The sound of rain hitting the pavement confused Frank's breathing. He tried to steady his breaths. In and out. Patter, patter, patter. The sound of it hitting the car with a clank added to the confusion. In and out. Patter, patter, clank. Frank dry heaved, lurching forward and almost crumpling to the ground. He used his gun hand to brace his fall.
In and out. Get up.
Frank holsters his gun and takes out a handkerchief from one of his back pockets. He wipes his face profusely. The handkerchief is soaking when his face is dried. He could see clearer now. Still, the lighter provided no illumination past the reach of his arms. He needed something else. He hadn't prepared. He had no tools. He had a gun, and he had his head. The latter was not reliable at the moment.
Frank had hunches; he had gut feelings about scenarios. It's what made him a good soldier, and a good private detective. Frank's gut had told him to vomit. Not a good sign, Frank thought. He needed tools. He needed light and confidence. He knew where to get them. He hoped his office wasn't drenched in rain.
Frank turned around for the open door. He could see his car from across the street, parked alone along the sidewalk. The pathway towards the door was serpentine. The silhouettes of shrouded furniture formed jagged edges around Frank’s trail. He had only made it fifteen feet into the warehouse. The door seemed to sway back and forth in the wind and rain. He quickly walked out.
***
Frank expected his office to be destroyed by the time he got back, but he was relieved to find only papers fluttering about and parts of his floor wet. Frank stares at his chair, pushed away from his desk at a slight angle. Frank looks at the window. The hole was now twelve inches across and cracks extended all around it towards the outer frame. The rock. Frank quickly gets on his knees to look under the desk. The coat rack. Frank gets up just as quick and leaps over his desk to get to it. He slides against the wet floor, hitting the coat rack and almost toppling over with his hanging scorched trenchcoat.
There it sits. The incessant nagging at his sanity. The message that plagues his mind. The problem. Frank picks it up in his hand and throws it up and down. It can’t be more than ten pounds. Easy enough for an able-bodied man to throw through a ninth-story window. Whoever threw it must be physically fit; good upper-body strength. Certainly not an old man. Frank was getting it back. He was glad.
Patter, patter, patter. Frank closes his eyes and attempts to think. Patter. Patter. Bang. Wrong think to think about. He takes out his gun from his holster and places it on the table. Frank needed tools. Light and confidence. Frank was grateful that he had no other place to sleep for the past three months. He did not want to think it, but he was grateful. The couch opposite his desk doubled as a bed. His dresser had been empty before he shifted his living quarters to his workplace. Now it had three shirts and a shotgun. Confidence.
As he took out the 12-gauge, he checked both barrels. Loaded. He did not know why they were, or why he possessed a shotgun. He looked down the sights. He hovered across his office; towards his desk; out the hole in the window. A figure in the window across the street seemed to stop behind the curtains and face Frank. Patter. Patter. Bang.
Frank lowers the shotgun slowly as he tilts his head straight. He looks for a box of ammunition. He feels something on the top shelf of the dresser. It rattles and clangs as he gets a hold of it. At least thirty shells. He grabs a handful and struggles to find a place to put it. Shotgun shells in one’s pocket would limit movement. He turns around towards his trenchcoat. It was only scorched in a small section.
Frank feels warmer. Multiple pockets. He returns to the dresser and grabs three handfuls full of shells. His hands are still trembling. He checks the barrels again. They are loaded, Frank. He clicks the shotgun closed and places it on his desk. He holsters his pistol once again as he opens up his bottom desk drawer. One flashlight, a box of revolver bullets, and three cartons of cigarettes.
Light. Frank’s hands cease shaking as he tests the flashlight. He flicks the switch and the light flickers in his dark office. He taps the end and his office becomes bright. He turns it off.
His watch reads 5:20. Daylight won’t become near while the clouds still patter rain onto the streets. He has time. His trenchcoat waves as he makes his way out of his office. The pattering continues. The rock lies still beside his empty coatrack. The open dresser. The dim lighting. The broken window. Frank stares at it all before he closes the door. The leather of his shoes squeak against the dry, wooden floor of the hallway.
***
Frank stares at the open warehouse door. His shotgun is concealed under his arm inside the trenchcoat. He feels his pistol against his waist. He holds his flashlight in front of him. Frank had closed the door before he left. He uses the butt of the flashlight to push open the door. The floor squeaks under Frank’s leather shoes. He turns the flashlight on.
“Jesus.”
The pathway that had been formed by the shrouded furniture could now be seen clearer than what was outside. It seemed the light had not trouble reflecting off the blood on the floor. Frank steps back while he looks at his feet. The blood was streaked. It stopped where he stood. He looked behind and shone the flashlight on the door’s threshold. Footprints in blood; fresher blood. Two blood sources. Frank pulls out his revolver. Two bodies? Two people?
He places his flashlight hand under the wrist of his other, angling his hand position so that he could see wherever he had it pointed. He carefully moved along the pathway once again, checking each corner and crevice. The furniture was covered in white or blue tarp. An ocean. High shelving units were in the back of the warehouse. Maybe three rows. Beside those were stairs to the upper level. Seven steps, from what Frank could see. He had to get closer. Too much hiding space behind all of the furniture, Frank thought. He had to be careful.
Each step made a creaking sound. Like a slow screech. Frank tried to step lightly, but each step made that sound. The aged and dry wood cried with every single step. The pathway would go to the left or right, depending on the furniture in the way. A fallen dresser in front of Frank had a door open. An empty syringe peeks out from under the tarp. Frank thought with growing distress, exactly what this was warehouse was for.
Franks breathing was steady. In and out. In and out. The rain wasn’t bothering his breathing. The rain wasn’t there at all. He turns back towards the open door. It had closed. He shines his flashlight on the knob.
“What the fuck.”
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