by Oliver Stark
They waited, sitting on uncomfortable boxes, listening out and wondering if their plan would work.
Harper hunkered down, his eyes peering out through the shelves, his phone on vibrate.
He called Denise.
‘How’s it looking out there?’
‘It’s all dead quiet. There’s a beautiful moon in the sky.’
‘I’ve got a view of a dim corridor, want to swap?’
‘No, I’ve never much liked waiting for serial killers.’
‘It never improves,’ said Harper.
‘How’s Eddie?’
‘He’s fallen asleep twice.’
‘Nice to know he’s relaxed.’
‘He would sleep on Death Row.’
Denise stopped. She turned her head. ‘I can hear something.’
‘What is it?’
Denise listened. There was a faint sound. A car somewhere in the distance. Perhaps it was rolling towards her, perhaps it was a street further along. Then in the distance, she spotted headlights.
‘We’ve got a car heading our way.’
‘Type?’
‘Difficult to tell. Going slowly. Engine’s hardly audible.’
‘Okay, slip out of sight, we don’t want him to spot you.’
‘I’m way off the lot, so we should be fine,’ said Denise. She looked out at the car. ‘The car’s stopped quite a way up the drive.’
‘Can you make the car out or the plate?’
‘Can’t see any detail.’
Harper checked his gun automatically and called across to Eddie: ‘We’ve got a visitor.’
Denise watched closely. The car was parked along the dark driveway. She saw the door open and someone get out. They went around to the back of the car, opened the trunk and took something out.
‘What’s going on?’ said Harper.
‘One guy. He’s taken something from the trunk. He’s not coming my way. He’s walking across the lawn to the side of the building.’
‘He’s probably going for the back entrance,’ said Harper. ‘Let us know if you see anything else.’
Denise agreed and hung up. She stared out. The car was still, the lights out, and the figure disappeared around the side of the building.
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Lock-Up, Bedford-Stuyvesant
March 15, 2.43 a.m.
Forty minutes of silence. Lucy counted it by the minute. She had heard the door shut and the dogs yap around him, but she waited forty minutes until she dared stand up.
Her legs felt tired as she stood. She looked out through the Plexiglass at a small garage. She stared open-mouthed at the sight that met her eyes. A large Nazi flag against the wall and a desk with a typewriter and Nazi memorabilia all around. A map of Manhattan had been stuck to the wall. The madman had drawn thick lines around the Jewish areas as if creating his own twenty-first-century ghetto.
Lucy tried to think back to the man she’d met. He’d seemed so normal, so kind at the start. But it hadn’t lasted. He started to get possessive almost within the first week. Just the smallest sign, here and there. Not aggressive at that point, but he was just too interested in what she did when she wasn’t with him.
It took two months for it to flourish into an all-out obsession. He said he loved her and wanted to understand her. He was obsessed by Jews from the start, as if they possessed something he never could. What was it? Belonging? That’s why he wanted to possess her, body, mind and soul. Possess her and control her.
She stared at the tubes leading from the roof of the homemade cell to a structure on the other side of the room. She didn’t want to think about it any more. He had lost his mind. He had turned crazy when she rejected him. But she didn’t know what else to do. He had wanted her to never go out. He had wanted her to submit herself entirely to him. He had wanted her to clean his boots to prove her subservience.
She said no. And then he stalked her. She had been scared but thought it would just pass. Lucy’s eyes moved around the room. It hadn’t passed. His obsession had deepened. She wondered if he had been indulging in these fascist fantasies the whole time they were together. She thought back, remembered things they’d done. Her body convulsed with horror and disgust, as she began to realize that she had always been some puppet with which he was playing games of lust and disgust. To which he was as repulsed as he was attracted.
Lucy understood the Nazi images. The powerful confident black and red insignia was a way of controlling and dominating human fear and resentment, and trying to make the revulsion and attraction — the full neurosis — into something meaningful and ordered.
