The Ackerman Thrillers Boxset: 1-6

by Ethan Cross

  “I believe that God has brought my brother and I to this point together for a reason. I believe that a divine presence, call it God, goodness, light, whatever, has given my brother and me this nature and this nurture and has led us here to use those experiences and gifts and ways of thinking in a manner beneficial to the other passengers on this big life boat we call Earth. That’s how God wants me to pay my penance. By helping to protect others from men like me.”

  Fagan added, “And that desire has nothing to do with the fact that, to a man like you, hunting those killers and proving your superiority over them would sound like an awful lot of fun?”

  Ackerman shrugged and said, “Whoever said penance can’t be fun?”

  *

  Peter Spinelli already knew his face, and so Judas had decided to follow from a cautious distance. Thankfully, they were in a public place with plenty of opportunities to blend.

  Peter was the technical genius who had designed the threat analysis software that made Warden Powell’s new prison possible. The young tech’s girlfriend had dragged him on the road to a tourist destination called Sedona, Arizona. Judas had heard someone call Sedona, with its red-rock desert landscape, one of the most beautiful destinations on the planet. It was also a haven for spiritualists and healers due to the supposed “vortexes” that were spread throughout the area.

  Judas knew that Peter’s girlfriend was fascinated by these vortexes. She fit the mold. Her hair was streaked in blue, and she wore combat boots with her sundress. Peter sported camo shorts and a Phish T-shirt.

  Judas resented these stupid Americans and their selfish attitudes.

  The gas money they used driving the hours to get here could have fed entire families in some countries. And all to pretend to feel some vortexes and purchase Native American jewelry.

  Worst of all, they had forced him to make that drive as well in order to accomplish his mission.

  And today was the only day this mission could have taken place. The timeline had to remain intact. If even one of the dominoes he had in place were moved, it could jeopardize the whole chain of events. Of course, he would adapt and improvise as the plan progressed, but he didn’t like to improvise. He liked to have a plan. Set the script and stick to it.

  Judas believed that the need for adaptation and improvisation simply meant that you had failed to see all of the angles during the planning stages. So if he had done his job correctly, every domino would fall into place on its own, naturally, inevitably. To adjust the plan was to admit failure. To admit his own fallibility. The best strategists thought at least ten steps ahead of their opponents, and he wanted his methods to be studied by historians someday. A deviation from the plan was not only an attack on him, but an attack on his legacy.

  Peter’s girlfriend tugged him by the hand through the crowded row of local shops selling everything from topaz southwestern jewelry to paintings and other art. The sweet aroma of cinnamon pretzels hung pleasantly in the air but was tainted by the acrid smoke of a passing car’s exhaust. Honking and revving engines echoed around them as traffic flew past on Highway 89A, the drivers ever impatient to get to their next tourist destination or yoga session.

  Judas looked around at the shoppers, oblivious to the danger that surrounded them, oblivious to the fact that human beings constantly teetered on the edge of death. And it was so easy to give them just a little push—they were so easy to manipulate. To use their fears and desires against them. To have the power to destroy them—or, if you were a true artist, encourage them to destroy themselves.

  As he thought about this, he could feel his heart rate rising. He could feel himself losing control. He could sense the approaching storm cloud of rage. A rage not directed at the shoppers and families, but a fury directed at the person who caused all this to be necessary.

  But for now, these selfish peasants would be surrogates for his wrath.

  Plans were in motion, and poor, oblivious Peter Spinelli was the next domino that needed to be pushed over. And Judas had been itching to get his hands dirty again.

  With a few long, quick strides, he closed the distance between himself and Peter, weaving through the crowd of shoppers. Peter was walking south along the edge of the sidewalk bordering the busy highway.

  Judas slipped the coin and note into Peter’s pocket, and then he tapped him on the shoulder.

  Peter turned back, and his girlfriend’s tugging hand slipped from his fingers. The girl didn’t look to see why Peter had released her hand. She just continued in search of her next trinket, the destination more important than the journey.

