The Holiday Killer

by Holly Hunt

  Ahead of her, a shape suddenly threw open a door and vanished into the snow, his boots slapping on the concrete outside.

  "Halt, police!"

  The man ran, fleeing between two of the large metal warehouses toward the river. Liz chased after him, gun up, mindful of tricks, and spotted him before he ran around a corner.

  She wasn't meant to be part of this case, to keep following it now that she was suspended, and now she knew why Bill and the others tried so hard to deter her from hunting him down.

  The thirst for revenge ached in the back of her neck, and she wanted—needed—the man's blood to spill across the ground. She aimed the gun at him and fired, but the bullet missed, ricocheting off the metal wall of the neighboring warehouse and making him duck.

  The night lit up as police sirens cut through the air, the lights illuminating the man's face as he looked back over his shoulder. It was Mark, she saw, and he ran faster, but Liz was faster still, gaining ground on the man as she chased him over dumpsters and through narrow gaps. It was clear the man she was chasing knew the area well, and could work his way through anything as long as he was still running.

  But Liz was faster, pumped up on adrenaline and thoughts of pain and guilt to drive her feet onward.

  Liz ignored the cops swarming the area and raced after the killer, their cries of "Halt!" ignored as she ran.

  "Liz?" she heard Lisa cry out in surprise as she jumped a car's hood and vanished down another alley after the man. "What are you doing here? Liz!"

  Liz ignored her partner, taking aim at the man's fleeing back. She lost sight of him for a second, but kept going, having faith in his desire to flee. He wouldn't let himself be cornered in an alley with cops at both ends; he'd keep running.

  Sure enough, he reappeared from behind a dumpster a few seconds later. Revenge colored her eyes, making her focus dwindle down to one thing: The man was getting away. She was winded and getting tired, though, and slowed her steps, taking aim at the fleeing figure's back.

  "This is your last chance! Surrender or I will fire!"

  He'd done it now. Mark had been caught red-handed. No longer would his bullshit lawyers be able to argue his way out of jail. This time, it was just him and the electric chair, waiting for his ass to land in it.

  Good riddance, you fucker, she thought, taking aim.

  "Liz, fall back! We've got him!"

  Someone inadvertently slammed into her, knocking her off-balance, but she righted herself and locked onto the fleeing man, her gun raised as she took off after him again. More police followed her, but she couldn't be sure who they were trying to accost anymore—her or the fleeing killer.

  She lifted the gun, sighting as she ran, and slowing when she thought she had a shot, only to speed up again when she lost it.

  Goddamn coward! she called mentally, sighting on his back again, and letting off a shot. It hit the wall behind him, causing him to duck and change direction. Happy to target kids, but unwilling to face an adult.

  He barreled out of the alley, toward the pubs and clubs where hundreds without children celebrated the dawning of a new year.

  Her lead on the police behind her was substantial, and she had enough time to stop running, aim, and squeeze the trigger before someone slammed into her from behind, knocking her into the snow.

  "Get off me!"

  "Liz, you absolute fool! Do you have any idea what you've done?" Lisa's voice cried from on top of her as she wrestled the gun from Liz's hand. "You shot an unarmed suspect in the back, while he was running away!"

  "Let me go, Lisa. I have to see!" She rolled in the snow, managing to dislodge her partner.

  Ahead of her, the police were gathered around the body of the killer, some of them with their radios out, calling it in to dispatch.

  Lisa escorted her up to the cops, who stepped out of their way.

  Satisfaction warmed her belly she looked upon what her bullets had done. They'd torn through his skull, splattering his brains and bones over the alley wall in front of him. She walked slowly to his side, looking at every detail.

  "Good riddance to him," she said, spitting in the direction of the body. "Child-killer."

  Lisa tried to wrestle her away, to restrain her from where Mark lay in the New Year's snow, but she was having none of it. She struggled, kicking snow over the body and forcing two more officers to drag her away before she completely destroyed any evidence they needed.

  "And what evidence do you have, Liz? You can't prove it was him who killed Jamie!"

