THE MAN WITHOUT YESTERDAY

Part 12-- the killer 02

 A full month had elapsed since the last time I heard Bob's voice over the phone. He had made a promise—a vow that now seemed to dangle precariously in the heavy, unmoving air of silence that followed. With each passing day, a gnawing sense of doubt took root within me. Had he underestimated my commitment, or, in a more disheartening turn, decided to forsake our mutual goal?

The temptation to reach out to him was relentless, a constant whisper in the back of my mind. However, I was well aware that doing so would not align with the reality of the situation. Bob, ever the cautious one, had probably disposed of his phone a long time ago. It was either lying at the bottom of the sea or had been incinerated, its ashes now mingling with the breeze.

The thought of simply handing him over to the authorities crossed my mind. It would be straightforward, yet utterly devoid of satisfaction. No, that route was too easy, too mundane for what I had in mind. I yearned for a more intricate game. I wanted Bob to bask in a false sense of invulnerability, to live in a bubble of his own making—until the harsh truth came crashing down around him, shattering his illusions once and for all.

He may have considered himself invisible, untouchable—a perfect killer, meticulously concealing his tracks from everyone. But I knew that perfection didn't exist. Everyone made mistakes sooner or later. If you knew where to look, you could easily find those mistakes. That's how I found him, and that's how I knew who he really was, where he was, and what he was doing right now. I could have called the police at any time and told them his whereabouts. But where would the joy have been in that? I wanted to toy with him, let him think he was the best until he realised he was not.

The piercing ding of my phone's alarm clock pierced the serenity of the night, unexpectedly dispelling the maze of my thoughts. In the dimly lit room, the digital panel flashed 1:00 AM, a mute herald of the late hour. It was time to take action, to slip into the silent night and pay a visit to my old acquaintance, who I assumed would be dozing off at this unholy hour.

I stood from the chair where pondering had kept me captive, steeling myself for the task ahead. Outside, the air was cool and sharp, the kind of chill that sinks into your bones, but it felt refreshing against my skin. The city was a different creature at this hour, moving with a hushed and melancholy beat.

As I neared his house under the ethereal glow of the moonlit sky, the old mansion loomed at the end of a winding driveway, a majestic yet sombre guardian of history. Its walls, crafted from weathered stones, seemed to whisper tales of a time long past, each murmur revealing a slice of history. The air around the mansion was heavy with an unspoken narrative, as if the very breeze carried secrets from centuries gone by. The grounds, once meticulously maintained, now embraced a wilder beauty, with overgrown flora encroaching upon the stone path, adding to the sense of a world suspended in time.

As I continued my approach, the silence seemed to deepen, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant hoot of an owl. The mansion's formidable presence grew with each step, its architecture a testament to a blend of grandeur and desolation. It was a place that commanded respect, yet invited curiosity, standing firmly on the threshold between the past and the present.

Despite the ominous setting, the lights inside the house gleamed warmly as usual. He always made sure the lights were turned on before going to bed. According to the notes I'd read about him, he didn't remember his acts when he awoke. As a result, he preferred to wake up to illuminated surroundings, as a lighthouse amid his repeated confusion, ensuring he didn't panic, lost in the ambiguity of where he was and what he was doing there.

Approaching the weathered front door of the old house, my fingers instinctively sought the key in my pocket – a duplicate I had cunningly crafted. The opportunity had presented itself one unsuspecting afternoon when he, engrossed in the simple act of ordering a drink at a quaint seaside café, had left his bag unguarded. The key, small and brass, worn from years of use, was a symbol of unintended trust. With it, I was about to cross a threshold that was never meant to be mine to cross.

Inserting the key into the lock, I felt the satisfying click of tumblers falling into place, a subtle invitation to the secrets that lay beyond. With a gentle nudge, the door creaked open, its hinges whispering a welcome, as if acknowledging the inevitable breach of its guarded realm. Stepping over the threshold, I entered a world that held the essence of his life, a world that was about to unfold its mysteries to an unbidden guest.

Once inside, I was surrounded by a sense of quiet, as if the house itself was holding its breath, aware of the intrusion. The dimly lighted lobby was filled with old photographs and artefacts, each a silent testament to the passage of time. My presence seemed to bring the shadows to life, echoing echoes of a past I was only beginning to comprehend.

I entered the living room as I moved deeper into the house. It was a time capsule, with heavy drapes shut tightly against the outer world. The dim light from the streetlamps outside barely entered the apartment, forming ghostly patterns on the furnishings

His study was the centre of the house, a shrine for his innermost thoughts and endeavours. The study door was slightly ajar, tempting but forbidding. The slight squeak of the door seemed louder in the hushed house as I pulled it open. Inside, the room was a jumbled mess of order - stacks of papers, books, and assorted artefacts cluttered the floor, each a piece of the jigsaw that was his mind.

I couldn't help but feel like an intruder in such a sacred place, but my curiosity drove me forward. I started sifting through the files on his desk, looking for anything that could shed light on the guy whose life I had penetrated. The desk lamp's faint light cast shadows throughout the room, turning every movement into a dance with the unknown.

His desk was a jumbled mess of ideas, notebooks strewn among stacks of hastily scribbled notes. This was the prize I had come to find: the written words that encapsulated his ideas. But, before I dove into the sea of his written confessions, I needed to make sure he was sound asleep.

I moved silently into the hallway's shadows, each step a delicate dance to avoid making any noise. The bedroom door loomed ahead, a portal to the private realm where he lay exposed to the elements. With a hard breath in my chest, I carefully pressed down on the door handle and eased it open, the soft light of the moon streaming into the dimly lit room.

There, in the peaceful embrace of sleep, lay the man whose secrets I was about to reveal. His chest rose and fell in an unaware beat, his face a canvas of calm. I departed as softly as I had arrived, leaving him to his dreams while returning to the study, where his unspoken words awaited my inquisitive eyes.

Back in the study, the moonlight seemed to shed an ethereal glow over the desk, transforming it from mundane to nearly otherworldly. For a few minutes, I hovered there, the weight of my intentions binding me to the location. I was about to breach the sanctity of his inner world, a realm that had remained a maze only he could navigate until now, with each notebook and note that laid before me.

I reached tentatively for the first notebook, its cover old and the pages slightly yellowed with age. His calligraphy met me as I opened it open, each stroke a piece of his personality frozen in print.

The sentences wove a narrative about his daily life—who he talked to, what they said, where he had been, and where he intended to go, as well as his future plans, thoughts, and concerns. It felt like listening to a silent confession, a stream of consciousness from a man I thought I knew but was only now beginning to truly understand.

Beside the notebook on the table, there were some photographs. I picked them up and examined them; they were images of places he had visited and people he had interacted with. I meticulously reviewed each one; not a single photo was of mine. Consequently, he was still unaware of my identity. This insight coaxed a sinister smile onto my face.

After poring over every word he'd penned, I made my way to his bedroom for one final glance. There he was, deep in slumber, the soft snoring suggesting dreams unknown to me. With a gentle nudge, I shut his bedroom door, sealing him away from my presence. I stepped out into the night, the quiet of his house behind me, pondering the inevitability of my return.