Her eyes moved across to another door. It was the door to a closet. Lucy remembered what he had said about a girl called Abby. She had read about the missing girl. She’d been missing for days already. Lucy’s eyes widened. It seemed so much worse to her that another human being was caught and imprisoned. Her heart welled up and her hand moved instinctively over her mouth. Abby might be there, a few yards away. Abby might already be dead.
Lucy moved as close as she could to the door; she scraped her mouth and teeth against the wall until the duct tape pulled away, then she called out, ‘Abby.’ And she kept calling over and over again, terrified by the silence that came from the closed door.
Chapter One Hundred
Photography Labs, Manhattan
March 15, 3.55 a.m.
For nearly two hours, Harper and Kasper had been sitting tense and ready, but no one came. Harper called Denise to ask for an update. ‘We’ve got nothing down here,’ he whispered. ‘Anything happening?’
‘No one’s come in or gone out.’
‘Maybe he’s waiting for the security guard’s shift to change.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Denise.
Eddie suddenly signaled across the counter. Harper looked across. Eddie’s gun pointed into the corridor. Harper turned. A single flashlight streaked across the hallway.
‘He’s here,’ whispered Harper. He lifted his gun to shoulder height. The beam flickered across the corridor from the ceiling to the floor. Someone was walking towards the room.
The plan was simple. Catch the killer and don’t kill him. If they killed him, it would mean they might never find Lucy and Abby. And if they felt it wasn’t safe to arrest him, they had to wound him.
Inside the room, they couldn’t hear footsteps from the corridor, but the beam of light grew until it stopped at the glass door to the photography lab. The light turned towards them and hovered over the shelves. Harper held his breath. The light moved slowly around the room, then disappeared and the sound of the handle turning seemed to slow time.
The door opened with a low squeak and the light beam returned. Harper stared across at Eddie.
The figure moved towards the counter, paused and scanned his flashlight across the room.
Chapter One Hundred and One
Lock-Up, Bedford-Stuyvesant
March 15, 4.18 a.m.
Abby opened her eyes. She had been in the tiny cell for so long, fighting in her mind, but the starvation was sapping her will. She was feeling so weak that her head felt too heavy to lift, but something had pulled her back from her dreams. The food had stopped altogether, along with the water. Every few hours, she fell into some deep sleep; perhaps it was even unconsciousness. Her dreams raged and tormented her. The silver-blue lines of ocean waves were infested with snakes; her tongue seemed to swell so large in her mouth that she couldn’t breathe or swallow.
‘Abby!’ She heard it again. It was a soft voice. A woman’s voice, but not like a real voice, probably a voice from her dreams, hidden somewhere within her subconscious. But her eyes were open. She scratched her leg and the pain felt real. Her eyes lifted and there on the wall were the marks that she’d made with her restraints. If she was awake, then the voice wasn’t imagined.
‘Abby!’
Abby tried to speak, but her throat was dry. A low croak stretched her mouth and her lips cracked. She tasted blood on the tip of
her tongue and started to suck on it. She tried again to speak, but only a low whisper came out. She felt herself start to heave with frustration and cry in dry, waterless sobs.
She heard her voice called out again and turned to her right. Her knee rapped hard against the door. She twisted herself again and again, the sound reverberating. Outside, the voice stopped as she continued to knock against the door with her knee. Then she stopped knocking and waited. It had been days and days since she had communicated with anything or anyone. Only a monster.
‘I can hear you,’ said the voice. ‘Maybe you can’t speak. Maybe he has gagged you. I’m Lucy. I’m in another cell, only a few yards from your door. I hope you’re okay. You’re Abby, aren’t you? The high-school girl? Your mom and dad are still hoping. I saw them on the news. They’re holding up okay.’
Inside the cell, Abby listened, and though they were only words, she felt as if she was being given a long drink. She wanted to speak out, but at first her words came out light and airy like feathers, so at each pause she knocked and when the voice stopped, she knocked and knocked and knocked until the voice started to speak again.
