by Trisha Wolfe
“You’re not going back, Nelson. You enjoy my persona too much. It might have started out as a way to get inside my head, to hunt me, but as time went on, you got comfortable in my skin. Because otherwise, I’m here.” I raise my hands. “You’ve caught me.”
My voice echos around the garage.
I let my arms drop. “You don’t want to capture me. You want me dead. So you can continue to use my methods to kill. It’s the perfect ruse.”
At his intense silence, I have my answer. Nelson doesn’t intend for either me or London to leave here alive.
“Being on the run is exhausting,” I say. “I know. It wears on a man. Shows us what we’re made of. I’m never going to stop hunting you, Nelson. The FBI is the least of your worries.”
Another shrill whistle from the gears on the lift, and London descends lower. A warning that Nelson is ready to start the game.
Even if I save her, we’re not simply walking away. The only way Nelson gets to be the hero is if we die. He’ll become the insulted agent who went rogue to capture an escaped killer.
Except London becomes a victim in the process.
Two deaths have to happen here. That’s what’s needed.
“Only one key unlocks her shackles,” Nelson says. “Dig in.”
I look up at London, beautiful and angelic. Her dark hair tangled in disarray, mascara smudged down her porcelain cheeks. Masking tape covers her eyes and mouth, and yet she’s speaking to me, urging me on.
It ends here, she said in this very place as I held her in my arms. She saw the design before I could recognize it myself.
I start with the locks, inspecting each one. A Houdini lock and three other puzzle locks. I used to solve these as a kid. I could use the bump key I keep in my pocket to open the locks right now—but that’d be breaking the rules. London would suffer.
Nelson wants blood.
I roll my sleeves up and kneel before the tub of keys, noticing an odd glint beneath the surface. Swiping my hand over the top, I push aside a number of keys.
Razorblades.
“Damn. This is going to hurt.”
I fortify myself, and a sort of calm encases me as I sink my hands into the sharp objects. From my peripheral, I see London kicking her feet, seeking the edge of the container. She won’t reach it. She only has five minutes before her toes touch the acid.
Five minutes is more than enough time.
I can assume Nelson wouldn’t put the keys to the locks anywhere near the top of the pile; he wants me digging, razors shredding my skin. I work my hands all the way to the bottom of the tub, gritting my teeth against the acute pain.
I’ve had worse done to me. I’ve done worse—I’ve scarred my flesh deeper than these razors can cut. I dig through the bin without a single wince for Nelson.
I don’t need to try every key here. I know what I’m looking for. I know what the grooves of the teeth will feel like, how they’ll slide into the keyhole and turn easily with that satisfying click. My favorite sound other than London’s soft voice.
This trap was designed for me.
A buzz sounds, then I hear the hiss of the lift. London’s body lowers closer to the acid.
Blood stains the silver key as I pull it free. I inspect it quickly, then lay it on the cement. I dive back in. Fine slashes assault my wrists. Blades carve into my flesh, flaying my skin. But I press on until I find the second, and the third.
Sweat stings my eyes and I’m shaking with adrenaline by the time I unearth the final key.
I rest my forearms on the edge of the tub and take measured breaths. Then I get to my feet, the keys gripped in my bloodied hands.
On the Houdini lock, I twist the beveled screw on the backside loose, then slip in the key and twist. The lock pops open, and I toss it to the floor, the sandbag falls free. “Hang on, London. I’m coming to you.”
The next puzzle lock is just as simple. I realize—while I’m sliding the gold flap on the front sideways to align the inner mechanism—that this isn’t the trap. Nelson knows I can pick a lock—can pick any lock. I’m waiting for the real fun to begin.
The second lock clicks open. The weight releases, and I grab the cable before it can zip across the lift bar. “Grab hold of the beam above you,” I shout to London.
With her wrists freed, she grasps ahold of the lift arm and clings to the steel beam.
I fill my lungs, taking a full breath as I move to the last lock. The key slips out of my hand, slippery from my blood, and I curse. The gears on the lift grind, and I look up to see it drop another few inches.
