Blood Week (The Saint and the Sinner Book 1)

by J. D. Martin

  I stomped my feet in frustration, or what constituted a stomp in my current predicament. It was really more like a toe tap. As I shook, I felt something shift behind me. Suddenly I remembered something that Simmons had complained about earlier that evening. As the night played through my mind, a flash of hope warmed me like a tall cup of coffee.

  Immediately, I began twisting my right hand around until my fingers could grip the nut that held the back of the chair to the bottom. As the tips of my fingers struggled to grip at it, I strained against the binds until I felt it turn. I was in the same chair with the loose back that Simmons had complained about! I twisted my fingers around again and again, moving the nut millimeters at a time. With each passing second, the space between the seat and the poles along the back widened.

  But before I widened it enough, I heard Ventura coming back into the living room. I kept working at the chair, but with less vigor so I didn’t alert him to my movements. As he came up beside me, it was clear he had no fear that I was a threat when he placed the hunting knife on the counter next to the block of steak knives. Without a care, he started raiding my fridge for a late-night snack.

  He pulled out a beer and I stared at him in disbelief as he opened the bottle and chugged it down. Who the hell was this guy? I understand confidence, but this man was clearly an idiot. While he’d worn gloves the entire time in my apartment that I’d seen, he apparently didn’t realize that saliva had DNA. If I escaped, that bottle would be the first step to identifying him.

  He noticed my disbelieving gaze and seemed to read my thoughts. “Mmmph,” he mumbled while swallowing. “Don’t worry detective, the bottle will be leaving with me. I wouldn’t want anything left behind that would give doubt to the little story I’ve cooked up. I just needed a drink before we finish things up.”

  “Well, by all means,” I said, “make yourself at home. You’ve already been doing that anyway.”

  As he tilted his head back to finish the rest of the bottle, I pulled up on the back of the seat and tugged hard at the rope. To my surprise, a large portion came free, but the rest had snagged on the bolt and was still secured around the back of the chair. With time running out, I wiggled at the nut again to free myself. It was coming off, but very slowly.

  Ventura tossed his empty beer bottle into a shoulder bag by the front door and strolled back over to me. Gripping the hunting knife, he smiled from behind the mask. “Now to finish this.”

  Standing beside me, he placed the edge of the blade against my throat. The sharp steel was cool on my skin and felt like I was about to get a shave from a barber. I’d always thought about getting a straight-razor shave, but this one would be much closer than I would like to permit. As I saw the end drawing near, my sarcasm faltered in exchange for panic. The resolve I’d kept stiff until that moment was crumbling as the pressure against my neck deepened.

  Mere centimeters from being free, all I heard was “Goodbye, Detective Saint.”

  Chapter 20

  With ropes confining me to the chair and a large knife at my throat, I was closer to freedom than when this ordeal began. They say that your life flashes before your eyes when coming face-to-face with death, but the visions of my past never manifested. I felt the steel against my neck and pondered if I was experiencing my final breaths, but the only images in my mind was of what would happen next. The sharp blade would split through my flesh with ease, and the life of Alexander Saint would end with a splash.

  Whether that was what fate laid out for me or not didn’t matter. I wasn’t the sort to lay back and accept things as they appear. While a predator would seem the victor when his prey was bound and seconds from death, even the flap of a butterfly’s wings could alter the state of events. Seconds from releasing a crimson waterfall onto my carpet, Ace Ventura in a hockey mask lifted his elbow as he started to drag the knife across my throat. I felt the puncture in my skin, but never gave up the fight. In my last stand, I jerked my wrists violently against the ropes caught along the bolt on the back of the chair. I twisted and yanked hard enough that the bolt snapped forward and freed the rope.

  This sudden release of the bolt that secured the back to the rest of the chair caused me to top backwards against my would-be murderer. The change forced him off balance, causing him to stumble backwards with his arms in the air to catch his balance. The pressure of the blade had left my skin with the equivalent of a shave that had come too close as I tumbled backwards to the carpet.

