Paxton gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then moved to the far side of the room. He picked up an old wooden chair and used the legs to shatter a small stained glass window. Everyone but she rushed over to look outside. Cecilia could tell by their body language that their descent was not going to be easy. The roof had looked super-steep on their way up the hill. She could only imagine what it looked like from way up here.
Movement from deeper inside the attic caught her attention.
Was that the flap of a cape?
Cecilia screamed as she moved away from the hideous hawk mask, a bloody knife raised against her.
“Drop it!” Ruth yelled from across the room.
“Cecilia?” the masked figure asked.
She stumbled over a rug and caught herself on a dresser.
“Police!” Paxton announced. “Drop the weapon, or we will shoot!”
The knife-wielding maniac seemed happy, though. “Uncle Pax!”
“Last warning!” Ruth barked.
“No,” the figure said, as he lifted the mask to reveal his face. “It’s me!”
Cecilia gripped the dresser even tighter. “Jeremy?”
“Yes. We’ve got to go! Someone killed John!”
Michael was at her side, holding her up. “Yes, someone did.”
He tried to coax her back, away from Jeremy, but she didn’t want to go. She wanted to understand. Her brother was dressed in the exact same costume that the killer used to lure Helen and Quentin away. How could her brother be wearing the exact same costume?
Paxton stepped forward. “Jeremy, I need you to drop the knife. Nice and slow.”
“No! I need it.” Jeremy pointed to John’s body. “Did you see what he did to him? Let’s get out of here!” her brother implored.
Out of the corner of her eye, Cecilia spotted Ruth urging her son behind a dresser. He resisted, and then disappeared behind the large armoire. Cecilia glanced around for Dahmer and Pancreas, but they had melted into the shadows as well. She guessed Pancreas wasn’t too keen on staying with the guns, now that the killer had shown up.
But it couldn’t be Jeremy. It just couldn’t. The longer, though, that she saw him in that blood-splattered cloak—the cloak drenched in Helen’s blood—the harder the time she was having denying the fact it could very well have been Jeremy. Evan had said they were separated early in the evening.
“Go!” Paxton harshly whispered to Cecilia. When she didn’t budge, Paxton urged Michael, “Get her out of here.”
“Yes! Let’s all go!” Jeremy insisted, and took a step forward.
Paxton’s gun snapped up again. “Jer, we can’t go anywhere until you drop that knife.”
Michael tugged her toward the attic stairs, but Cecilia couldn’t leave her brother, killer or not.
“Are you crazy, Uncle Pax? We need every freakin’ weapon we can get our hands on!”
“Is that the costume the killer wore?” Ruth asked.
Cecilia gulped. She didn’t want to answer. She didn’t want to seal his fate.
Michael, though, nodded. “Yes, that’s the outfit.”
Cecilia screamed, “No!” as her uncle leveled his gun at her brother.
* * *
Paxton’s finger tightened around the trigger. “This is your last chance, Jeremy.”
Dear God! Would he really have to shoot his only nephew?
But Jeremy rolled his eyes, like teenagers do, and then dropped the knife.
“There! Are you happy now?”
No. No, Paxton wasn’t. “Kick it over here.”
“Uncle Pax!” Jeremy protested.
“Do it!”
Paxton’s eyes flickered over to his partner. She had a steady bead on Jeremy as well, but he could see her hand shake just the tiniest bit. After the near miss the day before, he knew she was praying that neither of them had to fire—especially on family. But he couldn’t think about family. Not until the weapon was secured.
Finally, Jeremy clicked his tongue in that I-am-so-annoyed teen way and kicked the knife, but it glanced off a truck and skittered under an armoire.
“Great job! Now I’m defenseless.”
Paxton rushed forward, gun still out and ready to use. He couldn’t treat Jeremy as his nephew, only as a suspect caught red-handed. “On the floor. Facedown.”
“Uncle Pax!” Jeremy complained. “I only put on the costume because I had eaten all of Dahmer’s caviar, and security was after me.”
