Nick was released from jail on a Tuesday. He’d missed the weekend. His plans for the fair would have to be reconsidered. However, he had seen an interesting news story about the US Marshals’ Serial Crimes Tracking Unit being at the Missouri State Fair. He wondered if they had been there for him. It had never been in his plans as a target. Even on its worse days, there was too much security. Also, it was a little far for him to travel.
With a cold beer in one hand and a bottle of industrial drain cleaner in the other, he stopped to think. How had he come this far? He didn’t know when the transition had happened. One day he’d been a loving father, devoted husband and executive. The next thing he knew, the barbecues and white picket fence were gone, replaced by drain cleaner and hatred.
The only thing going his way was his job. He hadn’t been fired. The boss wanted him back on the job first thing tomorrow morning. Drinking and driving had just been one bad decision in a string of them. He drained the beer with one last, long swig and tossed it into a trash can. He used to recycle, but he couldn’t even be bothered by that anymore.
In his inebriated condition, he considered calling the St. Charles police department. Turn himself in, get a cell and three hot meals a day. If he was lucky, he’d end up in The Fortress, very little socializing required. His ex-wife could choke on the news and lack of maintenance payments.
Although, after being a guest of the police department, he decided he didn’t want the inbred rednecks that ran the place to get the glory of catching him. He’d earned a name for himself, a reputation. The press was calling him the Carnival Killer. It was sort of catchy. He liked it. It was one of the few bright spots in his life. He was famous, even if no one knew it.
His body was tired. He grabbed another beer, tossed the drain cleaner on the floor and went into the living room. His body fell onto the sofa without him even thinking about it. The plastic bottle in the kitchen made a loud boom as it exploded. He’d have holes in his cabinets and floor and maybe the ceiling, if he didn’t go clean it up. But hell, that was the sort of thing that was expected from bombers. He’d deal with it later. His hands found the remote control and he turned on The Weather Channel. An episode of Prospectors was coming on. He watched it until he passed out.
Stinging eyes and a runny nose woke him up. The Weather Channel was announcing the conditions for the next day. The sulfuric acid in the drain cleaner was producing fumes from eating away at all the materials in his kitchen. His head hurt, but he got up from the couch.
He found the baking soda in the pantry and began to sprinkle it on everything. The fizzling and burning sounds stopped almost instantly upon the powdery substance coating the goo it had become.
Damn it, Nicky. He scolded himself mentally. He should not drink. It had terrible effects on him. Why had he tossed the bottle onto the floor anyway?
You are losing it, pal. Do crazy people know they’re crazy? His mind asked. Nick didn’t know the answer. He did know it wasn’t normal to talk to yourself, even if it was just in his head. When it started happening out loud, he’d become really concerned. He was sure that time would come sooner than later.
He let the baking soda sit for a while. Getting sulfuric acid on the skin wasn’t fun, it ate through biological material fast. He searched for his rubber gloves, the big kind that went up to the elbows and protected you from just about everything. As he did, he opened windows to let the smell escape.
The cabinets were ruined. The counter had holes in the protective coating. The linoleum floor had cracked and faded where the largest puddle of liquid had sat. Smaller areas of discoloration and damage could be seen radiating from it. In high school, he’d seen sulfuric acid used on the corpse of a rat. It had completely dissolved it in under three minutes. Of course, that had been pure and this had only been an 80/20 mix. It was enough to do the job though. He had dreamed about hitting his ex-wife in the head with an axe and then covering her in the stuff to watch her bubble and melt away.
However, killing the mother of his child was not acceptable. He’d have to deal with substitutes. The baking soda box was empty. The kitchen seemed safe enough. He went in with a rag and began to scrub everything.
It was early morning when he finished. Only three hours before he had to go to work. His head still hurt. His nose still burned. Only his eyes seemed to have cleansed themselves of the caustic fumes.
If he hadn’t spent nearly a week in jail, he might have called in today. But he desperately needed the money and now, to get out of the house for a while. He went upstairs to shower.
The water felt good on his skin. It was hot. The bathroom quickly filled with steam. The shower eased his throbbing head. The steam soothed his nose and sinus passages. He dressed quickly, going through the motions without really paying attention. Bright yellow shirt, jeans, boots, and finally socks thick enough to protect his feet and make them horribly hot and smelly by the end of the day. However, he’d seen guys with concrete poisoning and he didn’t want to end up with all the skin burnt off his feet.
He entered the garage and stopped. It felt like something was wrong. It felt like someone had been inside the garage. Nothing seemed out of place, but Nick rushed to his room to get the last set of photos he’d taken. He’d felt that way before in his garage. That’s why he’d started taking the photos in the first place.
It was the largest find the differences game he’d ever played. His eyes scanned only a small part of the photo before moving to the real scene. His gaze feel on every tool, every piece of equipment, even the cobwebs and dust caught his attention. For over an hour, he worked his way through the room, examining the photos and matching it up to everything he saw.
Nothing was out of place, not a single cobweb or dust bunny. His garage looked exactly the way he had left it the night before he’d gone to jail. He shook his head.
Nicky, your paranoia is getting the better of you. He berated himself. Besides, to most people, the garage would look like a garage. He had all sorts of stuff in there, but everyone had lots of stuff in their garage. Some of it looked more practical than other stuff, more commonplace, but it was all garage like stuff.
The coolers might look a little odd, he had dozens of the soft-sided nylon and foil coolers that didn’t do a very good job of keeping things cool. However, that’s why he bought them. Without ice, the chemicals heated up at a good steady pace until they were warm enough to react.
His car was parked outside the garage. He never parked it inside, it took up too much space. Space that he needed to work.
As he was about to hit the garage door opener, his gaze fell on the map. It looked normal. Nothing out of place, but there was a small smudge in the corner. He didn’t remember there being a smudge. That didn’t mean there wasn’t, he was always dirty when he got home, perhaps when he inserted a pin, he left a smudge. The smudge nagged at him.