  "Then why is he out here at this time of night, huh?" she yelled, gesturing at the man on the ground. "Run blood work on his shirt. It's his blood, and the blood from the child lying inside that warehouse. It will match her body, Lisa. I wasn't fast enough to stop him killing her, but I'll be damned if he's going to kill anyone else."

  "And what the hell were you doing out here?" the other detective asked, wrestling Liz toward one of the cop cars. "It's 4:30 in the morning! If you've been keeping intel from the task force—"

  "I was patrolling the streets, like I've been doing since Easter, trying to find the goddamn murderer!" Liz yelled, flailing her arms around and turning on her partner. "I can't sleep, Lisa. I can't even close my eyes without seeing him! What was I meant to do, sit in my kitchen and drink coffee until the rest of the world woke up?"

  Lisa sighed, pushing Liz into the car. "I don't think you understand how bad this looks, Liz. You're out here at an ungodly hour of the morning, shooting at random people, claiming to have found a child lying dead in a building… They might lock you up for taking that shot, Liz."

  "They won't," Liz said with confidence. "Look, I'll show you. Trust me."

  Lisa sighed and let Liz lead her toward one of the first buildings lined up along the docklands. Through one of the tumbledown walls, Liz could see the body of Tiffany Heart, wrapped in a sack and hidden under a table.

  "Do you believe me now, Lisa?"

  Lisa sighed, leaning down to look at the four-year-old's body without touching it. "Murderer or not, Liz, he had a right to a fair trial—"

  "Mark Windsor has a reputation in this city, not only as a child trafficker, but for sexual assault on kids. For fuck's sake, we held him as a suspect in the Holiday Killer case, and the only reason we let him go was because the DA was being paid off! Parents will be giving me medals for killing him, and good riddance to the fucker!"

  "What if he's just the transport? What if he's a hostage doing the man's work? What if he's being blackmailed? You can't just kill someone and expect to be hailed a hero, Liz."

  "Guess what, I just did! And to Hell with the bastard's black soul." She turned on her heel and walked away, from Lisa, the police, and the bodies. She ignored Bill as she walked past him, knocking one of the junior officers out of the way as he tried to stop her.

  "Stop! You're under arrest for the murder of—"

  "Call me in the morning, Bill," she said, climbing into her car and ignoring the junior cop yelling at her, his face red. "Then I might listen to you. For now, I have to see my son."

  *

  Six years later

  "Which is how I came to sit in this office the first time," Liz said, leaning back in her chair and watching the psychiatrist. "As you would know, considering how many times you've read my notes during our talks the last few days."

  Dr. Donahue blushed a little, shuffling the papers on his armchair and clearing his throat. "I just find it amazing that you managed to catch the Holiday Killer by sheer, dumb luck. How did you know to try the Docklands?"

  "I didn't. As I told you, a courtroom full of judgmental pricks, and a rather long line of people wanting to buy an autobiography of me, it was luck that I saw him in the car, and then luck that he moved when he did, or I wouldn't have seen him, and he would have killed many more children before he ran out of places to hang them."

  The doctor nodded, scribbling on his paper. He set the notes aside, taking his glasses off to clean the lenses. "Do you regre
t it? Shooting Windsor, that is."

  "I didn't regret it the first three dozen times you asked, remember?" she asked with a sarcastic smile. "I got a pedophile off the streets, and the Holiday Killer slayings stopped. Parents everywhere were thanking me as I left that courtroom."

  "Do you think your son would have been proud of you?"

  Liz's mood snapped. The doctor knew better than to mention Jamie. "I've had enough people throwing my son at me, as though they're expecting it to force me into regret," she said, looking him in the eye. "I believe my son would have been proud that his mother caught his killer, and happy I kept him from hurting anyone else."

  Donahue rubbed at his eyes and put his glasses back on, sitting back in his chair. "Tell me about the inquest, Liz, and what came after."

  "You know what came after, Samuel," she said, lifting a hand to show the three stumps where her fingers had once been. The dismissive gesture under laid her frustration at the question that plagued her daily. "It was all over the news. We don't need to cover that."

