I am certain that I will get more sleep on Abby’s couch than I would at home, but even here at this hour of night it’s difficult to wind down. I turn over and stare at the ceiling for a while. For a few seconds, the corner of the room lights up as one of her extra chargers brings my phone back to life. The chime which signaled my last GrabNGo order hours before echoes in my mind, and my arms break out in goosebumps. I pull the blanket tighter against me and try to think of something else. Anything. At last I remember something practical—inconvenient, but not horrifying. For once, I am grateful for inconvenience in light of imminent death. My final thought before falling asleep is not of the unfolding terror of this night, but of my dog at home. I will have to go back home at some point to take care of him, but I’m confident that he’ll make it through the night. I’m less than sure of my own prospects, but thankfully I fall asleep before I’m able to think of that all over again.
*****
In the morning, I wake to the smell of coffee. Abby is in the kitchen looking like she’s been up for a while, when she notices me stirring on the couch and calls me over.
“I may drink like I’m Irish, but in the morning I try to have a proper Haitian breakfast,” she smiles. “Please, have something to eat.”
This takes no convincing. I haven’t eaten since around four o’clock yesterday and from the sweet aroma coming off the stovetop, I can tell that she is more than a competent cook. In addition to the coffee, there’s pancakes, chopped fruit, and something involving spiced plantains. I put a bit of everything on a plate, pour some coffee, and sit across from Abby at the table. She wastes no time.
”I’ve been up for about an hour—couldn’t sleep much,” she says. “But it gave me time to think about our situation. Like I said last night, your second stroke of luck was coming to me. You have advantages that no one else has had, and we’re going to have to put them to use quickly before he finds you again. If the past is any indicator, a second encounter could be your last.”
“What are these advantages?”
“You’ve ditched your car—that’s a good start. That means there’s still a chance he doesn’t know what you drive, assuming he doesn’t already know where you live. Unfortunately we just don’t know the extent of his knowledge about you. Best not to chance it.”
“What about the car? How am I supposed to keep doing deliveries? And my apartment? My dog? I can’t just leave everything.”
“I made a few calls this morning and got it taken care of. We’re going to get you a rental and a gas card. You’ll drive something simple, low profile. Your car will stay where it is. We have a temporary permit for the apartment complex being made up now to put on the back window, so it will look like it belongs there. We swept that building this morning, by the way. Sure enough there were four vacant units—all sans fingerprints—but no doubt he was holed up in one of them last night.
“Anyway, we’re also going to set you up at a hotel, under federal protection—with your dog, don’t worry. Agents will be stationed at your apartment around the clock. Your financial obligations will be covered. Until we catch this guy, you will want for nothing.”
“You’re doing all of this for me? One lowly driver? This man has killed dozens of people—maybe hundreds!”
“Yes. I told you I would do everything I can to keep you alive, and this is how. Quite honestly, you being here has changed everything. We need you. I have been following The Sugar Hill Slicer for the better part of a decade now, and you are my first real lead. This may be our only chance to catch him. If we do, we can save you and God only knows how many other people down the line.”
I say nothing to this, but she knows that I’m beginning to fully understand our situation. It’s clear that I need her if I want even a prayer of staying alive. And I’m apparently the only living connection to one of the most prolific serial killers of the last thirty years. We are in each other’s debt many times over.
“So besides everything I’ve just mentioned, you’re going to keep things the same,” she continues. “You’ll deliver at the same times, work the same areas, and follow your routine as closely as you can. We can’t afford to raise any suspicions that you’re working with us. With your consent and that of the company, we will monitor your GrabNGo account, which will allow us see all orders in real time and mirror your app when it’s open. You’ll also wear an earpiece while you’re out in case we need to alert you.”
She gives me a moment to think, and in the quiet of the kitchen I sigh a little louder than intended. It’s a lot to take in and I’m still in shock, but I’m also relieved to have someone doing all of the legwork. Standing in these particular crosshairs, death feels a bit less certain with Uncle Sam in my corner.