  Continuing the momentum of my surprise, I pushed up with my legs as I fell and furiously connected the swinging fist of my free arm with his jaw. The change of events left him in a combination of shock, anger, and pain as he crashed into the granite countertop before crumbling to the floor. A loud clang followed as his knife came free and slid across the kitchen tile like a hockey puck.

  Without stopping, I caught myself against the counter and pulled a cooking knife from the wood block and expeditiously cut at the rope around my chest. It came free with ease and the back of the chair slipped from my shoulders giving me more range of motion. I twisted forward to continue my grasp at freedom with the binding around my ankles. The back of the chair was still attached to my left wrist, but my upper torso was at least mobile. I knew that I would need my legs to truly put up a fight. As I did so, I could hear my Hawaiian-shirted friend regaining his composure as he scrambled across the floor for his knife.

  I had one leg free as I looked over my head to see him retrieving his blade and rubbing at his cheek as he stood up from the tile floor. With one leg still secured with the thick twine, I didn’t have the ability to choose a better defensive stance as he lunged for me. Focusing on using the kitchen knife for escape, it occurred to me too late that I could also use it for attack purposes. He connected with me like a linebacker hoping to take the star quarterback out of the big game permanently.

  In my seated position, the forced shoved me over onto my chest before the two of us rolled over in the scuffle onto our backs. The motion twisted my ankle against the bottom half of the chair I was still tied to and I cried out in pain. From the throbbing pain pulsing through my calf, the tackle had come close to breaking my leg. His blitz gave him the added benefit of causing me to lose my knife in the tumble, but luckily, he lost his again too.

  Although neither of us had a weapon, he still had the advantage with my ankle tied to the heavy chair. From where I laid on the floor, I could see the masked man scrambling across the carpet to reacquire the hunting knife. Watching where he was moving, I realized he was going for my kitchen knife this time. Regardless of what blade he chose, my position on the floor wasn’t much of a defense against death. Even partially free from the chair, I was still susceptible to jugular penetration my kitchen instrument.

  With the chair laying on its side, I attempted to slide the rope down the leg and over the wheel, but my attacker was coming back before I’d been able to do so. Kicking at his right knee, he doubled over and grasped at it while I was able to use the brief moment to yank the rope down and free myself of the chair. Both of us rose back up simultaneously as he came at me with the knife. I realized in the instant he sprang at me that the back of the chair was still tied to my left wrist, so I flipped it around to use as a shield.

  The makeshift tool worked as each time he swiped or jabbed with the knife, I would catch his hand between the bars that formed what had been the back of a poker chair. Simmons issues with the wobbly chair was now my salvation as it kept the attacker at bay. As I parried his attacks, I slowly took steps around him until I had rotated the two of us and put my back to the door to the master bedroom. If I could make it in there, I could move the advantage to my side of the arena. In the bedroom was my gun.

  As my dance partner became tired of the two-step, he decided to go after the hands holding the shield. With my fingers wrapped around the sides, they became tempting targets for his attacks. His blade slashed towards my hands, which made it more difficult to continue protecting myself. Catching the bl
ade between two of the bars, I twisted the chair rapidly counter clockwise, taking his arm and the rest of him with it. The move forced him off balance as he leaned backwards like a man doing the limbo. With his weakened footing, I shoved the chair towards him and he tumbled to the floor. Pouncing on him, I punched him hard in the face before twisting the rope around his knife and shoving against his arm until the binding snapped in two. Completely free of the chair, I pushed off him and bolted for the master bedroom.

  Rounding the corner, my fingers gripped at the door jamb to slow me enough to turn without crashing across the king bed in the middle of the room. As I ran towards my upper-hand, I could hear groaning from the living room. I knew he wouldn’t be down for long, so I needed to wrap my fingers around the grip of my weapon quickly. Reaching the painting on the wall the wall of a beautiful day in autumn, I didn’t waste any time admiring it. Yanking back on the painting so rough that I imagined nearly tearing it from the wall, I placed my thumb on the scan plate behind it.

