The Devil's Apprentice

by William Massa

  The police had failed to retrieve the heads of the dead women, and the accepted theory was that the killer kept them as trophies of his grisly handiwork. The murder of the men was the cost of acquiring his real prize.

  This was the type of investigation that would have kept him up nights on end back in his FBI days. Sometimes he wondered how Avery had ever put up with him and his grim work at the Bureau.

  The Hexecutioner peered up from the paper, disturbed by the memories this case stirred in him. Suddenly, the sun didn’t seem so bright any longer, and the playful shrieks and laughter that had filled the park earlier had died down. His gaze found the two teens playing Frisbee, and his blood turned to ice. To his eyes, both of the kids were now headless, their necks a ragged mass of torn red flesh.

  Weylock balled the paper in his hand as he turned to the happy couple. They were still holding hands, but their heads were gone, too. Dead yet alive.

  Weylock took a sharp breath, and his demon mocked him for being so pathetically human.

  Despite my squeamish humanity, I found a way to control your ass, Weylock thought with righteous rage in his heart.

  His words shut the creature up. At least for the time being.

  Weylock closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the park was back to its lively, normal self, and both the couple and teens had their heads again. It had been just another vision, one more message from the void urging him onward.

  With his resolve expanding in his chest, Weylock rose.

  His next stop was the local police precinct. According to the paper, a forest ranger had discovered the bodies of Chloe Nash and Erik Cordero two days earlier. They were at the precinct morgue, where the coroner was still running tests and collecting evidence. The article speculated about how long it would take for the FBI to get involved with this latest double murder.

  The last part of the story made the Hexecutioner smile.

  The FBI had arrived on the scene, in a manner of speaking. Time for Special Agent Jaxon Weylock to make an appearance.

  Chapter Eight

  Sheriff Frank Danton, the officer in charge of the Headhunter case, gripped Weylock’s hand in a hearty shake. Even though his welcome was warm enough, it was clear that the sheriff hadn’t gotten more than a couple hours of sleep since the bodies were found. His desk was littered with coffee cups, and his jaw was shadowed with greying stubble.

  “Special Agent Weylock. You’re a bit of a legend when it comes to catching serial killers.”

  “Don’t believe everything you see on the news.”

  Danton didn’t seem all that surprised to be talking with an FBI agent, but he was clearly a little starstruck by meeting Weylock. This wasn’t the first time the Feds had gotten involved with the Headhunter case over the years and judging by the resigned expression on the sheriff’s face, he didn’t believe it would be the last time either. The crimes of the mysterious Headhunter had haunted the sheriff’s nightmares for quite some time now.

  Weylock’s FBI credentials opened doors and provided access to ongoing investigations. On those rare occasions when a detective might feel tempted to check with Weylock’s superiors back at the Bureau or had some reservation about sharing info with a Fed, the Hexecutioner would break out his version of a Jedi mind trick. He mostly used the demon’s powers for combat, but the creature’s abilities also could sway minds.

  Danton showed him maps of where the remains of the six couples were found and let Weylock peruse crime scene photos taken over the years.

  “We’re up against a phantom here,” he stated in a somber voice. “He strikes without warning, leaves two bodies, and then we don’t hear from him again for another year. No forensic evidence, no motive we can see. And we never find the female victims’ heads.”

  Weylock nodded at the sheriff, relating to his pain. Nothing weighed heavier on a dedicated cop than an ongoing, unsolved murder case. All men of the law bore this cross, and it was taking a visible toll on the sheriff. His skin looked ashen, and there were heavy bags under his eyes.

  “The locals get jittery around this time every year. A town like Leavenworth depends on the summer tourist season. Having a crazy killer running around, especially one who likes to cut women’s heads, off isn’t good for business.”

  Weylock nodded. “I can imagine.”

  “Still, people have short memories,” Danton continued. “To my surprise, every year, new folks arrive to enjoy the mountain. And every year, some other unfortunate couple falls prey to this bastard.”