Finally, Abby pushed herself upright. She breathed deeply and called out, ‘I’m here. I’m Abby.’
‘God bless you,’ said Lucy. ‘You okay?’
‘Yes, but need water.’
‘Is there any way we can get out of here?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Abby. ‘I really don’t think so.’
Chapter One Hundred and Two
Photography Labs, Manhattan
March 15, 4.23 a.m.
The figure at the bench stopped and started to turn. There was no time left. Harper was already two paces across the room, his body charging towards the bench. Kasper jumped to his feet from the side. The figure turned to Eddie Kasper and as he did, the full weight of Harper’s charge landed heavily on his side, throwing him to the ground.
Harper fell on top of him and they tumbled twice across the floor. The suspect shouted something, but Harper’s arm was already around his neck pulling hard and Eddie Kasper already had the suspect’s gun.
As Harper’s arm jammed hard into the suspect’s neck, the figure stopped fighting and lay still. Eddie Kasper flicked on the lights.
He looked down at the red face of the man on the ground. ‘Fuck you!’ the man shouted. Eddie looked away. Harper pushed the figure off him and stood up.
‘We fucking cleared this with security,’ said Harper. ‘No one comes this way tonight.’
‘You fucking animals,’ said the guard, standing and brushing himself down. ‘Animals.’
‘What the hell happened?’ demanded Harper. ‘We could’ve killed you.’
‘I got told to come here, do a sweep.’
‘This is bad news,’ said Harper. ‘Who told you?’
‘One of your guys.’
‘What do you mean, one of our guys?’
‘Cop. He had a badge. Said he was on the stake-out.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Like a cop — big, arrogant, impatient and ugly.’
‘Where?’
‘He came by the security door.’
Harper and Eddie looked at each other.
‘How long ago?’
‘I don’t know, ten minutes?’
Harper looked around. He spoke quietly: ‘The killer knows we’re here now, but he’s still going to want those prints.’
‘How the hell did he know we were on a stake-out?’
‘He’s not just a cop, is he? He’s a fucking smart cop.’
A second later, the lights flickered and then died. Harper pulled Eddie to one side. ‘He’s going to try to take them — get out of the line of fire.’
In the darkness, they heard a key in the door to the room. ‘He’s locking us in,’ shouted Harper. ‘Do you have a key?’
‘Sure,’ said the security guard, but there wasn’t any time. Something smashed the window of the door and a lighted bottle flew in the room. It shattered over the floor and the contents exploded into flame. Harper and Eddie jumped.
‘What the fuck do we do?’
‘Is there a sprinkler system?’ said Harper.
‘Sure, in the corridor, but not in the photography lab.’
Harper ran towards the door as the flames spread and caught the wood of the benches and the books and files.
The security guard moved to the door and tried his key. ‘Shit, he’s broken his key in the lock.’
Harper’s flashlight picked out the jagged edges of the door windows. It was too small to get through. Eddie moved across, holding his mouth as the thick black smoke started to rise and fill the room. He stumbled against the broken glass, his hand sliced across. ‘I’m cut, Harper.’
‘We got to get out of here,’ said Harper. ‘Get you some help.’
The smoke was filling the room. Harper took his Glock and pumped three bullets into the lock mechanism, then kicked the door open. He rolled into the corridor, his gun in one hand, his flashlight in the other. ‘All clear,’ he shouted.
The security guard led them as quickly as they could through the dark corridors. He pressed the alarm on the wall and the sprinkler system kicked in. Somewhere down the corridors, they could hear a door slamming. The killer was ahead, but not far.
‘Is there a quicker way out of here?’ asked Harper.
‘Not unless you just burst out through the windows.’
‘Which windows?’ said Harper.
The security guard moved across to a door and opened it. The room was illuminated by the faint moonlight from outside. ‘Gotcha,’ said Harper. ‘Get an ambulance, Eddie.’
