Playing With Death

by Simon Scarrow

  But not the kind of meat that anyone should ever store in a freezer, unless they are criminally insane.

  There are hands, clenched like claws, visible through frosted plastic. A foot, and then half a torso with a shrivelled-looking breast. And there, in the corner, a brunette’s head, eyes staring dully, her mouth hanging open in a silent cry, pressed against the plastic.

  ‘Owen . . .’ Rose tries to speak but her chest is tight. Her legs feel weak and it’s hard to breathe as nausea stirs, even though these are not the first human remains she has ever seen, not by a long shot. But not like this. She tries to speak calmly. ‘There’s body parts here . . . the freezer’s filled with them.’

  ‘Rose!’ Owen’s voice fills her earpiece. ‘Get out of there! Now!’

  Time seems to slow and enfold her like crude oil. She is acutely aware of every sound, everything in her field of vision and every faint smell as she returns to the living area. It’s him. The monster the news media has dubbed ‘the Backwoods Butcher’.

  Rose feels his presence all around, sucking the air from her lungs. She slips her hand behind her, under her sweater, to where the automatic is concealed against the small of her back.

  ‘Get out!’ Owen’s voice blares in her ear. ‘We’re coming!’

  The music is still playing softly.

  I’m with you. In your heart

  In your body, like fire . . .

  ‘Here we are, baby . . .’ Koenig calls out as he returns. ‘I found us a Rioja . . . Where are you?’

  Rose tears her weapon from the Velcro grip and swings it out and round as she lowers into a half crouch and holds the Glock in front of her.

  Koenig is standing on the threshold of the back door with a wine bottle in one hand. His smile fades as the muzzle of Rose’s automatic aims at his chest. There’s no sign of surprise in his expression. No sign of any emotion at all, just the dead eyes and the thin line of his lips as he stares at her. Time seems to slow.

  Rose looks over the steady barrel of the automatic as she addresses Koenig. ‘You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions . . .’

  ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law . . .’

  ‘You lying bitch – just like all the others.’

  ‘You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police, and—’

  ‘Whore!’ Koenig screams and hurls the bottle at Rose.

  She instinctively raises her hands as the bottle explodes against the kitchen wall by her head. Glass and wine spray over her and she feels a sharp pain as the back of her wrist is hit. A door crashes open and footsteps pound down the steps outside.

  Gonna make you mine, baby

  Gonna eat you up . . .

  There are shouts from outside, and the whine of vehicles approaching at speed cuts across the music. Rose is already moving towards the back door, pointing her gun, steadying her right hand with a double grip, as Owen crashes into the cabin. He’s wearing black gear with FBI stencilled in large white letters across his front and back. Tall and slender, mid-thirties, with neat black hair and goatee beard, his face is taut with concern. Two more men burst through the door and take up position on either side, heads hunched over their assault rifles as they scan from side to side. Owen sees the blood dripping from her hand.

  ‘Shit . . . Rose, you OK?’

  Rose kicks off her heels and points to the back door. ‘Koenig’s out back!’

  Her heart is pounding and she feels an electric thrill at the thought of capturing their prey. The cabin is surrounded by Bureau agents and police. Koenig is like a trapped animal. That makes him dangerous and desperate.

  ‘Rose, easy . . . We’ve got a tight perimeter set up. He’s going nowhere.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Let’s go.’

  Rose leads the way. By the back door there is a rack of hunting rifles. One is missing. Owen speaks into his radio mike.

  ‘Be advised, Koenig is armed and to the rear of the cabin.’

  Rose, Owen and the two agents step through the door and onto a wooden stoop. The wood is cold and dank beneath the soles of her feet. There’s a short flight of steps leading down into the darkness. The hackles on the back of her neck rise. Rose realizes that Koenig knows these woods intimately.

  A thought enters her mind. Maybe they are his prey now. Flashlights are winking on amid the trees as orders are shouted and passed along the line of the other agents and the police tactical team that have surrounded the suspect’s cabin.