“Okay,” is all I manage to say. She reaches across the table, touches my arm, and looks me in the eyes.
“You can do this,” she says. “He can’t keep on like this forever.”
She’s right, I think. The idea seems awfully convenient to me, but maybe his time has come. Maybe this Sugar Hill Slicer has lured his last victim. I think of how long I’ve been doing these deliveries, believing myself to be living a life of mediocrity. Never have I considered the possibility that this entirely unimpressive line of work could produce an opportunity to save lives. And I wonder for a moment if perhaps some great ambition of mine has always been there, just waiting to be realized.
*****
I’m in the car. Then I’m in the building. He’s in the hallway with a chef’s knife in hand. I should be running but the overwhelming sensations of terror and grief are sandbags upon my feet. I try to scream as I see it happening, telling myself to get out while I still can, but I only watch as he inches towards me with acute deliberation. His eyes are a pair of dice, pupils sharpened to a point as he draws closer with every step. Then he’s standing over me, raising the knife. He brings it down hard and fast and everything turns to black.
And then I’m awake.
It goes on like this every night for weeks.
*****
It’s been a month. There’s been no sign of The Slicer since this whole operation got underway—at least nothing real. But there hasn’t been a single night that I haven’t seen him in my dreams, his cold and terrible face interrupting the usual nightly programming to make himself known. To remind me that he’s still there, still aware of me. At every turn I’ll catch sight of him for a moment, only to blink him away and see some other harmless individual instead. Every name on every order I receive, I’m convinced is another one of his many aliases. Every home at which I deliver I fear is one of his false fronts, commandeered for his dreadful purposes. I think I understand in some twisted way, why he doesn’t just kill people right away—why he didn’t kill me right away. He wants me to suffer—to fear him—while he savors whatever perverted feeling it gives him. He wants me to grow weaker every day as my body works around the clock to protect itself, in constant anticipation of some unspeakable fate.
On my first day going back to deliveries, I could barely get myself out of bed, let alone to drive around and face the prospect of being murdered. I started small, going out an hour earlier than usual and wrapping up around sunset. But I’ve slowly found my pace again.
Now it’s 10:42 on a Saturday morning and I’m sitting behind the wheel of a much newer vehicle than my own (This car was actually made in the current decade!) After two weeks of sticking to my usual routine, Abby suggested that we give the morning circuit a try.
“Maybe he’ll be trying to catch you at a different time of day,” she’d said, “so we’ll let him. And then we’ll let him have it.”
“Let him have it.” I had to laugh at that one. Sometimes she sounds like she’s auditioning for the role of an old beat cop in some cheesy movie. I have to admit, while that would normally be annoying, it’s a little charming on her.
What worries me is that our plan assumes he knows nothing of what we’re up to. But what if he does? What if he’s been one step ahead of us the whole time? The whole cat and mouse routine doesn’t really work if both players believe themselves to be the cat. I can only hope that Abby knows what she’s doing, and even if she does, I’m not yet convinced that it will be enough for me to get out of this alive. Maybe they’ll finally catch their man, but that doesn’t mean he won’t still kill me first.
I turn over all the potential outcomes again and again in my mind like some kind of impossible Rubik’s Cube, when suddenly my phone chimes. For a moment I’m grateful—or I would be if I wasn’t so sure of what comes next.
It chimes again.
And though I hear this exact sound a dozen times a day, this time feels different. It rings in my ears like a faraway echo trying desperately to be heard. A warning. I don’t know if I believe in God, or guardian angels, or benevolent deceased ancestors tipping the scales of goodwill in one’s favor, but if any of those things exist, this must be what it feels like to encounter them. I can’t explain it, but in this moment I know that I’ve been given something impossible—what Abby might call a “third stroke of luck.” I, myself, can only describe it as some kind of overwhelming intuition. All I know is that as the order appears on my screen waiting for me to accept it, I have an inexplicable feeling that it’s him.
It’s time.
Part 1: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/w74vwl/death_by_delivery/
Part 3: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/w9ygmj/death_by_delivery_part_3/