bleeder,” he lied. “I’ll be okay. Don’t call anybody.”
He stumbled into the hotel and headed toward the stairwell before realizing he was in no condition to get himself up a flight of stairs. He punched UP for the elevator. It dinged a few seconds later and he climbed on. By then, the clerk was standing in front of the elevator doors. “You sure you don’t want medical attention?”
“Yes, I’m sure!” he snapped. “How many times do I have to tell you?” This guy needs to mind his own damn business!