  "But we do, Liz," he said, glancing around them. "It's the reason you're here, after all. These sessions won't end until you get what's troubling you off your chest and begin the recovery process."

  Liz glared at him, her whole right hand rubbing her barely existent left. "I'm fine, Samuel," she snapped, tucking her hands under her arms and refusing to think about what had led to the loss of those fingers. "I don't need to vent."

  "Liz," he interrupted, leaning back and looking thoughtful, "you need to get it out, like Jamie's death. You need to tell me what happened to mangle you so badly, physically and emotionally."

  She rubbed at her nose—what was left of it—and leaned back, watching him. With a resigned sigh, she began to speak.

  *

  Five years earlier

  Liz flicked the television off in disgust and threw the remote on the couch. She sank down into the cushions, her head in her hands, and rubbed at her face.

  This was meant to be her new start, but it looked more like a repeat of yesterday. Already, the news was flashing her image across the screen, along with the caption 'First day back for killer cop. Are we safe?' Liz felt sick to her stomach looking at the black TV screen. She really wasn't feeling well, and didn't think she would be up to spending the day patrolling the streets and beating her adoring fans off with a stick.

  This was going to be damn near impossible.

  She glanced at the wall and groaned when she realized what time it was.

  "Phil," she called, grabbing her keys off the coffee table, "I'm off. Dinner's in the oven cooking, already. Don't forget to turn it in a few hours."

  "No problem, chief," he said with a smile, standing in the doorway in his overalls, getting ready to head into the shop. "Dinner will be done and ready to eat by the time you finish your shift."

  Liz smiled and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Something had been off between them since she'd killed Windsor.

  No, that was wrong. Since Jamie had been killed, almost twelve months ago.

  They were managing to survive, through almost six months of marriage counseling, but she wasn't sure that was what Phil was doing—surviving. There was still something wrong about him, but she couldn't work out what it was. He was distant and unaffectionate, unless they were in a session. If she didn't know him as well as she did, she would have thought he was cheating on her.

  She passed that morning's strange feeling off as nerves, though, and grabbed her jacket as she headed for the door.

  "Love you," she called out as she opened the door, more from habit than anything else.

  "Love you too," he returned from the kitchen, where the kettle was whistling for attention. "Be safe."

  Liz shut the door behind her and took a deep breath, slowly turning to face the street. There were no reporters waiting to bombard her with stupid questions, but there wasn't a single kid riding up and down the street, either. She shrugged it off, heading for her car, only to realize she'd left her keys on the coffee table.

  Phil sauntered out of the kitchen when she went back into the house, watching her with a smile. "Forget something?" he asked as she crouched on the ground near the coffee table, to better grab the keys that had fallen underneath.

  "Nope," she said, holding them up. "I'm actually going this time."

  "No rush," he said with a smile, giving her another quick kiss. "Good luck. The reporters are starting to sneak around the back, though, so I suggest you make a break for your car."

  Liz cursed as she shut the door behind her, realizing Phil was right. A crowd three deep had already gathered around her car, ready to catch her. She squared her shoulders and stepped into the melee, pushing them away from her.

  "Detective, how does it feel to be reinstated to the force after being on leave for nine months, in the wake of that terrible chain of events near the Docklands?" one of the reporters asked, shoving a microphone in her face.

  "It feels good to know that if you don't piss off, I can arrest your asses for assault, harassment, or causing a public nuisance." She looked the reporter in the eye. "And, at the moment, every one of you is trespassing on private land. So you have until I turn the ignition over to get out of here, before you spend a couple of days in jail, Helena," she said sweetly, directing her words at the woman who'd asked first. "That's all you're getting, so run with it."

  The reporters looked at each other, as though unsure whether or not she was serious. She hopped into her car and had time to crack the window for some clean air before the first reporter decided not to chance it.

  Liz smiled at the mass exodus she had inspired with her words and started the engine. She took off down the street while the reporters and cameramen gathered around her front gate, swapping memory sticks or something—Liz wasn't interested enough to find out.

