by Owen, Kelli
Dillon scooted back and looked through the corner where two umbrellas met, trying to hide from the man. His eyes were wide. He wondered what the hell he should do. His phone was in his pocket, but if he tried to use it right now, the man would hear. He’d get caught. Or worse.
Dillon waited and watched.
The man rinsed his face, swearing under his breath, and Dillon realized she must have used mace on him. Good for her. He expected the man to run away, to go back to the shadows or strut off proud of himself.
He was not expecting the man to lean down and start licking the blood off the woman’s face.
Dillon froze. His thoughts swirled and mixed, fear and anger, lust and hunger.
Wait. Dillon shook his head. They weren’t his thoughts, but rather those of the man below him. The man who was mad she had fought back, and angry she died. The man who wanted to drink all her blood, but didn’t have a jar with him.
A jar?
Dillon sat back a little, wishing he were out of range of the man’s thoughts.
The man was already planning to go out the next night. He would take his ice pick. He would—
Oh my God, this is the guy. The guy from TV.
Dillon realized he was watching the man who had murdered several people in town, including the kids from his school and this poor woman lying on the cement below him. Dillon tried to carefully climb down the backside of the statue. He needed to slip into the trees and vanish before this guy saw him.
And then the woman moaned and both the man below and Dillon jumped in reaction to it, Dillon’s foot slid against the statue and made a strange scraping noise. The man stopped and looked around.
Did he hear my shoe? Shit.
Dillon stood still on the backside of the statue, balancing on the edge of the statue above the water, effectively blocked from the view of the man. He held his breath and waited.
The man didn’t appear on either side of the statue. He didn’t step around the fountain searching for the source of the sound.
For fear of making further noise, Dillon held his breath and slipped down, stepping into the water, rather than leaping from the statue to the short wall like he normally would. He counted to three to allow for a reaction from the man. When there was none, Dillon turned and quietly slid his feet through the shallow fountain away from the statue in its center. He stepped out and exhaled slowly. He crouched low and remained still for another few moments, letting the water pool at his feet to avoid his now-soaked shoes from sloshing when he moved. He stood and took several careful steps to test his sneakers. Satisfied he could sneak away, he walked as fast as he could down the path toward the manor, keeping the fountain and large statue, between him and the man.
He could hear the man’s thoughts continue behind him. Could hear him contemplating taking the woman home, but then the man heard something.
Yeah, me, ya dummy.
The man changed his mind and reluctantly left her there, sprawled at the base of the fountain. He sprinted down the path toward the small offices on Second Street. As the man’s fading thoughts moved out of range, Dillon heard him suddenly worry about something the man could sense but not see. Something that scared him enough for Dillon to pause and worry for a moment.
Dillon couldn’t hear any other thoughts but the man’s.
Bah, it’s just me. Keep running, fucker.
Dillon looked over his shoulder at the other path, hoping the man was still going the other direction and hadn’t doubled-back. When he turned around to continue toward the manor, he almost ran straight into Maximilian, who was walking very briskly down the park pathway.
“Max.” Dillon looked up but said nothing more. The look on Max’s face told him he didn’t need to. He was scanning the woods and the path beyond Dillon. Dillon presumed the old lamian had likely been listening since he had entered the park half a block back.
“Call the police.” Max walked past Dillon without slowing down and headed straight for the center of the park.
Dillon watched him walk around the fountain, out of sight, and wondered how Max would react to the sight of the woman lying there. Dillon pulled his phone from his pocket, turned back to the path out of the park, and dialed 911.
— THIRTY-NINE —
Connor’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he excused himself from the conversation with Victoria to answer it. The screen said DESK.
“Where the fuck are you, Murphy? You still over at Lamplight?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Get your ass to the park. Some kid just called. Said a man killed a girl by the fountain, and—and I’m not making this shit up—he heard him thinking about all the other murders.”
“What?”
“Kid said the perp was heading toward Second Street. I’m sending squads.”
“I’m on it.” Connor hung up, shoved his phone in his pocket, and stood.
Heading straight for the front door and pulling his gun as he did, he turned back to Victoria. “Lock this door.” He was out and across the street before the deadbolt slammed into place.
The park was quiet, and mostly dark. The street lamps were decorative at best, and only hinted at safety in ten-foot circles of sickly yellow spaced far enough apart to offer more than enough shadows. Even that meager light was only along the paths and left the wooded areas under whatever dim light the moon offered. He glanced up at the moonless sky and quickly assessed his options. He chose to avoid the park altogether, instead running straight down the outer edge of the trees, along the sidewalk where regular streetlights provided better lighting.
The length of two blocks wasn’t far, but as a detective rather than street cop, he didn’t run often, and he felt the burn almost immediately. The idea his killer was right there kept the pain from actually affecting him.
Connor arrived at the other end of the park and stopped. Holding his department-issued Beretta out in front of him, he surveyed the street’s closed businesses, sidewalks, and smattering of half a dozen vehicles. One of the cars had an open door and he approached it quickly, quietly, his .40 out in front of him the entire time.
