Grimshaw Mysteries by Kyler James (english novels to read .txt) 📕

Heel, toe, a trouser leg brushes past another.

Heel, toe, the same brushing sound follows again. And again. 

Rhythmatic, like the constant ticking of a clock hidden somewhere the room. The clicking of polished shoes on a tiled hallway floor.

Heel, toe, a scuffing sound, then the clicking continues. I hear her coming from down the hall, how could I not. The only other sound in the room besides my own thoughts is the damned I.V drip. It's strange how your senses become hightened when you're waiting on bad news. The world around you slows, each breath a defining moment, a milestone you feel overwhelmed to have reached. And as far as bad news goes, it doesn't get much worse than this.

Each moment a unique snowflake in the calm before the winter storm. Horror has always carried a strange feeling of euphoria for me, like I'm just glad I can still feel anything. The beautiful moments of dread settle around my room and blanket me in glistening white. The rhythim of the clicking changes as her pace slows with each step that brings her closer to my door, I guess waiting on giving bad news has the same effect.

The door opens wide throwing blinding light across the winter wonderland in my room. She steps in and surpresses a shudder. Who can blame her. She draws closer, clutching it to herself enveloped in her arms against her chest, her nurses uniform wrinkled beneath. I can feel her eyes, her anxiety, her fear. She places it on the table next to my bed. I pretend to be asleep, it's easier for us both if I do. She turns and scurries back through the door and the clicking of heel, toe fall back into rhythim as she retreats back down the hall.

 I roll over and lift the case file to read, my arms almost unable to lift it. Has it gotten this heavy, a thousand clues that point to nothing. A ghost. A terror sent to haunt my dreams. Or am I this weak, a thousand deaths weighing heavily on worn shoulders. More ghosts than this old soul can grieve.The pages shake uncontrolably, either my vision or my strength failing me. Lucky I've never been one for heavy reading. As the file jumps around, throwing my eyes from one random word to the next, I peace the story together good enough. 

Blonde; always blonde. 19 years of age; always so young, some poor bastards baby. Warren street; another alley. Chess piece....... The Rook. They always look the same. Always beautiful. Posed as though they'd drifted off while reading, head gently restiing on an arm, extended, clutching a chess piece. The piece they're found with holds the reason he took them. I just don't know what the reasons are. The pieces have no pattern. Some pieces show up more than one or twice, some not at all. I rub my eyes and try to focus.

 It's not long before I find what I'm looking for. Bishop. Why the Bishop? I've never been able to make sense of these damned pieces. I know they're the key to undestanding him, I just don't know why. Stupid old man! Can pull a jacket, a strap, a gun and a trigger in one fluent movement without a moments thought or hesitaion. But try using your mind for something that might be worth something. I can feel it though, like a splinter in the back of my mind, reaching outwards, wearing a groove into my skull waiting to be birthed. A messy birth if born of my mind, but the answer none the less.

 I have the Bishop, now I need the next piece of the puzzle. His puzzle, it's the same game everytime and I know the rules well enough by now. The trembling intensifies, "Come on old man, you're not dead yet." I find it. Perfidy. The word falls thickly, dumbly, ignorantly from my lips. He always carves something into their forearms. Normally a word to explain why he took them. Normally one of the seven deadly sins, gluttony, sloth, envy. The game was supposed to be finished, he'd taken he's last and with her, completed his work.

Perfidy? The words he'd left before were simple, singular answers for the heavy minded, for me. Incase I wasn't able to figure out on my own why he'd done it. But perfidy? Doesn't seem to fit. It just seems off, like a puzzle piece with a different egde to the rest. I say it again aloud and the word sounds clumsy, like a deaf person trying to say a word he'd read on loved ones lips enough times to try for himself. "Perfidy." Why?....

"It means 'An act of deliberate treachery or deceit'." Wilson marches over, takes the case file from Grimshaws weakend grip and replaces it with a glass of water.

"Did you know it was him?"

"Of course not!" Barks Wilson.

"Would you have if you did?"

"I would have thrown the fucking file into the trash, lit a match and watched the flames swollow it up."

"We couldn't stop him before. How are two cops, too long in the tooth, going to stop him now?"

"We won't."

"But we'll try..."

"... But we'll try."

Text: James Cocklin
Editing: James Cocklin
Publication Date: 01-23-2013

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