  The ride to the station was relatively uneventful, as was the trip up to her office. She sat down in her chair, ready to do some work, but was interrupted by a young woman in uniform, carrying a stack of paperwork.

  "Welcome back, Liz," she said with a smile, placing the paperwork on the edge of her desk. "As you can see, work has continued on without you. The boys upstairs would like you to sign all the relevant places in these release files and send them back up to Records. Lee will take it from there." Her blonde hair glinting in the light. "Let me know if you need help."

  "I will. Thanks, Brenda."

  The blonde smiled once more, then vanished back out the door, and Liz sighed and pulled the stack of papers toward her. She was off fieldwork—at least, for a while, so she was stuck processing and filling out paperwork for the foreseeable future. She would have to get used to this new way of starting the day.

  *

  In a split-second decision, she went out to the parking lot, climbed into the car, and drove home, hoping to spend her lunch hour with Phil. She hadn't realized how much she missed his company until she started thinking about it. She'd spent almost all her time with him since she'd been suspended, and she hadn't thought about how much she liked his company until she spent all day at work, away from him.

  Lisa's car was parked in front of the house, but Liz shrugged, pulling into the driveway and climbing out. Her partner was probably inside, having a beer with Phil, waiting for Liz to get home and join them—a ritual she'd completed every Monday since the first month they'd been assigned together.

  "What a day," she said, closing the door and leaving her keys on the table by the door. She walked toward the kitchen, surprised to find it empty. "Guys?"

  Something creaked upstairs, and Liz looked at the ceiling, frowning. She crept to the stairs and, careful to avoid the creaky step halfway up, made her way to her bedroom.

  The door was ajar, giving Liz a sliver of view. She crept up to it, peeking through the gap toward her bed, already feeling the hurt and anger boiling in her chest.

  There, in the middle of a passionate embrace, were Phil and Lisa.

  She shoved the door open, l
etting it bounce off the wall behind it.

  "What the fuck, Phil?"

  "Oh, shit!" Lisa gasped, tumbling off the bed with the sheets tangled around her feet.

  "Liz? What are you doing home?"

  "Telling you I'm filing for divorce this afternoon. Fuck you, Phil." She spun on her heel and strode toward the front door, taking the stairs down two at a time.

  I should have known, how could I have been so stupid! God, I'm blind to the shit going on around me, this is fucking ridiculous—

  "Liz! Liz, wait!"

  God fucking dammit, how could he do this to us? To Jamie? Our son was murdered and instead of opening up to me, he finds someone else to screw!

  Phil barreled down the stairs, grabbing her hand as she snatched her keys off the end table.

  "Fuck off," she threatened, leveling her shaking gun at his forehead. He stopped moving, watching her closely. "Don't come near me ever again. I want you out of my house by the time I get home."

  He lifted his hands, clearly trying to placate her. "Liz, please—"

  "No, your ass didn't pay a cent toward this property. Go live at the shop for all I care, just get out. I don't want you here anymore, we're done."

  Lisa appeared at the top of the hall, buck-ass naked, but vanished back into the bedroom almost as quickly.

  Liz turned on her heel and slammed the front door closed behind her, fighting back tears.

  How could he do this? You know what, Liz? Forget him. He's done, he's gone, you're over it. He and Lisa can have a brand new life with a pony, for all you care. Okay?

  She climbed into her cruiser, threw the gun into the passenger seat, and took off, heading for Dockhouse Cemetery.

  Thoughts whirled through her mind—things she could have said, could have done. I could have tried harder, I could have done so much… No, fuck him, Liz. It's his fault, not yours. He's a lying, cheating piece of shit, and she's no better.

  She stopped the car, climbed out, and stumbled toward her son's grave.

  Jamie's site was well maintained, with no grass marring the dirt, and only a bouquet of flowers gathered in front of his headstone, left there by Liz the afternoon before. She fell to her knees in front of his marker, resting her forehead on the cold stone as she began to cry. This was her safe place, where she came to work things out, to think and to feel closer to her son.