  The sheriff’s eyes turned glassy and distant, his frustration with this case getting the best of him. Weylock imagined he was picturing all the other victims, six year’s worth of failure to protect his town from a predator.

  “Now that the Headhunter has done his dirty deed for the year, the good folks of Leavenworth can all let out a collective sigh and move on with their lives. Back to business as usual—until next year, that is.” Danton clenched his jaw, and Weylock could have sworn he heard the man’s teeth grinding against each other. “I should feel relieved that this monster isn’t more prolific, but somehow that makes it worse.”

  “I understand,” Weylock said.

  Without any leads, without witnesses or evidence, the sheriff was powerless to catch this killer. At this rate, the Headhunter would add heads to his grisly collection for years to come.

  Unless someone put an end to this horror show.

  “Could I please see the bodies?” Weylock asked.

  Danton nodded, and they headed to the police morgue. Inside the cold, antiseptic chamber, the coroner showed them the bodies. First up was the male victim, followed by the headless woman.

  “Going by the neck wound, the killer removed the head with one powerful blow from an ax,” the coroner said. “Not the easiest thing to pull off. He must be built like a bear.”

  The ax’s magic certainly made the gruesome deed easier, but Weylock kept this little detail to himself.

  As he took in the woman’s decapitated, naked form, his stomach churned with fury. Chloe Nash couldn’t have been older than her mid-twenties, cut down in the prime of her youth. And somewhere, likely not too far from this morgue, her severed head was still alive, still conscious. Held captive by the Devil’s Apprentice.

  Weylock balled his fists, and his demon perked up. His rage fueled the beast’s hunger for violence.

  Danton swapped a bleak look with Weylock. “It breaks your heart to see two young people butchered like this. They were only twenty-five years old.”

  “The killer will pay for his crimes,” the Hexecutioner declared. “His victims will have justice.”

  Danton cocked an eyebrow, perhaps surprised by the icy certainty of his words. FBI agents didn’t go around making pronouncements like that. But the Hexecutioner sensed that Sheriff Danton wanted to believe him more than anything else in the world.

  Weylock turned back to the headless woman on the steel autopsy table, and... froze. Her head was now attached to her body. There was a wicked gash around her throat where the ax of the Devil’s Apprentice had sliced through the pale flesh.

  This time the head of Chloe Nash wasn’t screaming. Instead, she was crying, eyes squirming with terror and burgeoning madness. The Necrodex was sending him another vision.

  “Please kill me,” she pleaded, her lips quivering with agony.

  Weylock nodded at the coroner to cover up the bodies. He’d seen enough. Chloe’s tear-streaked features vanished underneath the shroud.

  I’m coming, Weylock thought, and the demon roared in anticipation of the hunt.

  Next, Weylock asked the coroner to see the victim’s belongings. He wasn’t interested in their clothes as much as items with a personal connection to the deceased. The demon’s magic needed something to create a psychic bridge between the object and the owner.

  Weylock looked at Chloe’s Apple watch and cell phone. Her wallet contained some cash and a few credit cards. None of these items triggered any psychic
impressions of where the killer might be holding Chloe’s head.

  “We found a gun at the campsite,” Sheriff Danton said. “Her prints were all over it, and the magazine was empty. She was a cop’s kid. Chloe fought back, but it wasn’t enough.”

  That gave Weylock an idea. There was still one more option to help him locate the woman’s missing head. He would have to explore the area where the forest ranger had found the bodies. Perhaps the forensic team had missed something that might prove helpful. It was a long shot but still worth checking out.

  Weylock thanked the coroner. He’d seen enough. The man started packing up the personal items, and Sheriff Danton and Weylock headed back to the sheriff’s office.

  “Coffee?” the sheriff asked once they were back in his office.

  Weylock would never say no to a cup of Joe. It was the only vice he allowed himself nowadays.

  “I hope you like it strong,” Danton said.