  The safe popped open just as my intruder entered the room in full sprint. His eyes were bloodshot and full of rage as he charged for me. The linebacker had another sack in mind, but this time his prey wasn’t so defenseless. Sidestepping his lunge, I used his momentum against him as he slammed into the wall behind me. Narrowly avoiding the blade in his hand, I ripped open the safe and reached for my service weapon. The moment I felt the textured grip between my thumb and forefinger, an arm had wrapped around my hip and yanked me to the floor.

  When I landed on the carpet, the gun flew from my hand and landed a few feet away. I was forced onto my stomach by the man who had more fight than I expected as we grappled beneath the safe. I swung my elbow around and connected with the corner of his throat, which caused him to stagger off me choking through raspy attempts to suck in air.

  I took this chance to flip onto my back and kick him in the kidney, which forced him backwards into the bed. Reeling back, I swung my leg at him again, but this time I aimed for his face. My foot knocked off his mask as it snapped his head back. He dropped to the side while I sprang to my feet and made a beeline for my pistol.

  I found it under the opposite edge of the bed and once again wrapped my fingers around the hilt before spinning around to aim it at my attacker’s last location, but he was gone. Where he had once been, I found only empty carpet. Before I could ask the question, I heard him running through the living room. Rolling onto my knees, I sprang to my feet in pursuit. Bursting into the kitchen, I saw the front door open and heard running footsteps echoing in the hallway.

  When I arrived at my front door, I pressed against the edge and looked towards the south end of the hall and found nothing. Hearing the chime of the elevator doors opening, I spun to the other side and peered down to see him waiting for the lift rather than going for the stairs. Stepping into the hallway, I aimed my weapon at him and shouted, “FREEZE!”

  As the elevator doors opened, he jumped in rather than obey my orders. I made a mad dash for the elevator, hoping to get there before it closed. Reaching the lift, I paused at the edge of the lift doors before springing out at him. As I did so, his hand flew out and reminded me that I wasn’t the only one with a weapon.

  His blade slashed at my arm and I screamed as it penetrated deep into my bicep. Falling against the opposite wall, I discovered the secret to his ability to see around walls. As I held my injured arm, I noticed someone had placed a mirror outside of their apartment. It looked old as if maybe they were throwing it out but hadn’t carried it to the dumpster yet. My reflection looked back at me holding his shoulder as blood seeped into his shirt. Mr. Ventura had seen my moves before I could make them, and now that I could see into the elevator, I found that he wasn’t alone.

  A tenant that had been returning to the floor with a bag of groceries had been surprised when a man in a brightly-colored shirt with large flowers and jumped into the lift and put a knife to her throat. Using her as a shield, much of his face was hidden behind hers as a single eye peered out at me. His hunting knife moved up to rest against her cheek as she trembled in his grasp. I feel she would have screamed, but his free hand was clamped tightly over her mouth. As I stood in the hall holding my injured arm, I was unable to do anything except watch as the doors closed on the man smiling back at me. He may have escaped my home, but this wasn’t over by a long shot.

  Running down the hallway, I reached a door and slammed through it into the stairwell. Taking two steps at a time, I hoped to catch up with him in the lobby. After making it down two floors, I felt the blood pouring down my arm and knew this would be a problem. Pausing at the next landing, I ripped off my shirt and tore it apart to make a tourniquet. Synching it tightly around my arm, I ran bare-chested down the rest of the stairs. I was in pretty good shape, but after all the tussling in the apartment and now running down all the stairs, it felt like my heart was about to explode. It seemed that cardio just might be the death of me.

  Finally, I made it to the bottom and exploded into the lobby entirely out of breath. I didn’t see him anywhere as I stumbled around looking. At the front desk, the concierge stared at the shirtless, bloody man with the gun in his hand running like a maniac. I’m sure that the sight would be frightening if he didn’t know who I was, but other guests in the building might not be as confident in their safety.

