Emptiness

It was nighttime, but he didn’t care. The people coming and going, the steps sounding on the tiled floor, the laughing, the talking. That was all over. The Westwood Shopping Center was closed. Everyone was gone, except for a security guard who stashed himself away in the back office looking at camera footage, eating hamburgers, and sleeping half of the time. Everyone was gone, except of course for himself and the girl as well.

You have to find her,” the voice said. “You must kill her. It will change your life forever, for the better. You will not have to fear anything, once she is dead.”

He shook his head, trying to escape the voice. He had to kill her, but how. He had to kill a person that he didn’t even know. It was his task. She worked at Bradenton Antiques and left at the mall closing time every night. How and where could he do it?

Everything changed when he located the janitor’s closet down a hidden hallway just past the public bathrooms. He tried to get in but it was locked. There was a schedule on the door that told him exactly when the cleaners were there, from 6 until 9 in the morning. From 9 at night, when the mall closed, it, along with the rest of the building, would be empty. He had located the security cameras and none of them pointed toward the hallway and closet door. Now all he needed was a key.

That happened by stroke of luck. This morning he had walked into the mall right as it was opening, seeing a white-haired janitor closing the door, key in his hand. Suddenly, there was a shout and a large crash as a group of shopping carts that were being moved toppled over. The janitor pulled the door closed and rushed out to see if he could help. He moved quickly to the closet door, finding it unlocked, and rushed inside. Locking it on the knob, he waited, hoping that, if the janitor came back to check it, he would find it locked, be satisfied, and head off home or to his next job. He waited breathlessly, hearing the knob rattle, as someone tried to turn it. Then silence. His job for now was done. He exited the closet, leaving the door unlocked. When he came back that evening, his luck had held and the door was still unlocked.

He quickly entered the closet. Although he thought of it as a closet, it was more like a small office with metal shelves holding cleaning materials, trash cans, and janitorial supplies bordering one side and a small wooden desk and metal chair on the other side. Now, to get the girl in here. That was already planned. At about 9:30, about the time the mall was empty, he saw her walking toward the entrance she always left through. He knew her habit because he had sat in his car watching her come out the same door every day the past week. He also knew that being a conscientious worker, she was always one of the last people to leave.

He looked at his watch and saw it creep up to 9:25. As expected, he saw her walking slowly toward the exit. Also, as expected, there were no other people around her. He quickly walked to the closet, but before entering it, he pulled out his new smart phone and, turning the volume up as loud as possible, he placed it on the floor. Just before entering the room, he turned it on, playing a recording that he had gotten off the internet.

“Help me, help me,” an old lady’s voice cried out. “Help,” it continued. “I can’t get up.”

“Are you okay,” another, younger voice shouted. “Where are you?”

It was her. He heard the tapping of running shoes and just when it reached the closet door, he opened it and quickly hit the speaker over the head with a rubber mallet that he bought just for the occasion. He dragged the figure into the closet, picked up his phone, and closed the door.

Using the duct tape he had placed on the desk, he speedily bound her arms and legs, then her mouth. He thought she was still alive, but he didn’t stop and check. Now, the hard part was done. All that was left was to finish the task. But he didn’t. Instead, he turned her over so her face as looking at the ceiling. She was a beautiful, young woman. Her eyes were closed, her mouth and lips pale. She didn’t move. He didn’t either.

He looked down at the figure on the floor; her bare legs were bound with duct tape. Right now, she wasn’t even moving and he couldn't guarantee that she was alive. Part of him hoped she was, and part of him, the part that knew what he was supposed to do, hoped that she wasn’t.

Time passed as he continued to stare at her, wondering if he could do what was supposed to be done. He sat in the chair at the desk, looking at the figure laying in front of him. She still didn’t move and he was afraid, of what he didn’t know. The silence of the mall was deafening to his mind. Periodically, he walked into the hallway, careful to stay away from the cameras monitoring the mall. Although lights were on, there were no sounds, no clocks, no equipment, nothing. When he walked back into the closet, the woman was still where he had left her. There was no sign of movement. He looked at his watch again, not seeing the time clearly. Almost 3:30. He had to move, he had to finish, he had to get out of here. Still, he sat.

The time passed. At 5:00, he stood for the final time and bent down next to her. Her black hair partially covered her brown eyes. He tried to feel a pulse, but his hands were too unsteady. Now was the time, but still he just kneeled there. He had been told to get it done and leave, to wear gloves, not to leave anything behind, except for the girl. He had done all that. All he had to do was finish his task. He moved closer to her, rubbing her arm, wishing he knew what to say to her.

Suddenly, he felt something hit his side, slinging him against the desk. His head slammed into the wooden drawers bringing pain up into his eyes. He tried to focus and could hear shuffling in the background. The girl, she was alive and awake. He could barely see her standing against the metal cabinets, rubbing her arms up and down to cut open the tape. Then she brought her hands around and reached down, tearing open the tape on her legs. Finally, she tore the tape off her mouth, leaving bloody spots on both sides of her lips. He approached her, pulling his phone off the top of the desk.

He didn’t remember much about the next few hours. The arrival of the police, being handcuffed and thrown into the back of a patrol car, being read his rights that everyone knows by heart.

“Why did you kidnap her,” he was asked time and again.

“Why did you try to kill her?”

“I didn’t,” he tried to say. “I was told to, but I couldn’t.”

He was driven away and led into a small room at the police station. He sat there across form two men, both older and gray haired, one with a white beard. They didn’t say anything. He didn’t either. Eventually, they both stood up and walked out. Someone else opened the door and came in. It was the woman, the intended victim. She sat down across from him.

“Terry,” she said in a soft voice, “your name is Terry Bradenton, isn’t it?”

He nodded.

“Your father is Jonathan Bradenton?”

Again, he nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“He is the owner of Bradenton Antiques?”

“Yes.”

“He is the one who told you to kill me, isn’t that correct?”

He hesitated but then nodded, burying his head into his handcuffed hands.

“Do you know why he wanted me dead?” she asked, her voice stronger, as if she was trying to make him talk.

This time, he shook his head. “He said it was a game, that I would feel better when it was done. That it would change my life. That I would never be afraid again.”

“Are you always afraid?”

He nodded, not able to say anything else.

“It wasn’t a game,” she continued. “He knew that I was with the police and that I was investigating the store for trafficking in stolen goods. Do you know anything about that?”

Again, he shook his head. “I don’t know anything about the business,” he answered.

“I didn't think so. This wasn’t a game, but you didn’t do what he asked. You couldn’t. He was right about one thing. This will change your life. How it does that is up to you. Right now, you are being charged with kidnapping and attempted murder. You are facing life in prison. Testify against your father, help us find the evidence we need, help us close down his racket, and you will still face punishment. But it will be the type of punishment that can help you change your life for the better.”

He lay his head on the table, thinking back to the night spent in the empty mall, to the task he was given and how he kept putting it off. He wasn’t a killer no matter how many times his father tried to convince him the opposite was true.

Emptiness was good sometimes, an empty building, an empty soul. Emptiness could be filled with something new, something better. He lifted his eyes and looked Cindy in the eyes.

“Okay,” was all he said.