As he drew closer, the shadows separated from the darkness and he saw the crumpled form of a man lying next to the car. Connor squatted and looked around. There was no other motion in the immediate vicinity. He reached down to slip his hand around the man’s throat and feel for a pulse, but his fingers found the warmth of fresh blood and exposed tissue as they slid right into an open wound. He turned the man over by a shoulder and gasped.
Pulling his flashlight from his pocket with his clean hand, Connor shined it on the man and jumped back, revolted. Blood was smeared and beginning to dry all over the man’s mouth and down his chin, as if he’d been in a pie-eating contest and had buried his face in the blueberry filling. Below that, the man’s throat had been torn out. Not a puncture, or even several, which were then torn. Not a desperate clawing of the surface tissue. The flesh had been dug into for purchase and peeled away, left hanging like an open door, exposing his trachea, muscles and cords to the night air. The white of several vertebrae poking out from behind the gore. The man’s blood coated the front of his shirt and had pooled on the pavement where he’d laid. Connor gagged, knowing what he had felt when checking for a pulse hadn’t been the smears on the dead man’s face, but rather the viscera of his destroyed neck.
Connor wiped his bloodied hand on his pants and scanned the scene with his flashlight. The open car door was washed with great sprays of bloody wetness and clinging bits of meat, letting him know the man had been crouching—likely begging for his life—when his throat had been shredded. The interior of the vehicle was speckled in blood drops, peripheral and accidental from the direction of the attack and likely happened when the man spun to land facedown. The splatter glistened against the dark interior of the car as if sequins had been spil
led across the seat and steering wheel.
Connor swallowed back bile in response to the ferocious mess in front of him, and aimed the flashlight across the other cars and dark windows of the street, surveying the area for any movement. The local businesses were closed. There were no restaurants or convenience stores on this side of the park to provide nighttime services. There was usually no nightlife on Second Street other than those heading into or out of the park. Tonight was no different.
He stood and shined his light further into the open vehicle, careful not to touch the door or smear the blood. The interior of the car was mostly tidy, other than a McDonald’s bag on the passenger side floor fresh enough Connor could still smell the fries it had recently held. There was a soda in the console cup holder, a pair of sunglasses in the cubby below the stereo, and a dried-up air freshener sticking out of the plastic air vent slats. He leaned in carefully, ignoring the smell of the splattered gore in the small space, and used his flashlight to move the fast-food bag. He pulled back as his light hit the floor mat and its contents.
“Son of a bitch.” An ice pick lay on the floor, reflecting the beam of the flashlight back to him. A wooden handled, eight-inch, cheap looking ice pick. Connor looked from the weapon to the man’s bloodied face.
What the fuck?
If you’re the guy, then who—
He bent down and looked at the body again. The blood around the man’s mouth wasn’t from the neck wound. It was separate. And it made Connor question, lamian?
He pulled a pen from his pocket and lifted the man’s lip, looking for a bloodstained tongue or teeth to back up his hunch. He raised his eyebrows at the empty sockets where the canines should have been. The inside of the man’s mouth wasn’t coated with only the blood he may have been drinking, but with the blood still oozing from the damaged gums where his teeth had been ripped free.
Of course, if the teeth had been there, he knew he wouldn’t have known by sight alone if the man had been human or lamian. But his job had taught him they were both capable of horrible things, both could be dangerous in the wrong circumstances, and curiosity under the guise of police instincts had never lead him astray.
But you can’t tell evil from its dental imprint alone.
The tiny hairs on the back of Connor’s neck started to tickle, and he suddenly felt uncomfortable. He wasn’t alone out here and he knew it. He could sense it. The prickling crept down his spine and he started to slowly look around the front of the car at the businesses on his side of the street, keeping the speed of his movements to a minimum and making as little noise as possible.
“I suggest you shoot him now and reduce your paperwork.”
Connor stood up and spun around, his Beretta out in front of him. Crossing the street, Max casually stuffed a handkerchief into the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket.
“Jesus, Max. What the fuck? I could have shot you.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a cop shot me.” Max proffered a weak half-smile as he closed the gap between them.
Connor wasn’t sure if it was a joke or a source of contention, a sore spot he didn’t know the man carried. He watched, as the elderly lamian approached the body and looked down with no more emotion than a scientist examining a petri dish of bacteria.
“That’s your murderer.” He nodded at the man on the ground and looked back to Connor. “The boy staying with us saw him in the park, saw him kill the girl there. That man matches the exact description running around the boy’s thoughts. There was a familiarity he couldn’t quite place, but I’m sure once he calms down he’ll be more helpful.”
“I thought you didn’t do that?”
“Do what?” Max furrowed his brows at Connor.
“Go digging inside minds.”
Max’s tense expression relaxed. “We do when it’s necessary. Humans don’t like us to on the street, but boy do they love our help when it suits them.”
