by Ethan Cross
Garrison slammed on the brakes and whipped the big SUV to the side of the road. Marcus heard unknown items shift, fall, and clang in the back of the vehicle. “Take them off,” Garrison said.
He complied, and Garrison examined them. “Look at this.”
He looked closer and noticed a small spot of new glue showing on the back of the shoe. Garrison removed a pocket knife and used it to pull back the heel. A tiny, hollowed-out area contained a small electronic device.
“Son of a … I shoulda thought of this earlier,” Marcus said.
Garrison shook his head. “How were you supposed to know that a local sheriff had access to this kind of technology?”
“What are we going to do with it now? Attach it to some rabbit and let the Sheriff chase Bugs all the way to New Mexico?”
Garrison snickered. “No. That might work in the movies, but the Sheriff would track us down before we could ever hope to catch some animal.” Garrison stepped from the vehicle, removed the small tracking device, and threw it into a clump of bushes alongside the road.
They rode in silence for a few minutes longer before he realized that they were not just driving in a direction, but toward something. “So, Garrison, do we have a plan?”
“Andrew.”
“What?”
“My name. Call me Andrew. And the first thing we need to do is get my source within the organization to safety.”
“Who’s your source?”
“I guess at this point it doesn’t hurt to tell you. You know her … the Sheriff’s daughter, Maggie. She works for me at the real-estate office, which is all just a cover.”
Marcus reached up and massaged the bridge of his nose. He had been afraid of that answer. In many ways, he was ecstatic at the thought of seeing her again. In many other ways, however, he wished that he could keep her as far away from himself as possible. The dream kept returning to him with increasing intensity. In the dream, he had failed her just like everyone else.
A sign read, Asherton: 13 Miles.
He had often heard that animals could sense when a bad storm or other natural disaster like an earthquake or tornado was about to hit. That was the way he felt at that moment. It was like he could sense that a storm was on the horizon and that everything he had experienced so far was a prelude of what was to come. The kiss before turning out the lights.
He glanced over at the speedometer. An unexplainable sense of urgency had overtaken him. He didn’t know why, but he had a feeling that they were already too late.
40
Maggie walked across the cold tile floor of her apartment’s tiny kitchen. The coolness below her feet saturated her body and crept up her legs. She had hated the tile floor when she first came to the small apartment, but she had grown accustomed to it. In all honesty, she liked the cool, calming embrace that greeted her when she stepped out onto the kitchen floor. It made her feel alive and allowed her to forget everything else in the world beyond the sensation.
On that night, however, the chilled kiss of the tile wasn’t nearly potent enough to steal her thoughts from the events taking place around her. All of her preparations and work approached fruition. The die had been cast, and there was no turning back.
The moonlight shimmered in through the window over the kitchen sink. It cast a dim glow over the counter and the kitchen table but failed to penetrate the deeper shadows of the room’s corners. She crossed the kitchen and opened the door to the refrigerator. With the moonlight backdrop, the light from the fridge sent out a striking luminescence that lit her face with an angelic aura. Her smooth skin glowed, as if touched by a divine light, and her eyes shimmered like diamonds. Her loose-fitting t-shirt and baggy sweat pants hid her trim form. A pair of bobby pins held her hair, still damp from the shower, back in a ponytail. A few loose strands hung around her face.
From the fridge, she retrieved the supplies needed to accomplish her goal of the perfect sandwich. She always strove for perfection in every undertaking, and sandwich making was no exception. She always made her sandwiches the same way. She ran through the process in her mind, further adding to her hunger. She would begin with the mesquite, thinly sliced turkey breast, followed by two slices of provolone cheese and one piece of lettuce, for good measure—all enclosed by the coup de grâce, the homemade Italian herb and cheese bread. There were no condiments placed on top, as they would only serve to offend the palate and convolute the flavor.
But it was the quantity of the ingredients that made Maggie’s techniques distinctive. She always made the sandwich the same way with the same precise amounts of turkey, cheese, lettuce, and bread. The Sheriff—or the Director, as some knew him—had taught her a great deal, but the thing that he stressed most to all of those around him was an acute attention to detail. “The devil is in the details,” he always said.
She retrieved a plate from the cabinet and organized the ingredients in front of her. She unsealed the loaf of bread and took in its aroma. It smelled wonderful. It was the best bread that she had ever had, and it came from right below her feet at The Magnolia Bakery.
Alexei, the baker, would often make extra portions solely for delivery to her doorstep. She had only lived there for a short time, but in that span, she had often joined him in the bakery and watched as he prepared a barrage of culinary delights for the early morning coffee and pastry crowd.
Beyond the list of products to appease those with a sweet tooth, Alexei also had an extensive catalog of gourmet bread that he prepared fresh every day in the early morning hours. He would arrive around ten o’clock and work until the shop opened at five-thirty. His son would then take over for him mid-morning. She knew that he was hard at work downstairs even as she prepared her own plat du jour.
She laid the loaf on the counter. Without looking, she reached to the knife block. She felt around for the bread knife, but she noticed an anomaly. The carving knife was missing.
And she never forgot to put things back in their places.
She checked the counter and surrounding area but to no avail. She looked in the sink and dishwasher, but it wasn’t there either.
She let the sensation of fear wash over her. It had been in the back of her mind since she noticed the knife’s absence, but now, it was in the forefront, undeniable. Someone else could have the knife. Someone waiting in the shadows with a dark, malicious purpose.
Her breathing became shallow and erratic. Her mind spun with different possibilities and scenarios.
A thump resonated from the vicinity of her bedroom.
Is there someone in the apartment?