‘I got to come with you,’ said Eddie.
‘You’ll slow me down,’ said Harper, then he ran at the window, shot once and watched the plate-glass shatter and fall. He leaped on to the bench and out of the window.
A figure was moving quickly across the ground, towards a car. Harper sighted him and shot twice. The shots missed and Harper sprinted towards the car. The figure jumped in and the car’s engine rumbled to life. Harper shot again and hit a side window. The car didn’t make a U-turn as expected, it turned to the right and Harper heard the sound of its undercarriage screech and scrape on the concrete edge of the lawn. The headlights rose across the ground and Harper was suddenly illuminated in a wide patch of grass with no hiding place.
The car started to gain speed, the bumps in the ground making it lift and lurch left to right. It was a hundred yards away and gaining fast. Harper had no time to run; he stood firm and put his gun hand out, steadying it with the other. Shooting someone dead through the windshield of a car that was traveling at speed was hard enough; with the tension and the darkness it was ten times more difficult.
He waited as the car approached. He had one chance and had to leave it as late as possible. Harper counted down. At two seconds he would shoot to the right side of the driver and jump to his left.
His finger pressed. Three seconds. He was blinded now by the headlights, by the roar of the engine. Two seconds. He shot twice and threw himself to the left. The car veered right and clipped Harper’s feet as he was moving through the air.
Harper turned, his gun pointing as the car drove on a few more seconds, then stopped. Harper exhaled. He’d hit him. The killer was down.
Harper scrambled to his feet and moved cautiously towards the car. He peered into the darkness, but through the shattered windshield he couldn’t see a thing. He moved round to the driver’s side. There was a body leaning against the door. He could just make out the trickle of blood from a wound on the side of the head. Harper pulled open the door. Then a gunshot rang out from inside the car. Harper was thrown backwards and the dead driver was pushed out on top of him.
A masked face glanced across. The killer moved across to the driver’s seat and drove the car away.
‘Two of them,’ said Harper. ‘There were two of them.’ He shoved the dead weight off him, stood up and turned over the bo
dy at his feet.
Martin Heming’s grimace and wide eyes stared back at him.
Chapter One Hundred and Three
Photography Labs, Manhattan
March 15, 4.53 a.m.
Harper ran across the open ground and reached Denise in the car. He was breathing deeply. ‘We got to follow that car.’
‘Yes — are you all right?’
‘I’m okay. What the hell happened?’ said Tom.
‘I don’t know,’ said Denise. ‘They must have dropped one guy off earlier. One guy came out, then the second guy came out a couple of minutes later — the one you shot at.’
‘Let’s follow,’ said Harper. ‘We’ve got to get this killer.’
‘Where’s Eddie?’
‘He got hurt.’
‘Bad?’
‘I hope not. He’s okay, I think.’
Denise drove off.
‘Did you get the plates?’ Harper asked.
‘Sure, here.’ Denise tossed him a notebook. They could see the tail lights up ahead. Harper called base and put out an APB on the license-plate.
‘It was Martin Heming,’ said Harper.
‘Heming?’
‘The guy on the grass. He’s dead. I don’t fully understand his involvement yet. We got a lot of working out to do. He wasn’t involved in the killings. There was only one guy at the Capske scene and the Glass scene. Heming might have been helping him. Or maybe the killer was blackmailing him, who knows?’
They drove in silence, Harper trying to keep focused on the tail lights ahead. ‘He’s heading into Brooklyn,’ he said.
‘Abby and Lucy are in danger,’ said Denise. ‘If he’s panicking, he could do anything. We can’t lose him.’
‘That’s right,’ said Harper. ‘So put your foot down.’
They drove over the bridge and into Brooklyn. The car they were following headed into the area called Bedford-Stuyvesant. Harper watched the car slow ahead. Then it turned.
‘I think we’ve found his lair,’ said Harper.