Paxton ignored his nephew’s rambling and grabbed him by the arm, forcing Jeremy to the ground. “You have the right to remain silent.” He pulled out the handcuffs as his nephew squirmed beneath him. To say that this was the worst night of Paxton’s life was an understatement. “Anything you say—”
Mechanized laughter filled the attic.
“What’s that?” he asked Jeremy.
“How should I know?” his nephew answered with a lisp, as his face was shoved against the floor.
“You’re not very smart, are you?” the tinny voice asked.
Paxton’s head whipped around, trying to track the source of the voice.
“I gave you every clue. Every chance.”
He grabbed Jeremy’s cloak and ripped it from the teen. Rapidly, he checked the teen for a wire or mic.
“I told you! It’s not me!” Jeremy insisted, as Paxton hauled him to his feet.
Ruth tapped her shoe against a box, and then tilted the wood up. A speaker sat inside. Paxton gripped his nephew tightly. That voice was not coming from Jeremy. But if not Jeremy, then whom?
“I really thought more highly of you,” the voice taunted.
“Yes, well, that was your first mistake,” Paxton grumbled.
He hated these freaks and their mind games.
* * *
Cecilia reached back for Michael. The voice, with its inhuman pitch and mechanized cadence, chilled her to the marrow. And the terror in Jeremy’s eyes could not be faked. That voice was the voice of the killer. Not Jeremy.
Relief should have flooded through her that her brother was not a psychopathic murderer, but it didn’t. They still had a psychopathic murderer in the room with them.
Finally, her fingers found Michael’s. Only they squeezed so tight that they hurt her. She looked over her shoulder to find Michael crumpled on the ground. She went to cry out, but found the cool edge of a steel blade suddenly at her neck. Cecilia’s eyes slid over. It was no great surprise that the hooked beak of the hawk mask covered the face of the person holding her hostage.
“Drop the weapon!” Paxton demanded as he swung around, aiming his gun.
Laughter again filled the attic.
“I am not as easily swayed as Jeremy.”
Cecilia felt the sting as the knife bit into her skin. Warm blood dribbled down her neck. At least it was only a dribble. She tried to keep her breathing slow and shallow, but panic threatened to undo her efforts.
Stay calm, she tried to tell herself. Stay calm. Uncle Paxton will get you out of this.
He will.
She fought screaming. She fought begging for her life. Cecilia was certain that Helen had tried all of that. Look where that had gotten her friend.
“So,” the figure said, slowly and calmly, “I suggest you both lower your weapons.”
She blocked out the killer and his words as she looked down again to find Michael crouched down, waiting like a snake to strike. She willed him to stop, but he leapt up, knocking into Cecilia and the killer. The knife sliced through the air as she tumbled to the ground. Bodies fell on top of her. She couldn’t tell which as she scrambled out of the way.
Michael and the killer wrestled for the knife, their fight carrying them to the top of a stack of boxes. The killer raised the metal blade, pinning Michael against the crate.
“No!” Cecilia screamed, as she ignored her own survival instincts and jumped onto the killer’s back. She was thrown off, but not before she grabbed the mask and ripped it off.
Tumbling to the floor
, she couldn’t stop the killer from jerking Michael up onto his feet as his new hostage. Cecilia tried to make out the killer’s face, but was too worried for the knife at Michael’s gut.
* * *
Ruth stepped to the left, trying to get a bead on the killer.
“It’s over,” Paxton stated.
She let her partner continue to try negotiating with the killer, but she knew it would be fruitless. Murderers with this little empathy would never surrender. They would escape, or die by a cop’s gun. There was no in-between. She took another step to the left, but the killer maneuvered to keep Michael between them.
“Drop the weapon!” Paxton demanded.
“Yeah, right,” the mechanized voice stated, although not nearly as tinny as before. The microphone must have been damaged in the struggle with Michael. “Both of you drop your guns, or I’ll run him through.”
Michael struggled. “You can’t. I’m not even a martyr.”
The killer though, tightened his grip. “Please. That was just a theme…” Ruth cocked her head. Did she recognize the voice? It sounded younger, now that the mechanization was toned down. “I may be a homicidal maniac, but I’m not anal.”