Her feet hit the acid. London’s pained cry is muffled, but the agony of it slices through my chest more painfully than a million razors.
She pulls her knees toward her waist, keeping away from the acid. But she’s in pain. She’s getting weak.
“Hold on!” The final lock springs open.
I race across the garage and scale a large shipping container to reach the lift. “I’m here.” Seating myself on the edge of the beam, I grab ahold of London’s arms and help her wrap them around my neck. She’s trembling as I bring her to my chest.
I work the wire rope free from around her waist. Then I tell her to keep an arm around me as I guide her across the machine and onto the container. I glance around the shop, seeking Nelson. He remains hidden.
I quickly inspect her feet. Only her toes suffered the acid, but she needs to treat and dress them.
London digs at the tape over her mouth and pries it off, leaving angry red skin behind. “This isn’t the whole trap—”
“I know.” As gently as I can, I ease the masking tape from her eyes. She winces at the sting. She blinks a few times to clear her vision. “Are you okay?”
She nods repeatedly, still shaky with adrenaline and her sweat-slicked, exposed skin. “I’ll be fine, but I need to get you to a doctor.”
At my confused expression, she palms my face between her trembling hands. “The razors—”
“Were tipped with aconite.”
Nelson stands at the base of the container, gun aimed up at us. I pull London behind my back.
“That’s amazing,” Nelson says. “A selfless, heroic psychopathic killer. I believe that’s an oxymoron.”
I can feel it now—the poison coursing my system.
A clamminess blankets my skin. Spikes of cold and hot prickle my body; nerve endings misfiring. My muscles twitch, spasms starting to set in. Nausea will soon follow. Convulsions. Paralysis. Asphyxiation.
An excruciating death.
How long has it been since the first blade sliced my skin? Five…six minutes?
I don’t have much time.
I kneel before London. “Take the switchblade from my pocket.”
The panic lacing her gleaming eyes gives way to horror. “What?—I’m not—”
Nelson’s deep chuckle grates my already fraying nerves. “Oh, this is priceless. Just perfect.” He taps the barrel of the gun to his temple, as if he’s thinking. “Yes, London. You have to. A mercy kill…end his pain. You don’t want him to suffer an agonizing death.”
I swallow as I hold her gaze, resolute. “Put the blade to my throat.”
“Grayson…” Her eyes seal shut. She knows this is the only way—but she’s fighting fate.
“Trust,” I whisper. I wet my lips, my mouth running dry.
With unsteady balance, she dips her head and places the softest kiss to my neck. She talks in a hushed tone, her swift words for my ears only. Then her hand slips into my front pocket and grasps my newest switchblade.
“I underestimated you, Nelson,” I shout down to him, keeping my gaze trained on London’s beautiful face.
When I’m gone, he’ll either shoot her or submerge her in the acid, finishing the job. The scene will be set. It’s brilliant, really. London and I—accomplices, lovers—destroyed by our own maddening devices. Our own hands.
Such a perfect ending.
Maybe that’s where London and I made our first mis
take. Believing we could bottle our perfect piece of heaven. Immortalize it. Exist only for each other.
Maybe we still can.
But the higher we climbed, drugged on each other, ruling over a damned world that bowed and trembled before the god-like monsters we’d become, the harder our fall.
We are perfection.
And we are the fear that lurks beneath it.
We feast on each other and exist only for the highs…and even now as I kneel before my dark goddess and pray for her mercy, I regret nothing.
We truly were happy.
Maybe we still can be.
The razor-sharp edge of the knife presses into my neck and splits my skin, and I release a hiss. I search her gold-flecked eyes for the spark that tells me she’s ready. Her eyes are wild, filled with loathing contempt, her chest heaving as glistening beads of sweat dot her smooth brow.
My beautiful angel of mercy, now my vengeful angel of death.
“Do it,” I command.