  The sharp crash of a handgun comes from the trees close by. Rose and the others lower into a crouch, guns sweeping towards the sound.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Owen shouts into his mike.

  Beams of local PD headlights cut through the darkness as the cars roar up the hillside, the light slicing through the gaps between tree trunks. Rose sees movement to her right as a headlight beam catches Koenig’s red checked shirt.

  ‘Over there!’ She shouts.

  Rose and Owen clamber up the slope, running east into the forest. The ground beneath her bare feet is cold and clammy with fallen leaves, but she feels nothing as the adrenalin surges. They see police officers and agents in dark FBI jackets and caps, quickly converging, charging through the trees as they close in on Koenig. Rose guesses that Koenig is heading towards the creek, not far from the interstate. If he can reach it and stop a car, then it will all have been for nothing.

  Crunch.

  ‘Everybody, quiet!’ she hisses. Owen and his two companions halt. Further off, the other agents and police are still sweeping the trees.

  Rose moves to the front, pacing forward along the narrow trail. Her senses are strained to the limit. Everything she sees, hears, smells and touches has an unbearable intensity. Raindrops from the branches above spatter her hair and shoulders, and she shakes her head to keep the hair and moisture out of her eyes. Suddenly she catches a glimpse of Koenig’s face peering out from behind a tree trunk, grinning. Rose tightens her grip on her gun, raising it in front of her.

  She takes aim and pulls the trigger.

  The woodland in front of her is lit with the yellow glare of the muzzle flash, her bullet snapping into the side of the trunk. Koenig shields his face from the splintering wood, losing his balance as the barrel of his rifle swings up. Owen steps in front of Rose as the sharp crack of a rifle fills the air. Koenig shoots downwards, shattering a fallen branch, which bursts into a spray of splinters. The bullet, meant for Rose, smashes through Owen’s right kneecap, and the agent cries out and topples onto his side.

  Rose hears the shriek of startled woodland birds as Owen writhes on the forest floor, his teeth gritted in agony, emitting a keening whine. The two agents are crouched down, assault rifles held up and ready to fire as they scan the trees around them. Rose fixes her eyes on the tree Koenig has ducked back behind. She feels the twigs and slimy leaves under her feet and the cold air on her exposed skin as she edges forward, but there’s nothing behind the tree. Just the dull gleam of a spent cartridge case lying amid the twigs and leaves on the ground. Koenig has vanished. She looks through the trees but there’s no sign of movement. Behind her, Owen’s head falls back as his mouth opens and he lets out an animal cry of agony.

  As the first of the agents and SWAT team rush past her, following the direction she gives them, Rose knows it is too late. This is Koenig’s forest. He will escape. Go on the run, disappear like a ghost. Biding his time before emerging from his new lair to kill again. And again . . .

  1.

  Seven months later

  September

  Rose is in the kitchen, peeling the cellophane from the tray of snacks. The scars on her hand have virtually disappeared. It’s been a cold day and she is wearing a thin wool sweater over her black pants. She take
s a sip from her wine glass as she considers the arrangement on the tray and then moves a few of the sushi wraps so that the layout is neatly symmetrical. Outside, in the dining room, she can hear the voices of her husband, sister and father. Jeff’s voice is deep, but loud, as he holds forth with an amusing tale of the latest scandal breaking on the Hill. The others listen in silence and then there is laughter.

  Rose smiles. She loves him and she loves the fact that Jeff is popular. It allows her to bask in the satisfaction that he chose her for his wife when she felt he could have done better for himself. She still feels it, which is why she is determined to give him no reason to regret what she sees as his mistake. And why wouldn’t other women want Jeff for themselves? He is tall and athletic with a full head of light brown hair, almost blond, with a ready smile and devastating charm. He is intelligent and has a job with prestige, even if the salary is not in the big league. Jeff is taking a sabbatical from San Francisco State University to serve as social media adviser to Democratic senator Chris Keller, who is fighting to keep his seat in the Senate in Washington. If Jeff is on the winning side then he may go all the way with Keller. She is pleased at the thought that the best is yet to come for her husband. All going well, he might one day work at the White House.