  “Sammy,” I shouted between gasps for air. “Did you see the man in the Hawaiian shirt come through here?”

  “Yeah, he just left a few seconds ago,” he said pointing towards the front of the building.

  “Thanks,” I said as I ran after him. Outside, I looked in every direction in the hope of catching a glimpse of him. When I looked south on Walnut, I located my target crossing over 10th street. Exhausting the reserves I had in tow, I pulled up every ounce of energy I had as I ran after him.

  A man screamed curses at me as I bounced off him. Worse is that the commotion alerted my prey that I was still on his tail when he looked back and spotted me. He picked up the pace and began running himself as he turned west on 12th street. I chased after him and reached the corner just as he was turning south again onto Main.

  Every part of me wanted to catch this guy. He’d broken into my home, tried to kill me, and also ruined a damn good shirt in the process. Continuing with all I had, I turned on Main and kept my eyes out for him. I paid no attention to the pedestrians staring at the shirtless madman running down the sidewalk with a gun. I didn’t care about the calls to 911 that were surely lighting up the switchboards. All I was concerned with was catching a lunatic.

  Spotting my mark only half a block away as he entered the parking garage across from the Midland Theatre, I followed after him. Inside were numerous exits on each floor of the parking structure that he might use to lose me. But I wasn’t prepared to give up, so dug deep for another burst of speed to catch up. After entering the garage, I stopped and listened. After a brief second, I had him. Going left towards the sound of shoes slapping pavement, I tried to reduce his lead on me.

  After running up the ramp to the second tier of the garage, I came around the corner and finally had him in my sights. I knew I was just about out of gas, so I raised my gun and in a final ditch effort I yelled, “FREEZE!”

  I should’ve known it was a pointless venture. He refused to stop and this time I was clear of collateral damage, so I fired off a round that clipped him in the bicep. It caused him to stagger, but he still didn’t stop. At the back corner of the garage, he sprinted towards an exit and I followed. As I reached it, I noticed a couple cowering behind an SUV.

  “Call 911,” I told them. “Tell them to get to Detective Alexander Saint’s apartment immediately. He’s in pursuit of subject.” The man pulled out his cell phone and started to dial. “Got it!?! Alexander Saint!”

  “Yes sir, it’s ringing now.”

  Flying through the door, I ran out onto the street and looked for any sign of him. In the middle of the Power and Light District, I was surrounded by late-night bar patron
s, but I didn’t see Ventura. I thought I spotted him for a moment, but the colorful designs were from a woman’s dress. Spinning in circles, I felt a heavy pit in my gut as I came to a realization that I didn’t want to accept. I was bombarded by a crowd of those seeking Kansas City’s nightlife, but the man that tried to kill me was nowhere to be seen. The heaviness in my stomach got worse as I had to face the fact that I’d lost him. “FUCK!!”

  I walked back up towards the car garage spouting more profanities to myself. I couldn’t believe that I’d let him escape. This now made two in a handful of days that got away. As leaned against a wall to catch my breath, I was shown how my pity party could quickly get worse.

  I saw the gun pointing at me just as the voice told me to “Drop your weapon!”

  Chapter 21

  The night had started off in spectacular fashion. Not only had I enjoyed a night of poker with the guys, but I’d even won the pot as well. The only thing that would have made it better would be a woman in my bed to be the icing on the cake. As I thought about it, icing on a woman in my bed would be quite the delectable treat as well. But the explorations of another’s body was not the hot and sweaty I was granted on this night.

  Instead I’d been tied up in a very non-BDSM kind of way by a moron in a brightly colored shirt and a hockey mask. It was like Jason Voorhees was back from his tropical vacation just in time to murder another high school kid. After the struggle, I’d run all through the P&L trying to catch the bad guy just to lose him in the crowd. To make matters worse, my sweaty-and-shirtless condition had me feeling like John McClane at Nakatomi Plaza. The torn piece of cloth was still wrapped around my arm with visible blood seeping through it. And now I had a gun pointing at my back.