  Peter didn’t recognize Judas at first, but the tech genius’s eyebrows furrowed with a hint of familiarity. Judas didn’t blame Peter for his lack of recognition. After all, Judas was wearing prosthetics to keep anyone from turning in a description to a sketch artist.

  “Hello, Peter. Enjoying your day off?” Judas said.

  And there it was. A glimmer of recognition.

  Peter knew his voice, as Judas had hoped. Peter’s eyes lit up, and his head tilted to the side, his thought pattern likely traveling from recognition to confusion as he realized who he was looking at and wondering why the same man from work looked so different now.

  It was important to Judas for Peter to know it was him. To realize who was doing this to him.

  Judas could see the questions in Peter’s eyes.

  He shoved the slender, black blade into Peter’s chest, puncturing the lung and heart, and the questions in those eyes intensified and then faded into nothingness.

  Judas held on to that moment for as long as he could, and then he shoved Peter into traffic and slipped away into the crowd.

  *

  Special Agent Maggie Carlisle pulled the Camaro slowly to a stop beside the baseball field. The tires crunching and grinding gravel together reminded Maggie of the way life treated human beings, the way it had always treated her. By chewing her up and spitting her out. Despite all that, she had always been a steady optimist. She had always been a rock. But she didn’t think she could keep up the facade much longer. Not after this latest news.

  She bumped the tire against the concrete parking block. She put the car in first, killed the big block engine, and released the clutch. Then she dropped her head to the steering wheel and wept.

  Maggie only allowed herself a few seconds of self-pity and then popped her head up and wiped at her eyes. She didn’t want Marcus to ever see her like that. Vulnerable. Weak. Luckily, she never wore much makeup, and so her cheeks weren’t streaked with black.

  Leaning back against the leather of the headrest, she took several long, deep breaths and then stepped from the car. She slammed the door of Marcus’s ’69 Camaro much harder than she had intended. Something rattled and the car’s frame issued a disturbing groan. She involuntarily winced and was glad Marcus wasn’t with her. She wasn’t in the mood for one of his lectures on the car being a piece of history and the cultural zeitgeist. Besides, she had been driving it more than Marcus had, since he had purchased his new Harley-Davidson motorcycle.

  She suspected the motorcycle had something to do with looking cooler than the other dads on Dylan’s team. But then again, what looked cooler than a black 1969 Camaro SS with red racing stripes? Maybe Marcus had just been watching too much of that TV show about the motorcycle club?

  Dylan’s baseball team was part of an outreach program designed to bring fathers and sons closer together by playing other teams made up of father-son duos. Marcus had been searching for a way to strengthen the bond between him and his son, and when he came across an article about the new program, he had seen the revival of one of his old passions as an opportunity to do just that.

  But Maggie knew it would take a lot more than baseball to undo the damage done to Dylan and Marcus’s relationship. Not to mention the damage done to the boy’s psyche. She thought of her own issues, which stemmed from childhood trauma. And Dylan’s story was much darker than hers.

  In an attempt to rebuild
his sick concept of family and legacy, Dylan’s grandfather—Francis Ackerman Sr.—had tracked down a son Marcus hadn’t even known existed and had used the boy and his mother as pawns to capture Marcus. After enduring months of torture, both psychological and physical, Marcus made it out alive. Dylan’s mother hadn’t been so lucky. Marcus had lost part of himself in the experience, but Dylan’s mother had lost her life, which left Marcus caring for a son he’d never known and building a parental bond from scratch. Dylan had been ripped from his life, never to see his mother again, and then thrust into the care of strangers with matching DNA.

  It was a good thing that the Shepherd Organization had a therapist on staff.

  Maggie walked toward the bleachers but thought better of sitting on those infested boards, and so she stood beside the bleachers instead. She checked the scoreboard and discovered that the game was more than half over. Marcus and Dylan’s team was down three runs.

