The Enigmatologist by Ben Adams Read Free Book Online Page B

Films, 1978 to 1986, was that being alone in the
killer’s house never went well for anyone.
    He crammed the menu into his pocket and wiped everything
he had touched with one of his hoodie sleeves. He leapt over piles of dirty
clothes and closed the accordion door, putting the frame’s screws back in their
holes. In the kitchen and living room, he scrubbed every handle and surface
where he might have deposited his fingerprints, and left the trailer, trying
not to knock anything over. The cluttered mobile home embodied the consequences
of unpaid credit card debt, but John still didn’t want anyone to know he’d been
there. If the man returned home, saw that someone had been in his house, he’d
run, or come after John.
    Outside, John shut the door, leaving it unlocked. He heard
the neighbors snoring and quickly scanned the lot and street, making sure that
it was empty, that even the street lamps were sleeping.
    He drove back to The
Sagittarius Inn , careful not to turn on the headlights until he
was beyond the trailer park. He thought about driving all the way back to
Denver, calling the local police once he’d crossed into Colorado and telling
them about the reporter and the trailer, but the reporter was killed doing what
he loved. And all John could think was that if he were killed for one of his
puzzles, he’d want someone to find out who did it.
    John parked a few doors down from his room. The motel was
empty except for a few bikers passing through. John crawled under the cotton
comforter and thin blanket. The parking lot lights leaked through curtain
cracks, highlighting peeling wallpaper.
    As soon as he got comfortable, someone knocked on his
door. John reached for his gun, thinking that the guy from the photo saw him
sneaking from his trailer and followed him, but John remembered checking his
rearview mirror, the reflection of the deserted street, no headlights, and set
his gun on the table. He put his eye to the peephole. It was black. Not black
like the night, but black like oblivion, like nothing existed outside his door.
    John left the chain on the door, and opened it slowly,
carefully.
    “Yeah,” he said.
    It was the only word he said. The person on the other side
of the door kicked it in. The door hit John on the head, throwing him across
the room.

 
    John’s
eyes fluttered like a bird shaking water from its wings. He licked his lips and
his mouth tasted metallic. Dried blood had crusted under his nose and on his
chin. His face was tight and he stretched it, opened his mouth, and the dried
blood cracked. His favorite t-shirt was beaded with umber muck. Fortunately,
there was a boutique in Boulder where he could get another one, managed by a
friend who had majored in Faux-Vintage Silk Screening.
    As consciousness slowly returned, John heard voices. He
tried to speak, but could only mumble.
    “I think he’s coming to, sir,” a cold, emotionless voice
said.
    “Hello?” another voice said. “Are you still with us?”
    A hand lightly slapped John’s face. He shook his head,
fully waking to a world of blurry figures, their forms’ strict boundaries made
lenient by poor eyesight. He suddenly became conscious that he was sitting in a
chair, his hands bound behind his back. Cold, metal handcuffs dug into his
wrists, cutting him every time he moved.
    “My glasses,” John said.
    “Oh, yes,” the second person said, a slight Southern twang
coloring his voice. “I’m so sorry. This must be disorienting for you. Sergeant,
would you please?”
    A man walked toward John, holding something in his hand.
John flinched as the man reached for him, but relaxed as his glasses were
placed on his face. The man didn’t put them on all the way and they were
tilted, the frame halfway covering his left eye. John instinctively moved to
adjust them, but the restraints cut him. He grunted in pain and annoyance.
    John looked around the room. He was still in the motel,
sitting next to a table. Two heavily armed soldiers