  “Nowadays, I start my mornings with a triple espresso.”

  The sheriff shot him an approving look.

  Danton’s brew wouldn’t have won any culinary awards, but it was scalding hot and strong enough to wake the dead. It hit the spot after their brush with mortality down at the morgue.

  Weylock really didn’t have time for coffee with the sheriff, but there was something he planned to do for the distressed man. Soon enough, the Headhunter would pay for his horrible crimes. But even after he received his just punishment, the world would still believe him to be alive. Danton would think he was still out there, biding his time to strike next summer. The case was eating the sheriff alive, and one more year of this was liable to wear him down.

  Weylock drained his cup and eyed Danton.

  What he was about to do was off-mission—the demon mocked his sentimentality—but he couldn’t care less. He knew all too well the hell the sheriff was enduring. He deserved to be free from his guilt and move on with his life.

  “I know you blame yourself for these murders, Sheriff,” Weylock said. “And I know what’s going through your mind. If only you’d caught this guy the first time, that poor couple in the morgue would still be alive. I’ve been there myself.”

  Danton watched him, his eyes narrow, hands gripping the armrests of his chair. Weylock caught a whiff of alcohol on Danton’s breath. The sheriff had spiked his cup, and Weylock guessed it wasn’t the first time he’d done it.

  “Stop, right there. I don’t need a therapy session.”

  “Hate to break this to you, Sheriff, but the booze will not make the nightmares go away.”

  “I will catch this fucker and—” Danton broke off, shaking with emotion. The sheriff didn’t need to finish his sentence. Weylock knew that the killer would never receive a trial if Danton were to get his hands on him first.

  “I will find him for you. And trust me, the bastard will never see a jail cell. You have my word.”

  Danton’s eye grew wide.

  Weylock finished the last drops of his coffee and rose, his body filled with grave determination.

  “By the time the sun comes up tomorrow, the Headhunter will be dead.”

  Danton stared at Weylock as if he’d sprouted a pair of horns. Those weren’t the words of an FBI agent. They were the words of the Hexecutioner.

  Before the sheriff could say anything, Weylok formed a circle in the air with this right hand. The touch of magic calmed the sheriff and took the edge of Weylock’s earlier words. Instead of being alarmed by the FBI agent’s vigilante turn, Danton experienced a sense of deep peace.

  He regarded Weylock with wide eyes, completely convinced that the FBI would crack this case. Danton would get a good night’s sleep tonight. And, more importantly, he would trust Weylock to get the job done with no questions asked.

  Satisfied to bring a little light into the harrowed sheriff’s stressful life, Weylock left the precinct.

  On the way out, he ran into a young brunette who was struggling to wrangle an anxious golden retriever. The animal was straining against his leash, whining loudly.

  Ordinarily, Weylock wouldn’t have given them another glance. But heat flared from the Necrodex as an image of a cozy wooden cabin appeared in his mind. He grew still and made eye contact with the young brunette who struggled to get the listless dog to follow her into the building.

  Somehow, the dog was the clue he’d been waiting for. Stranger things had happened.

  “Hi there,” she said, “Do you know where I can find Sheriff Danton? I’m a friend of Chloe Nash, the vic—” She broke off, unable to refer to her friend as a victim.

  “Did this dog belong to Chloe?”

  “Yes,” the woman said, scrubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. “This is Max.”

  Weylock secretly drew a circle in the air, and the woman’s thoughts filled Weylock’s mind.

  She almost didn’t go on that hike because she didn’t want to leave Max with me for three days, but I talked her into it… This is my fault. My fault Chloe is dead.

  The woman’s distress cut like a knife. Here was another person consumed by guilt. Everyone connected to this case felt culpable—except the monster who’d committed these horrendous crimes.

  The golden retriever let out a pitiful whine. Weylock went down his haunches and petted the anxious dog. Some animals could sense the demon and cowered in fear from the entity dwelling within him, but not Max. The golden retriever licked his hand.