  She wasn’t technically late because she hadn’t planned on coming. She knew Marcus thought her reluctance to attend had something to do with Dylan but, in reality, she just didn’t want to sit around with all the mothers and small children. She hadn’t wanted to deal with all of that right in her face.

  But this was different. She wasn’t here to watch the game. She was on a mission.

  The air smelled of hot dogs, popcorn, and sweat. The combination made her feel nauseous again. She had already thrown up once at the doctor’s office, right after hearing the test results.

  A nine-year-old boy from the opposing team threw a pitch to a counterpart from Dylan’s team. Both of the boys’ fathers were right there with them, helping them, personally coaching them. Then the fathers took the mound and plate and demonstrated the techniques they had been describing to their sons. It was sort of like job shadowing that allowed the dads and kids to have fun together.

  Maggie enjoyed that it also reminded some of the more judgmental fathers what it was like to step up to the plate themselves and feel the anxious pressure of that moment. She liked nothing better than to watch some of those blowhard dads go down swinging.

  And when Marcus was on the mound, that’s what happened. Dads struck out. Even when Marcus was trying to let them hit, he still managed to fake them out somehow. Marcus had told her that he had almost gone to the minor leagues as a pitcher, but he had decided to go to the police academy instead. To hear him tell it, he knew that he wasn’t good enough, and so he made the responsible choice. She knew better. Marcus never made the responsible choice.

  Judging by the score, Marcus wasn’t on the mound that day.

  The dad at bat got a hit and loaded the bases. A high-pressure moment. Bases loaded. Down by three. Two outs.

  She saw the coaches and umpires gesturing to each other and knew what was happening. It was an unwritten rule of the league that the fathers and sons would have the option to switch order if the sons didn’t want to be forced into any type of high-pressure situation, in an effort to keep from crushing a boy’s self-esteem when he wasn’t ready.

  Which meant Marcus would be up to bat next.

  He wasn’t quite as good a hitter as he was a pitcher. He always said that was why he was a Yankees fan, because in the American league, the designated hitter rule applied and pitchers didn’t have to bat.

  The other team brought in a new pitcher, and Maggie watched him warm up. He was impressive. His fastballs were fast. Breakers broke. And curves curved.

  She recognized a former competitive athlete when she saw one. Perhaps even another former minor league prospect. Marcus, who was a pitcher not a hitter, was about to go head to head with another former MLB hopeful.

  Maggie checked her watch. They had a few minutes to spare before their flight.

  *

  The receptionist at Sheriff Travis Hall’s office was a perky little brunette, probably a cheerleader five or six years past her prime. She had big, exotic cheekbones and smelled like raspberries, because of her lip gloss, and peppermints, because of the little candies she was popping like they were made of pure cocaine.

  Demon watched her with an ancient hunger as she bopped around the small waiting room.

  With each step, he saw her body morph in size and shape. The flowers on her dress had come alive, hummed a couple of bars from a nursery rhyme, and gone back to being two-dimensional. People he knew weren’t there kept following her around, encouraging him to tear her clothes off and rip her throat out at the same time. You need to know what her flesh tastes like. You need to know all of her.

  Demon checked his watch and yawned. Damn jet lag.

  It wasn’t that he ignored the pleas of the Legion. He always listened to their council and heeded their advice.

  Some were just disembodied voices. Not all of them encouraged violence or advised brutality. Some were even voices of reason. The demons didn’t argue directly, but they often responded with opposing viewpoints.

  None of the demons, however, advised mercy or kindness. None of the demons were “good.” They just kept things in check with his larger goals. They helped him decide whether to kill someone right then or save them for later, or leave them alone completely if they weren’t worth the time.

  The perky receptionist was lucky. She wasn’t worth the time. He had tasted so many others like her that he had lost count. He no longer worried about victims who weren’t of the highest caliber. After so many years in the game, he had grown picky. But he had also grown patient and skilled at his craft.

