The Whisper Box by Roger Olivieri

spite of the darkness, he could make out a small metal rod sticking out of the old brick building. If he used the rod to pull himself up he might be able to grab the stairwell that way. He jumped once, trying to be quiet the entire time. His hand grabbed the rod. For a brief moment he thought this would be a success. The greasy residue on his hand from the puddle made him lose his grip instantly. Before he knew what was happening, he found himself on his behind and on the ground again. He landed elbows first, then his rear end, and then his back. Now his pants were not the only things covered in the oil, mud, and water mixture.
    He had not had the wind knocked out of him since playing football in high school, yet he instantly recognized the sensation. There are a few seconds where one actually feels all of the air exit the lungs. Most people panic, then realize what had happened and lie motionless for about thirty seconds. After that the pain sets in. This is exactly the order of events that Mac was going through.
    The scheme he had devised was obviously not going to work out, but there had to be another way, he thought. He wanted to avoid the front door at all costs. In spite of his injuries and his activities in the back alley, he had actually kept it all pretty quiet. As he paced back and forth panting and thinking, he saw his saving grace.
    The large wooden figure was off in the corner. These objects always piqued his desire. When he was in college, he really wanted one. One of his friends had one refinished and used it as a coffee table. He never knew what they were, but they look like big wooden wheels. The telephone and electric companies used them to wrap cable. He now had one. Now, he only wished he had seen it about five minutes ago; he would still be dry. He pushed it from the corner to the space directly below the stairwell. As he climbed onto the wheel and grabbed the stairwell at last, he shook his head in disgust about all he had been through. Then he slowly climbed the steps.
    Laura's apartment was on the third floor. The metal wedge she kept hidden to use to unlock her window when she locked herself out was exactly where she said he would find it. He slowly slid it through the crease where the upper and lower window met. Click! It worked like a charm; anyone could break into this woman's apartment. Laura had said she kept it there for emergencies, but he wondered how the hell she got to the pull down steps to get to it. He made a mental note to ask her.
    He eased the window open. This entire operation was going quieter than expected. When he climbed through the window into the bedroom, the first thing he noticed was the scent of pot-purée. It smelled feminine, as a woman's apartment should. The bedroom was your basic woman's bedroom. The bed had been made that morning or whenever she last slept in it. It was decorated with a small army of white throw pillows to match the color of the goose down comforter. He looked up and saw himself in the mirror standing on top of an oak chest of drawers. He looked like a vagrant. His sweater was torn and smeared with oil and mud. His pants were also torn. He could feel the blood trickling from his right knee down his shin. The same tingle was from his left elbow down his forearm. His hair was half damp and swirled about. Further more, he was soaking wet and dripping water, oil, and blood onto Laura's thick white carpet. As he tiptoed across the floor, searching for a light, his heart thumped harder and harder in his chest.
    The barrel of the stranger's gun was Aaron's first clue that someone else was in the apartment with him. The barrel was pressed against his forehead. The tip of the silencer was cold. He froze. His mind went blank. Little did he know that the man holding the gun had killed Michael, his clerk, only hours before.
    The stranger's gruff voice broke the silence. “Who sent you?”
    Mac's throat was swelling up; he could not get the words out.
    The stranger