No, that voice couldn’t be…
Without warning, the killer drove the knife into Michael’s gut.
“No!” Cecilia screamed as Michael pitched forward.
Ruth shot before she even recognized the killer’s face.
“Evan?”
Dear God! The serial killer was her son.
* * *
As his sister rushed to Michael’s side, Jeremy yelled, “Evan!”
Evan gripped the wound to his shoulder and ran off.
What the hell? His best friend not only was a psycho, but Evan had set Jeremy up to take the fall. That was wicked over the top.
Jeremy rushed to Cecilia.
“How bad is it?” he asked Michael, as Paxton and Ruth took off after Evan.
Cecilia’s hands came up bloody.
Okay, that was bad.
Jeremy glanced around. The only thing worthwhile was the stupid cloak. Despite its checkered past, it would come to some good use now.
“Here. Use this.”
Cecilia frowned at the item, but used it to put pressure on Michael’s wound.
“Where’s Evan?” she asked, her voice thick with tears.
“I don’t know,” Jeremy said, wishing he knew more. That he could do more.
Cecilia glanced up at him, then away, and then back up. “I’m sorry, Jer. I’m sorry I thought …”
“Phht,” Jeremy said. “I had the cloak, the mask, and the knife. Yeah, I’m starting to see how that might have looked.”
“But still,” Cecilia countered.
“Look. This is your one get-out-of-jail free card. From here on out, I am expecting you to take my side. Or at least not throw me under the bus.”
Another shot rang out, followed by a scream.
Man, woman, or best friend, Jeremy couldn’t tell.
* * *
Paxton cursed under his breath. He’d shot too soon and barely winged Evan in the arm. The kid dove between two couches. Granted, Evan only had a knife, but after tonight’s showing, the teen clearly knew how to wield it.
So cautiously, Paxton approached the furniture. He did not want to be caught off guard in another “gotcha” moment. He was not going to go down to a kid, not even Ruth’s kid. And where was his partner? He hadn’t seen her since that first shot.
Paxton stood next to the couch. As quickly as possible, he looked between them, then jerked back upright. In that brief snatch of time, it looked clear. Evan could have shimmed his way either right or left.
If Paxton were the son-of-a-cop-wacko, which way would he go?
Left. Toward the window, with an eye for an escape route. Or would that be too easy, or would Evan try to double back around and go after the rest of the teens?
No, Evan didn’t look suicidal back there. As a matter of fact, he seemed quite the opposite. Cocky. Ready for round two.
The window it was.
A shadow passed between a table and a mirror. If it weren’t for the reflection, he would have missed it. Instead of intercepting directly, Paxton angled between another sofa and an overstuffed chair. He needed to cut the kid off. What he would do with him then was up in the air.
Evan was Ruth’s son, but he also had killed, no, not just killed, but tortured, how many people over the last few weeks? Evan staked Helen to the cross. He just stabbed Michael. Sixtus was half a man because of Evan. And Paxton had no idea how Ruth was going to react. Sure, she was a cop through and through, but she was also a mom. A terrified and mortified mom.
He was able to put up a barrier between him and his feelings for Jeremy. Could Ruth do the same? Could he even ask her to do the same?
Watching the dusty mirror closely, Paxton made his way quietly across the room. Only a floorboard’s squeak gave away his position. Abandoning stealth, Paxton rushed around the stack of boxes.
Evan raised his knife, murder in his eyes, but Paxton had him dead to rights. He braced himself for the recoil, but Ruth leapt between them.
“No!” she yelled, and then more gently, she begged, “Don’t.”
* * *
“Please don’t,” Ruth pleaded. She knew she should let Paxton shoot, but she just couldn’t.
Holding one hand toward Paxton, she turned toward Evan. “Turn yourself in, Evan.”
But her son—her child—snorted at her. “And sit in a cage for the rest of my life? Never.”
“Evan, please—”
But he ran at Paxton. She couldn’t let her son do any more harm, so she threw herself between them. Pain exploded as the knife sank into her chest. A gasp escaped as blood frothed in the back of her throat.