Connor cocked his head at Max, not understanding the current attitude of the normally proper, if not uptight and restrained, lamian. Max seemed off, and Connor figured it was likely a reaction to the dead body on the ground. I wonder if the smell of blood does something to them?
“What did you mean, shoot him? Why would I do that? He’s dead. Look at his throat. Something horribly violent and crazy happened here.”
Max nodded, “Yes, and I’ve seen this before, Connor.”
“Before? When?”
“A very long time ago. Almost a hundred years now.” Max’s gaze drifted for a moment. “Throat torn out. Were the teeth taken?”
Connor nodded. The sound of sirens in the distance let him know the cavalry was on its way.
“The same as back then.” Max chewed on his lip, as he considered his words.
“Did they catch the guy? You think he was lamian, served time and is out now? I’m switching one murderer for another?”
Max shook his head, his calm almost contagious. “No, they never caught him. Never stood a chance. And it’s not like that. It’s…” Max focused on Connor’s face and spoke without blinking. “I can assure you, it’s done. It’s not a new case to worry about. It’s over. All of it.”
“Done? Just like that?”
“Yes, Connor. This human was playing a game, longing to become one of us. And one of us stepped in and stopped him.”
Connor heard contempt in Max’s voice and for the briefest moment pondered if it were for humankind, or especially for this particular specimen. Max looked at the body with enough visible disgust Connor thought he might spit on the corpse.
“Your murderer? This guy? He wasn’t taken out by another killer, but by a cleaner. One who won’t likely strike again. Not here. Not in your lifetime.”
Max looked up from the body on the ground and implored Connor with his eyes as much as his words. “You go ahead now and shoot him in the neck near the wound there. Put some gunpowder on your hand and his flesh. And then you take credit for stopping him. Otherwise your chief, your mayor, your citizens, they’re all going to have you chasing a ghost you’ll never see again. Let alone catch. Better to be done with it.” He paused and softened his voice. “Close the cases, Connor. Move on.”
Connor looked at Max and contemplated his words. He’d known the lamian since he’d first joined the force almost twenty years ago. He had no reason not to trust him, not to believe him. He looked around the empty street, squinting his eyes toward the darkness of the park. He didn’t feel anyone watching anymore, didn’t sense anyone nearby. There was no one out here now but him and Max. And Max seemed comfortable, and sure of his words.
He’s been around a long time. He’s seen a lot. If this is an old M.O., I can find it in the files and prove it to the chief.
“No files go back that far, Connor.” Max looked down the road toward the sound of sirens getting louder. “You don’t have a lot of time here. Trust me.”
Connor looked at Max’s eyes and saw certainty. A confidence he didn’t want to question, as he suddenly didn’t think he wanted to know the reasoning behind it. He knew this was his killer lying on the ground. The ice pick. The witness. And he knew he trusted Max.
“This isn’t going to bite me in the ass?”
“Why would it? You’re the hero. Stopped the killer.” Max nodded at the car. “His weapon is right there. His DNA is all over the crime scene back there.” He looked sideways, indicating the park.
“There’s a body by the fountain?” Connor asked, cementing his decision in the back of his mind. Victim number seven. It took seven people before this guy was stopped. And although the authorities didn’t stop him, he was stopped.
“Yes, a young woman. She almost survived.” Max shook his head, his face full of reverence. “Almost.”
“Can you head back that way for me? Keep the joggers at bay until the boys in blue get ther
e. I’ll come to the house for a statement from you and your ward.” Connor turned back to the body on the ground and sighed loudly. “After I take care of this.”
“Absolutely, Detective.” Max sounded reverent, almost subservient as he lowered his head. He turned away from Connor, his mouth thinning to a resolute smile.
Max didn’t flinch when the single gunshot went off behind him, but he turned back to Connor. The detective had squatted low to line up the shot. Feeling the gaze from across the street, Connor turned to face Max as he stood and exhaled through his mouth in an exaggeration of effort.
Done.
Connor was sure he was covering something. But he was also confident in Max’s assessment that it was over. The men nodded to each other, silently agreeing to keep the bullet’s mission a secret. Max turned and entered the dimly lit park.
The sound of sirens filled the street, as several squads turned the far corner and finally came into view. Connor walked to the rear of the killer’s car to wait for his unit to get to work on the scene.
He glanced back at the body on the ground and frowned at the destruction of the man’s throat. He thought about the damage he’d seen before his bullet had made it worse, made it unrecognizable. He had many questions about who had done it. Many questions he’d never be able to ask on the record.
Connor shook them free, unable to hear his own thoughts over the sirens as they approached. He made a motion with his hand in front of his throat for the officers to cut the noise, and his ears rang for a few moments afterward.
Across the street, Maximilian had shoved his hands into his pockets and was taking long strides, as he headed toward the fountain and the dead woman lying there. The sirens had stopped wailing behind him, and the woods and paths around him seemed deserted. In the silence of the park, the only sound was the freshly harvested human teeth, clicking against each other in his pocket.
