Page 14 of Pure Killers

No sooner has Olivia's door closed than the sound of giggles and a sudden squeal comes through.

Sighing, I stare blankly at the contents of the fridge for another beat. I should eat and then sleep, I know that. I stare at the bowl of dry-looking spaghetti for another moment.

"Fuck it." I push the fridge door closed and reach up instead on my toes for the cupboard above the fridge. Supposedly, the stash is for emergencies. Not really in practice, though. I pull down the bottle of gin, telling myself it’s been a rough day.

What day isn't rough?

Ignore the question some self-preserving part of my brain tries to ask and take a swig straight from the bottle.

One hour later, or two, or four, I wake up to dead quiet. It's well past midnight. The sleep I've managed has been as fitful as any alcohol-induced slumber usually is, and I lie awake on my bed and stare at the small red light of the fire alarm flashing intermittently on my ceiling. I think it's telling me to change the battery. I close my eyes, my empty stomach churning, the room spinning softly, though not quite to the point where I want to vomit. It's almost pleasant, really, in that space of still-drunk where I don't yet feel bad about how I got here.

Sleep feels far away now, my limbs infused instead with the kind of jitteriness that insists on movement. I try to ignore it, to stay on top of the quilt, still fully clothed, and sink back into oblivion. It occurs to me there's still some gin left, but that would be areallybad idea. Work tomorrow. More studying the Needler.

Today niggles at me. He had a pattern, and that pattern was broken. His victim escaped. So, what now? Leaning, I snatch the small vial off my bedside table. Holding it in front of my face, I turn it, watching the fine grey-white sand slide around. I'd taken it to Rosie the day we found it at the Strangler’s death site.

"Definitely silica," she'd said. "It could be used in glass manufacturing."

"Could be?"I'd pressed.

"Seb knows more about these things—Seb?"

"G-glass manufacturing is one use of silica. But it’s use-used in l-l-lot-lots…. a lot."

"He's right. Aerospace, filtration, moulds, to name a few."

"But… it’s definitely not from a beach?"I'd asked."Can we match it to the factory?"

Rosie looked to Seb on that one.

"W-with the factories defunct now, -no."

I blow air out through my mouth now, idly turning the vial over.

It could be nothing. Probably is. But without this, then what?

The jitters are getting to me. Thunder rolls close and loud enough to rattle the door in its frame.

Before I’ve had time to think through my impulse, or the alcohol still running strong in my system, or even the last bit of the bottle I knocked back on my way out the door, I'm behind the wheel of my car, headed for Crennick Row.

The media would have a field day with this if they knew. ‘Drunk Detective’s Midnight Escapade!’

An hour later, and sobered slightly from the cold, my car heater now broken, I see it.

The old wastewater filtration plant, and the hastily erected, thin wall around it. Dirk mentioned it months ago, in one of his dour moods, probably. Something about the standing water not being able to be taken away. Because of the filtration. Filtration, another process that involves sand-silica.

I've turned the car off, and as I sit there in the dark, with the rain pattering heavily on the roof, I stare at that wall. Barely three meters high, thin and already crumbling in places, a deterrent more than any real security against kids who mightfall into the vats and come out with something akin to radiation poisoning. Too many chemicals running into it since the explosion, with every rainy day increasing the load. The plant itself is huge, made up of five gigantic circular vats arranged around three main buildings like a star.

I check the glove compartment. My gun is in there. Would I still have gone in? Even without it? Probably.

I tuck it into the back of my jeans, my flashlight sticking awkwardly out of my jacket pocket as I duck out into the downpour and trot toward the wall. There's a pile of old crates stacked against it here, and balancing on those gives me the extra height I need to jump and reach the top of the wall. From there, I pull myself up with some effort and roll over into the somehow even darker side.

My hair is wet enough to cling to my forehead now, and I head away from this, the barren side of the wall, aiming for the shelter of the larger of the main buildings.

As I reach the door, I glance at the sky, dark with clouds, the soft glow on one horizon the only source of illumination- light pollution from the direction of Downtown in the south. No moon still. Realisation of its absence is the first thing to make me question what my goal has been since I left my apartment. I thought I'd sobered up enough. But maybe not.

The metal door creaks as I push it open, and in the harsh beam of my flashlight, I see a wide lower floor, pipes as wide as I am tall, running down the walls, then cornering up against the grated ceiling. My steps echo in the emptiness, reverberating off empty pipes. Reaching the other end of the room on slow, soft steps, ears perked to listen, I find a short corridor and stairs leading up.

That’s when my hair starts to stand on end, an uneasiness in my belly. I can't hear anything, and I haven't seen anything yet,but something in my subconscious tells me that once I go to that next floor, I won't be alone anymore.

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