Mystery Tube
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“You know if you want to get a little closer to the action,” said Mr. Crouch, “I could always arrange for that.”
The bus had pulled up at a nondescript building with an open gate and the name “Crown Chemicals” on the side. It was just after midnight but it was obvious from the number of cars in the parking lot that they were going into business there.
I didn’t like that much, although Mr. Crouch did seem pretty excited about it all. The last time he’d been this happy we’d found Mrs. Jenkins’ body. We got out of the car and went inside; the smell reminded me immediately of something else: fish. It smelled like bait shops or fish markets.
Mr. Crouch led us through the lobby and down some stairs; a sign above the doorway read “Storage Unit 2.” There was a metal door marked “Storage Unit 6.” The light over the unit’s entrance wasn’t working so Mr. Crouch turned his phone on to flash the numbers across the door itself.
When he hit the first one, there was a small click and the lock fell away to reveal a keypad on the wall beside it. He punched in two digits and when it asked for more, he held up five fingers for the second digit. That seemed strange since I hadn’t seen any other fingers than my own.
But it made sense to give a specific number instead of asking what room you wanted. Then we put our card against the panel to confirm that Mr. Crouch really was the authorized user. A few seconds later the door unlocked and he pushed it open. I followed him in.
The storage unit was dark, lit only by the glow from Mr. Crouch’s cell phone. Mr. Crouch moved around the room slowly and methodically until suddenly he stopped moving altogether, crouched down as far as he could without sitting down, then pointed his phone directly under one corner of the unit. For several minutes he didn’t move.
Finally, he stood and looked over his shoulder at the three of us in turn before speaking: “Okay, I’ve found ’em.” He sounded disappointed.
He walked back to where we waited and gestured toward a small pile of items hidden underneath some old boxes, crates, and other assorted junk. They weren’t things you would normally find in someone’s storage locker, although maybe they had originally belonged to whoever owned this particular unit before Mr. Crouch took possession.
Most likely they’d been placed here by someone who knew they’d be missed, and probably wouldn’t be for quite some time.
Mr. Crouch picked up one item from the pile with both hands, held it up for a moment, and then handed it to me. It was a black rubber mask or rather part of a mask—the nose was missing but enough of the lower jaw still remained to indicate its original shape and size.
It was the same kind of mask I’d seen hanging on the wall in Mrs. Jenkins’ bathroom, the one with the long white scar on the side where the mouth should have been. It was the kind of thing that could easily fit over a person’s entire head and eyes, leaving their neck completely exposed.
And since this wasn’t the type of face paint used on Halloween masks or any other costume party, it meant that this was definitely something more sinister than just a gag gift.
I looked at Mr. Crouch with concern on my face and he nodded and smiled. “This is exactly what I hoped we’d find tonight,” he said.
“Where did you get it?” I asked.
“From a dead man,” he replied simply. “But I’ll tell you about that in a minute. First, let’s check the rest of your storage space.” He waved his hand toward the piles of stuff scattered across the floor. His voice carried no hint of sarcasm or irony; Mr. Crouch was deadly serious about everything he said.
As if to emphasize that, he continued, “And don’t worry, you’re not paying me a dime. Not one thin dime.”
After checking every square inch of the place, Mr. Crouch and I left Storage Unit 6 behind and walked back down the stairs to Mr. Gaunt’s waiting car.
The night was clear and cold, and although it was early December the moon was bright enough to make our way down the sidewalk easily. Mr. Gaunt kept his foot off the accelerator, even though the engine was warm; he said he liked to save gas whenever he could.
Mr. Crouch and I sat together in the back seat, Mr. Gaunt riding shotgun; when he spoke to either of us his words were whispered so that only Mr. Crouch or myself could hear them.
“Well, boys, how’s our luck lookin’ tonight?” he asked.
Mr. Crouch shook his head sadly. “Not nearly good enough to pay you a visit to the hospital.” He paused briefly to think through what else we might have lost before answering, “Oh, and a pair of scissors too—a really sharp pair. I can’t find those anywhere.”
Mr. Gaunt sighed and rubbed his forehead in frustration. “Damn!” he exclaimed. “There’s nothing more important than a pair of scissors! Especially when you know someone’s going to need one.”
He looked back at the road ahead and drove carefully. Then, with great regret, he said, “Let’s see if we can make one more stop first.”
***
A little after midnight Mr. Crouch and Mr. Gaunt arrived at their destination—an apartment building on the outskirts of town that was home to several single women and men between the ages of twenty and thirty.