  “He likes you.”

  Weylock continued to run his hands through the animal’s fur, strengthening the physical connection. He hoped that the bond Max and Chloe had shared might show him the way to the killer’s lair. As his hands brushed the dog’s warm fur, the psychic vision of the cabin returned. This time, the image lingered, giving Weylock a closer look at what he now realized was the home of a diabolical killer.

  A dark smile carved his angular features.

  He’s found his killer.

  Chapter Nine

  The murders of the two hikers dominated the morning news. Every station seemed to be running a story on the Headhunter’s return. A picture of the latest victims, smiling and happy, flickered across the TV screen, adding even more drama to the gruesome story.

  Chloe choked back a moan of despair as she stared at the image of herself and Erik. It’s not every day that you see a story about your own murder on the news.

  The story drove home the reality of what had happened to her and her boyfriend. The last few hours didn’t feel like some crazy dream any longer.

  Monsters were real, and she was at the mercy of one.

  She breathed in deep, wondering once again why she required oxygen if she didn’t have any lungs.

  Magic.

  Fucking nuts.

  The twin emotions of helplessness and despair invaded her soul. Chloe stifled a sob. From the corner of her eye, she caught the Headhunter looking at her. A grin lit up his bland features.

  Her pain turned to rage. The sick bastard was getting off on her loss. Showing her the news of her death was another part of his sick game.

  Another chilling realization hit her. She wasn’t the first one to endure this horror. There had been others according to the news: other couples, other women, other heads.

  Muses, as the twisted freak liked to call them.

  And that raised a question. What happened to the other living heads this bastard had collected? What would happen to her once the summer was over and the Headhunter finished his latest magnum opus? Was there a way to end this perversion of life?

  The possibility that there might be a release from this nightmare existence filled her with hope.

  On-screen, a reporter announced that she was about to interview a friend of a deceased. A second later, a teary-eyed Sophie appeared. As the reporter pressed for details about her dead friend, the camera panned to reveal Max sitting beside Sophie’s chair.

  Seeing her sad-eyed dog on TV sent another jolt of agony through Chloe. She would never see her dear Max again, never ho
ld his sweet face in her hands or brush his fur.

  A wave of hatred welled up in her as she fixed her gaze on the Headhunter instead. He killed the TV with a smile on his face and not a single care in the world. The freak was having a fantastic day.

  “You’re a star. What do you think of that?” the Headhunter asked with the excitement of a kid who’d just received his first magnifying glass and was looking forward to burning down an ant colony.

  Chloe held her tongue. She knew the Headhunter’s type. Her abusive ex had pulled the PG-rated version of the same shit on her. Push her buttons, get her to lose it, and then retaliate tenfold. She was struggling not to provide him with the satisfaction of a response. But it was getting harder and harder to keep it all bottled inside.

  “The news sure likes to milk the drama. The whole bit with the dog was too much. The shit people do for ratings.”

  Chloe stayed mum and noticed a tiny flicker in the Headhunter’s eyes. The bastard was feeling social and didn’t appreciate the silent routine.

  “Your friend is kinda cute,” he continued.

  This time Chloe erupted. “You bastard! Don’t you dare threaten her!”

  The Headhunter wagged a finger at her. “Now, now, no cursing. That’s not ladylike behavior. I’m a little old-fashioned about that stuff. And you don’t need to worry; I’m a one-woman kinda guy.”

  Chloe glowered at him.

  “I have some great news. I wrote ten pages earlier today while you were catching up on your beauty sleep.”

  Sleep was a nice way of putting it. Chloe had passed out a few hours earlier from the horror of her situation. Overwhelmed and exhausted from her ordeal, unconsciousness had been a welcome respite.

  Sadly, she woke up again to find herself in the second act of this nightmare.

  The Headhunter approached her, the smell of his bitter coffee stinging her nostrils. “The words just flowed and flowed this morning. I have a feeling this is the beginning of a wonderful collaboration—”