  The future of her own career is a source of less optimism.

  Thirty-nine years old – three years younger than Jeff – she knows that the time she took off work to have their son, Robbie, and raise him through infancy until school age meant that she lost vital years of experience and seniority that pushed her promotion prospects back. Then there was the Koenig case . . . But there’s really no contest when she weighs up her love of her job against her love for her son. Her family comes first.

  ‘Rose, you about done out there?’ Jeff calls. ‘You’ve got three in here ready to sign up to Anorexics Anonymous.’

  There is more laughter and Rose joins in, picking up the tray and crossing the kitchen before pushing the door open with her shoulder. The room beyond is large, and the walls are panelled, like many of the early-twentieth-century properties in the neighbourhood. Their house on Oak Avenue is in a pleasant, leafy suburb with views over San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge on the skyline.

  Places have been set either side of the table. Opposite Rose’s seat is Jeff, grinning at her as he winks through his neat frameless glasses. Sitting next to him is Rose’s sister Scarlet, and next to her is their father, Harry Carson.

  Scarlet, thirty-three, is short, with dark dyed copper hair and a voluptuous figure. The younger, more reckless, sister has recently divorced and is enjoying her new-found single status, especially as her oleaginous weasel of an attorney gouged her former husband for every available cent. She still works as a real-estate agent though. She is good with people and is skilled at closing deals. She tops her wine glass for the third time that evening, grabs her smartphone and takes a picture of herself posing with the wine glass.

  ‘Gotta get that on the ’gram,’ she says, before cropping the picture and applying a filter so her skin looks smoother. She slides the smartphone onto the table. Rose is concerned about her obsession with social media and has, on more than one occasion, asked her to limit her screen time in the presence of family.

  Their father, seventy-two, a retired master sergeant from the marine corps, has salt and pepper hair. He sits quietly and Rose wonders if he is thinking about her mother, who disappeared without trace many years ago. It’s an open wound in the family, but one too painful to discuss. Harry is listening politely to Jeff, whose politics he does not share but has learned to tolerate for his daughter’s sake. There’s something about Harry’s expression that concerns Rose. A listlessness. He’s starting to forget things and is confused from time to time, and she hopes that he is not starting the slide into senility.

  ‘At last!’ Jeff pretends to gasp. ‘You had me worried there, girl. Thought you were gorging on the dainties and leaving the rest of us to starve.’

  Scarlet shakes her head. ‘Hope the main course isn’t delayed the same way. Man, I’m hungry.’

  ‘You always are,’ says Harry, slipping her a fatherly wink.

  Rose sets the tray down in the middle of the table and takes her seat. Her guests don’t wait to be asked and begin to eat. Scarlet reaches for a second snack as she glances at Rose.

  ‘So, Ro’, how’s business? Catch any more bad guys lately?’

  Rose shrugs. ‘You know how it is. Ninety per cent paperwork, ten per cent TV reality show where we get to chase guys down dark alleys with guns and flashlights.’

  ‘Really?’ Scarlet arches a plucked eyebrow. ‘How about Mulder and Scully? They solved The X-Files case yet?’

  ‘Old joke, Scar. Don’t go there.’

  ‘So tell me, seriously. What’s new at the Bureau?’

  She’s referring to the failed case that nearly cost Rose her life, that burned her out, that some of her colleagues had even quit the Bureau over. Shane Koenig. The serial killer who had been preying on women and a handful of men across the West Coast, videoing their deaths. One of the vlogging news sites, ‘The Gab’, had named him the Backwoods Butcher, which got picked up by the TV networks, leading to a surge in audience figures.

  Rose is reluctant to say anything. Koenig slipped through their fingers and there has been no sign of him since. The grisly human remains recovered from the cabin and the video files on his laptop prove beyond doubt that Koenig is the Backwoods Butcher. And now he’s out there, Rose reflects bitterly, waiting for the right time to resume his serial killer career.