This was a typical late-night gathering spot for students who lived nearby, and although Mr. Gaunt was reluctant to take us there because of the danger involved, Mr. Crouch assured him that it would be perfectly safe as long as we acted sensibly.
We entered the lobby and paid the doorman a few dollars to unlock the door to the basement parking garage which was located below ground level. There were only two cars in the small lot—Mr. Crouch and Mr. Gaunt, and another parked near the edge of the open area in front of us, where two other people were already waiting.
As soon as Mr. Gaunt pulled into position beside the other vehicle, Mr. Crouch got out of the car and opened his trunk. He reached inside, grabbed a flashlight, and came around the passenger side.
He clicked on the light and shone it on the driver’s seat and then on the interior of the other car. Then he turned to me and whispered: “We’ll wait here until they’ve driven away. You go in first and check the rear passenger door.”
Once he made sure I understood what I was supposed to do, he climbed back into the car and leaned close to Mr. Gaunt, and whispered, “Now remember, whatever happens, stay quiet. Don’t even make a peep.”
With that Mr. Crouch shut the door and walked up to the elevator doors; Mr. Gaunt followed closely behind him. They both stepped in and rode down alone to the bottom floor. Once they exited the elevator, Mr. Crouch took one last look at me, nodded once, and turned his attention to the stairs leading down into the garage.
The stairwell lights were out, but since we had all been in the basement many times before, we knew exactly where to walk. Mr. Crouch led the way to a door just past the end of the row of lockers. When the handle turned and the door cracked open, Mr. Crouch held it wide while Mr. Gaunt slipped inside quickly.
Then Mr. Crouch followed Mr. Gaunt, holding the door firmly closed with one hand and shining his flashlight on the floor ahead of him with the other.
When Mr. Crouch and Mr. Gaunt were about halfway across the garage, Mr. Crouch stopped abruptly and raised his arm to block the beam from Mr. Gaunt’s flashlight. He listened intently for a moment and then said in a low voice, “They’re gone.” After listening again, he continued walking and motioned for me to follow.
The basement was large and well-lit, and aside from a couple of old exercise machines, most of the space was taken up by rows of storage units, each containing a variety of personal effects. Mr. Crouch chose one unit in the very center and opened its door without knocking.
Inside was a mess of clothes, blankets, food, toiletries, books, and papers scattered all over the floor like a tornado had hit it. The smell was terrible. But Mr. Crouch didn’t seem bothered by it. In fact, he seemed rather pleased. “This is perfect,” he announced to no one in particular.
He went through the clothing rack first, pulling everything off the hooks and dumping them onto the floor. Then he did the same with the blankets and sheets. He picked up some books and put them on top of the boxes, others he stuffed into drawers or underneath the mattress.
Finally, he started searching for items that could easily be carried out—such as small bottles of liquor, a jar filled with candy, and an assortment of small toys. By the time he finished, my eyes were streaming uncontrollably and my stomach felt queasy. “Let’s get out of here,” Mr. Crouch suggested.
“But not quite yet,” Mr. Gaunt replied. “I’m almost done.”
After looking over the rest of the contents, Mr. Crouch finally found what he’d been looking for. On a shelf behind a stack of boxes was an unopened box packed with plastic bags of various sizes. Each bag had a pair of gloves in it, folded carefully so they wouldn’t be damaged during shipping.
It was clear this was a regular shipment; there were dozens of such boxes scattered throughout the storage unit. With a final nod to Mr. Crouch, Mr. Gaunt began sorting through them and removing the gloves.
“That’s enough,” Mr. Crouch declared. “Come on!”
Mr. Gaunt reluctantly agreed. As we were walking back to the elevator, Mr. Gaunt called out to us: “Don’t worry about your stuff. We’ll come back tomorrow and clean it up.”
The next morning, when we returned to pick up our things, Mr. Gaunt and I couldn’t believe our eyes. There wasn’t a single thing left in that storage unit except for the empty boxes. Every item that had been in it had been removed and placed neatly into other nearby units. We stood dumbfounded until Mr. Crouch appeared behind us with his arms full of cardboard cartons.
“Where did you find these?” we asked.
He smiled and said, “You really don’t need these anymore, do you? Now hurry! You have fifteen minutes before anyone else gets here!”
And with that he disappeared through the doors of the building with his booty, leaving us with nothing.
The End