“Why?” she asked her son, as the blade slid out of her tissue with a sickening slurp, then clanged on the floor.
Evan scrambled and grabbed her gun, pointing it at Paxton.
“Why not?” Evan answered, but Ruth could hear the tremble in his voice as she slumped against the wall. “Don’t tell me that Dr. Phil didn’t warn you about kids like me?”
“Evan, you have so much to live for.”
This time her son’s voice was firm and cruel. “Oh, a gigantic swing, and a miss by Mom!”
As Paxton tried to get a bead on Evan, Ruth’s son grabbed her, digging the barrel of her gun into her side. His words were far more painful than any injury that weapon could inflict.
“I’ve got a father who would rather live a life of silent abstinence, stroking his books in a monastery, and a mother who is too busy saving the world to even bother to call to let her son know that she won’t be home for dinner.”
“I am so sorry,” Ruth sobbed. Not for herself, but for how she failed Evan.
Her son brought his lips to her ear, seeming to take delight in her tears. “So one day, I figured that I’d kill two birds with one stone.” Evan chuckled cruelly. “Literally. I started killing people. That got your attention, Mom. And I decided to do it in the style of the martyrs, so I’m pretty sure Dad will lift his head out of his f—ing books.”
“Waa, waa, waa,” Paxton said. “Boo f—ing hoo.”
Ruth looked at her partner. Had he gone mad? Her son was in agony. Couldn’t he see?
“That is about all the woe-is-me crap I can take for the day.” Paxton brought his weapon up. “Drop the gun, or I will drop you.”
Ruth felt her son tense. He might be a cold-blooded murderer, but it was quite another thing to stare down a gun barrel pointed at you.
“And I’ll shoot you,” Evan said as he aimed at Paxton. “That doesn’t get you very far, does it?”
“If I have to die to take you out and save the others, then I’ll do it,” Paxton said, passion thick in his voice. “If you know anything about me, you know that, Evan.”
Ruth could feel her lungs fill with blood as her son’s arm shook holding the gun.
“Re
ally. That’s not exactly how Mom described you. I believe her words were lazy and insolent.”
But Paxton didn’t back down. “Try me.”
She could feel Evan’s arms tense as he went to squeeze the trigger. Ruth backed into him, forcing his arm up as both guns went off. Ears ringing, she watched Evan’s shot go wide, but when she turned back to her son, blood soaked through his shirt. Paxton’s shot was dead-on.
They clutched each other as their blood mingled.
“Baby, I’ve got you.”
But there was no love in Evan’s eyes as he looked at her. “And I’ve got you.”
With that, he heaved them both out of a stained glass window. The glass ripped her flesh as they fell through the stormy night. Ruth tore her nails as she tried to grab hold of the shingles, but they were too slick. Finally, they landed hard against an outcropping.
All the breath left her chest. She sucked in, desperate for air, but could find none. Just rain rolling down her face like tears. Evan slipped beside her, heading for the edge. She snatched his hand, but it was flaccid in her grasp.
“Hang on.”
“Why should I?” Evan asked as his fingers slipped through hers.
Ruth watched, helpless, as her son plummeted to his death.
* * *
Paxton forced himself to watch as Evan hit the soggy ground. Legs sprawled out and arms askew, the kid didn’t move. Thank God. He knew that was Ruth’s son dead on the ground, and that it was a young life shattered, but all he could think was… good riddance.
The fire growing inside the mansion lighted the night sky. Flames shot out of windows as the air crackled. As urgently as he could under the circumstances, Paxton made his way down the treacherous roof. Carefully, he stepped next to Ruth on the small outcropping, where two wings of the mansion met.
“Ruth …” he said as he checked her vital signs. They were barely measurable. He pulled her up against him. “Why’d you jump in front of me?”
Her gaze already seemed far, far away as she answered softly. “All that I could think was …” Ruth coughed up bright, red blood. “Where were his parents? Where was I?”
“Sweet Jesus, Ruth! It wasn’t your fault,” Paxton said, as he wiped wet strands of her hair from her face. “It wasn’t.”
Down & Dirty: A McCray Crime Collection Page 18