  The online and press fallout had been vitriolic – the FBI Twitter feed is still a target for internet trolls lamenting the Bureau’s failure, and hers. But luckily her superior, Special Agent Flora Baptiste, stepped in. After a fairly ineffective psychological debrief, Baptiste had eased Rose’s workload for the last few months. From time to time Rose still mentors undercover agents in training, and with additional therapy on the quiet, she has just about made it work. She glances at Jeff, imploring him not to say anything about it. He smiles before reaching for the wine bottle and topping up the glasses. Scarlet leans forward.

  ‘Oh, come on, Rose. What’s the latest?’

  For the last six months Koenig seemed to have been wiped from the face of the earth. All manner of surveillance had been running, including facial recognition, licence plates, GPS tracking, IP searches, but the task force had drawn a blank, despite intense pressure from the media and relatives of the victims. They’d even asked one of the technology giants to hack a cellphone recovered from the cabin, but the corporation denied their request and increased their encryption instead. The FBI’s Cyber team had tried to crack it, but they were unsuccessful.

  There had been a chance to take him down. But Rose had blown it. She had taken her shot at Koenig and missed. She briefly closes her eyes, trying to shut out the rest of the thorny memory.

  Sometimes, the monster wins.

  Harry shifts in his seat. ‘Scarlet, please, maybe your sister doesn’t want to talk about all this.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Dad. Rose is a pro. She can handle it.’

  Rose rolls her eyes at Scarlet. ‘If you must know, we found out what he was doing with the body parts. They were trophies. He’d store them in secret locations, burying them and then auctioning them online to the highest bidder. When the money was paid he’d release the geotag coordinates.’

  Scarlet’s eyes opened wide. ‘That’s gross . . .’

  ‘We didn’t release the details, but the media still got to hear about it somehow and . . . Well, I’m sure you’ve seen the stories. How Koenig used to keep the mutilated genitalia and other body parts. In jars, with printouts of their profile pictures on the outside. We found and confiscated what was left, but most of the buyers were clever and masked their IPs. As for the rest of the remains of his victims, he ate them. That enou
gh detail for you?’

  Scarlet lowers her half-eaten finger of seaweed and rice. ‘Oh God . . .’

  ‘Nice, Rose. Thanks for the overshare,’ says Jeff.

  ‘She asked.’

  Rose feels a ripple of anxiety, which she quells by picking up the wine bottle. A figure emerges from the den at the other end of the living room. The light sensor detects his presence and a lamp fades into life, bathing the boy in its warm glow.

  Harry raises his glass. ‘Robbie! How’s my boy?’

  The youth walks across the room and stands at the end of the table. He is fourteen, and tall for his age. He has Jeff’s good looks except for his acne and the glasses. But there’s something missing in his expression. He returns the smiles of the adults around the table and then nods to Harry. ‘I’m fine, Grandpa . . . How are you?’

  ‘Just swell. How’s school?’

  Robbie looks to his mother. Rose feels a sudden surge of concern for her son and quickly steps in. ‘He’s doing well. Top of the class in math and science. We’re very proud of him.’

  Rose turns to her husband. He surreptitiously sends a text, sliding his smartphone away, something he has been doing more and more frequently of late.

  ‘Surely that can wait?’ She asks with a tight smile. ‘You’re at home now. Your time belongs to the family.’

  ‘If only it was that simple. But you know how it is. We don’t work nine to five. The campaign runs 24/7, and we have to run with it.’

  ‘Huh . . .’ Rose glances at her watch. ‘Anyway, who are you texting at this hour?’

  ‘Oh . . . my assistant. Pandora’s printing some notes for tomorrow.’

  ‘She’s the one I met at the last fundraiser? Dark hair. Young.’

  Jeff nods. ‘That’s her.’

  His eyes meet hers with a hint of challenge and she decides not to pursue the matter right now.