Her hand steadies. The cold steel a tantalizing tease to my heated flesh.
“Close your eyes, Grayson.” Her voice is throaty and raw, wrapping me in her cruel, loving embrace.
I push against the knife, drawing blood. “I want to see the satisfaction it brings you.”
Her delicate neck pulses with a strained swallow. I feel the force of it in my throat. My thirst for her never quenched. Even now, as she grips the weapon with both hands and begins to drag the blade across my skin, I yearn to taste her one more time.
Death at my lover’s hand. The ultimate reward and punishment for our perfection.
I couldn’t ask for a more perfect ending.
24
Corpus Delicti
London
“Drop the weapon!”
My hands still, the blade trembles with my restraint. A thin line of red beads and drips down Grayson’s throat. I stare at the blood, the poison flowing out.
I recognize the gruff boom of the voice. I hold my place, not lowering the knife.
I have to finish this.
“I said, drop it, London,” Detective Foster shouts, his gun aimed at me.
“She can’t.” Nelson turns his weapon on Foster. “She doesn’t have a choice. She has to kill him.”
I glance at the detective. Foster’s confusion results in his aim bouncing from me to Nelson. “What’s going on?” Foster demands.
Nelson makes a move to his left.
“Don’t—” The sound of the gun safety clicking off reverberates around the tense room. The agent halts movement, the standoff between them thickening the air, suffocating.
I use the distraction to gauge Grayson’s condition. He’s weakening. Sweat dots his forehead, his facial muscles tic, muscles spasm. I know the symptoms; I memorized them. Soon, convulsions will take hold.
He doesn’t have long.
This scenario has two contingencies: Foster’s arrival sets the first in motion.
“I’m ready,” Grayson says. “You’re ready.”
I suck in a fortifying breath. Then: “You’ve been chasing a copycat,” I tell Foster. I catch and hold his gaze. His Glock is still directed at Nelson. “The murders in Brunswick and Minneapolis. The second Rockland victim. Even the prostitute that you stumbled on to…” I let the truth of my words drift over him. “And you’ve been so close to catching the killer. Working alongside him nearly every day of the investigation.”
His thick brows draw together. As realization sets in, he focuses on the man in his sights. “I knew something was off with you.”
Nelson adjusts his stance, rolling his shoulders and lifting his chin. “You’re not a part of this, Foster. You’re a bumbling, reject detective, and you’re officially off the case.”
A gunshot fires.
The silence breaks. Gunfire cracks with a resounding echo, leaving behind a muted ringing in my ears. On startled reflex, I drop the knife. Grayson pulls me down against the container and positions his body over mine.
A loud groan of pain, and then another shot rings out.
“I hate guns.” Grayson’s voice is barely audible through the gauzy stuffing filling my ears. “This how you want to announce your legacy, Nelson!” he yells. “Gunning down your victims… Not very original.”
Then, Grayson’s comforting weight disappears. He releases a grunt as a booted foot makes contact with his ribs, then a sharp pain lances the back of my head. I’m yanked backward, my bare skin burning as I’m dragged along the cold steel.
“Get up,” Nelson seethes, pulling me to stand by my hair.
I lash out, nails aimed at his face, but he easily blocks my attack. He smashes the butt of the gun against my temple. Pain splinters my head, darkness blinks before my eyes. He draws me against his chest. Pushes the muzzle to my throbbing head.
My feet kick at the steel despite the pain it causes my injured flesh, seeking purchase as he drags me over the container. Nelson grips my shoulder, securing his forearm across my chest. Grayson watches the moment through a haze of pain and helplessness as the aconite ravishes his system.
Incensed, I regain my composure and latch on to Nelson’s arm, digging my nails into his skin. “Let me go—”
“Not happening,” he says near my ear. “You’re good at being a hostage, London. Don’t let me down now.”
As my vision clears, I glimpse Foster below. Leaned up against a support beam, he uses it as a shield. He’s holding his casted arm. Red seeps between his fingers. He’s been shot.