  The demons kept screaming in his ears, but he wasn’t tempted to obey them or tell them to shut up. He had learned to be master over the Legion, not the other way around.

  He was the Legion, and they were him.

  Still, there was one voice which could silence all the others. One shadow who was master of them all and could take control for swift, decisive, and immediate action.

  It had no name. It needed no name. The dark man was a shade. An eternal shadow, the color of a night sky.

  It was always there.

  Sometimes the dark man could only be seen from the corner of his eye. Sometimes it was just waiting somewhere in the background. Waiting and watching. Never speaking. Just hovering hungrily, patiently awaiting the next moment it could take control and bathe in blood.

  The dark man was oblivious to the receptionist, and so Demon just sat there and waited for his appointment with the sheriff. His own assistant had phoned ahead and arranged for this meeting while he was still on the road.

  The receptionist did her best not to look directly at his face, but she kept stealing glances in his direction. Her quick, curious stares didn’t bother him. He was accustomed to people showing a morbid curiosity.

  He could understand her position. How many times had a man wearing a ten-thousand-dollar suit with a face ravaged by scars walked through the doors of this small police station?

  Demon estimated that about thirty-five percent of his face was covered with one kind of scar or another. The tissue over his left eye had been melted, but his vision hadn’t been impaired. He had no eyebrows, which people always found alarming in some strange way. Knife wounds and slashes intersected most of the rest of his face, but the most prominent of the disfigurements was his Glasgow smile—a wound achieved by cutting the corners of a victim’s mouth and then torturing them. When the victim screamed or moved, the wound would tear, ripping the person’s face apart.

  Demon’s Glasgow smile stretched nearly from jawbone to jawbone. But it wasn’t really straight across or even upturned like a smile. It looked more like a giant axe had cleaved the bottom of his head off at a slight angle.

  His face made an impression on people, which was exactly what he didn’t want. He didn’t want to be noticed.

  Well, some of the Legion did.

  But only a small minority.

  Still, he hated the fact that this perky brunette would remember him. Would probably even tell her friends about him. Would speculate on who he was and what happened to his face.


  Such thoughts whipped the Legion into a frenzy. The demons chattered even more about the reasons this meeting was necessary, that this trip had been forced upon him in the first place. He knew they were right, and it was something the responsible party would answer for very soon.

  Demon and the receptionist danced with their eyes for the next several minutes. Her staring, him catching her with his cold gaze, repeat and repeat. Then her phone rang, and she ushered him back to Sheriff Hall’s office.

  Demon had several reasons to meet with Sheriff Hall. The most important being that it was the will of the dark man.

  Although the dark man never spoke to him, he could sense its will on a primal, ancient level. He could taste its hunger, its emotions, its anger.

  And ever since this situation with Judas had developed, the dark man had been very angry and very hungry.

  *

  Marcus Williams took a couple of practice swings and then stepped up to the plate. He gave a tilt of his hat to Benny Stockman, the man on the pitcher’s mound. Marcus had chatted with Benny once after a game and learned that Benny had played college ball but had injured his shoulder. Judging by the way he was throwing in his warm-up, that shoulder had healed up nicely.

  Most of the time during these games, the dads had an unwritten rule: play at about forty percent, keep it noncompetitive. The reason they were there was the boys. It wasn’t about showing off. It was about spending time with your son and leading by example.

  But there was also an unwritten rule that, every once in a while, it was okay to show off a bit for your kid and make things interesting. It was just understood that you would let the other team have some warning, so that everyone knew to take their own games up a notch or two.

  When the opposing team’s coach had sent in Benny Stockman to relieve the starter even though they were ahead on the scoreboard, the coach had sent a very clear message—let’s see the former prospects go head to head.

  The coach of Dylan’s team had laughed and told Dylan to let his dad bat first. Marcus had explained to the boy that the dads just wanted to see him and Benny Stockman go up against one another. He had wanted the boy to know that it wasn’t that they thought he couldn’t handle the pressure of the moment.