Grayson is dying. Foster is injured. How badly, I’m not sure—but he won’t be able to make a stand against Nelson. I’m a sacrificial lamb for Nelson’s escape. Fighting to live only long enough until I transition into a burden. Where he’ll dispose of me.
The moment is crystal, pristine. So clear, I can taste the acid infusing the air.
I catch Grayson’s gaze and stop struggling. The clarity I feel is reflected in his sheer blue eyes. He’s losing the battle, his awareness slipping away. Now.
When Foster steps from behind the beam, gun drawn and aimed, I act.
I go limp like a rag doll. Nelson growls his frustration as he tries to hoist me up. Foster takes his shot. The bullet wizzes past Nelson, just missing its mark. Nelson abandons the fight for a hostage and releases me. He takes aim at Foster.
Grayson is forgotten in the chaos.
He rises up now, the last of his strength concentrated into one final burst. Nelson notices too late. Grayson attacks Nelson, and the gun skitters across the container. I crawl toward it, but by the time I’ve closed my hand around the weapon, I’ve already lost too much time.
Grayson has Nelson locked in a vise-grip, his arm latched around his neck. “The knife,” Grayson says.
A moment—one clear moment—where our eyes meet, and I know what I have to do.
The knife is in my hand. I look for Foster. He’s ascending the side of the container, slowly. His broken arm a hindrance. Steps deliberate, I approach Grayson. His struggle with Nelson is diminishing him further. He can’t restrain him much longer.
I meet Nelson’s eyes and, with a smile, drive the blade into his sternum. He sputters a shocked, incomprehensible admonishment—something with a muttered bitch. I twist the blade deeper, up beneath his rib cage.
From my peripheral, I glimpse Foster’s hand reach over the top of the container.
Only seconds now.
As Nelson quickly becomes dead weight, Grayson nearly topples over. “I’m too weak…” He trails off.
“I’ll see you soon,” I tell Grayson.
“In hell, baby.” He winks.
I brace my bare feet against the metal and slam my hands into Grayson’s shoulder.
Grayson and Nelson go over the edge together. The momentum knocks me off balance, and I slip on the blood coating the container. “Grayson—”
It happens so quickly, in a blink.
I scramble toward the edge of the container and look over the side, my hands gripped to the metal l
ike it’s the only solid force holding me together.
I flash back to how fast the predator in the maze dissolved—how, within minutes, I could no longer distinguish his body parts. Flesh and bone liquefied.
Below me, the mixture of sulfuric acid churns violently. The fumes irritates my eyes. A thick film already bubbles over the top, blocking my view of the carnage happening within.
Then I’m pulled back. Foster’s thick arm locks around my waist as he wrangles me away from the edge. He’s telling me not to look. Don’t look.
I fold myself against him, my bones weak. Every ache and pain alive and fueling my oncoming breakdown.
“Don’t look, London,” Foster says again. He grunts from the pain of his gunshot wound. “It’s over now. They’re both gone. You’re safe.”
I squeeze my eyes closed. I’m not sure if he’s trying to reassure me or himself. He puts the call in, and within minutes the police arrive, followed by the FBI. I’m soon draped in a coarse blanket, just like the morning I awoke and Grayson was gone.
Death and freedom are sometimes described as one and the same. Death is a form of freedom—freedom from the prison of life.
I aimed to set Grayson free. In the end, I succeeded.
25
Wherefore Art Thou
London
A villain. A hero. And a sacrifice.
That was the missing element—sacrifice—the reason why the story was never complete before. The finality of events tie it all together. The end.
As far as the reports go, the hero of the story echoed my account of the night, declaring the death of both villains. Foster is a credible witness.
And authorities needed a credible witness.
Forensics couldn’t reconstruct the remains for identification. By the time they arrived to extract Nelson and Grayson from the container unit, the acid had dissolved the bodies. There was no DNA to analyze. What bone fragments they recovered were too degraded and disintegrated upon examination. No teeth to match to dental records.