She pushed the fear aside. She wasn’t about to let herself be frightened by a misplaced knife and a noise that occurred often enough due to everyday occurrences like the creaking of the building or Alexei banging around downstairs.
She reached behind her back and retrieved a compact Glock 19 pistol from the waistband of her sweat pants. The Sheriff had insisted on her being armed, and under the circumstances, she had elected to keep the weapon close.
Another thump, but she couldn’t be sure from where it originated.
Something had caused the noise, and it wasn’t an overactive imagination. She needed help. If Ackerman was the source of the noise, she would not be able to stand against him alone. She had heard the horror stories. They said that he was a ghost and couldn’t be killed. They said that he had made a deal with the devil. They were just tall tales. But no one had been able to stop him yet, so there must have been some truth to the killer’s abilities.
She thought about Alexei working downstairs. They would fair better together, strength in numbers. She needed to get to him and then hold out until Andrew and Marcus arrived. They couldn’t have been too far away.
Keeping a close eye on the bedroom, she darted across the kitchen and the living room, muscles tightened. She saw no movement, but she felt a presence.
She moved to the front door of her apartment. In fear of awaking any sleeping giants, she tried to make no sound. Yet,
the quieter she tried to be, the more every sound seemed amplified. Her footsteps sounded like the crashing of thunder to her heightened perception.
She opened the door and glanced around the hall. All clear. She looked back to the bedroom. Still no movement. She stepped into the hallway and shut the door behind her.
Maybe it was all just her imagination. Either way, it was better to be safe than sorry.
A foreboding darkness seemed to occupy the hallway, but she tried to shut out such irrationalities. The hallway hadn’t changed. The situation had merely altered her perception of it. It was the same poorly lit corridor that she always walked.
She headed for the stairs, sticking close to the wall. She held her gun with a two-handed grip and carried herself with a steady professionalism. She kept an eye on the path behind her to guard against a sneak attack, but she pressed forward and down the stairs to the landing at the bottom.
The door in front of her led outside, and the door to her right led into the bakery. She watched the stairs for a moment. She saw no pursuers and entered the door leading into the bakery.
The main lights of the dining area were dark as they always were at that time of night, but in the part of the bakery where the magic happened, the lights burned brightly. The light filled her with as much warmth as the sun on a summer day. She would feel much safer by simply not being alone.
Remembering her training, she kept the gun ready, ever vigilant. She walked across the dim customer area and headed for the back.
When she entered and looked around, she saw no sign of the baker. It appeared that he had left treats baking in the oven, and a thick dusting of flour covered the table.
But where’s Alexei?
She spotted something strange and walked closer. What she saw made her heart skip a beat.
There were droplets of blood spattered across the flour-covered table.
Human blood? Alexei’s blood?
She continued around the table with the pistol stretched out in front of her. Her finger rested on the trigger, ready to bring a quick end to any possible confrontation. As she moved forward, she noticed a stream of red flowing from behind a neighboring table.
She rounded the second table and saw the body of her friend laid out on the floor. Deep gashes covered his body, and chunks of flesh had been torn away, exposing bone and internal organs. Torn from his abdomen, his intestines lay strung across his right shoulder.
The bile rose, and she threw up. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. She stared at his lifeless body—transfixed, mesmerized, in shock. She had seen dead bodies before, but nothing like this.
A voice from behind snapped her out of the stupor.
“Admiring my work?” the voice said.
She spun around and pointed her gun at the man behind her. He stood on the opposite side of the flour-covered table.
“Don’t move!” she said.
She wondered how had he gotten so close without alerting her. Where did he even come from?
“I was paying homage to one of history’s most notorious murderers, Jack the Ripper. I took a bit of creative license in the moment, but it’s meant to be a tribute not a true recreation. My father forced me to study all the gruesome details of every known killer’s work. I’ve always found the method behind Jack’s madness to be fascinating.”
She stood ready to blow his head off if he moved a muscle. She knew that he must have been able to see that, but he didn’t seem concerned. In fact, he looked calm and collected—a man without a care in the world.
He held a towel and appeared to have just finished washing his hands. She could see that he had cleaned a great deal of blood from his face, but a few rogue streaks of red remained.
He continued to dry his hands and ran his eyes up and down her form. She could almost feel his gaze as it crawled over her body. “You’re quite beautiful, and there’s a certain … fire in your eyes. I like that. Not much family resemblance, but I can see why Marcus is interested in you. And that’s why I’m here. You’re the intersection. The connection that binds all the threads together. You’re the key to unlocking my destiny.”
He looked deep into her eyes. She felt him knocking on the door to her soul. “I want to play a game, my dear … a game called Cat and Mouse.”
She had never killed anyone before, but there was a first time for everything. She increased pressure on the trigger and considered squeezing.
“Let me guess,” she said. Her voice shook, but she tried to mask her terror. “You’re the cat, and I’m the mouse?”
He shook his head. “Oh no, sweetheart. I’m afraid that you’re merely the cheese for the mouse trap.”
Without warning, Ackerman dropped the towel and swept his hand across the flour-covered table. The movement stirred up a white cloud that made her lose sight of him for a split second.
She fired into the cloud only a second after his movement, but it was too late. He was too fast. Her shot sailed wide. She fired blindly in the area she had last seen him. Flour filled the air and obstructed her visibility.
Before she could react, he had rounded the table and was upon her. He wrenched the gun from her hand and struck her across the face. She hurtled through the air and pounded against the linoleum. Blood flowed from her mouth and nose, and tears welled in her eyes.
She considered running, but she knew there was nowhere to go. She pulled herself up on her hands and knees and spat blood on the floor. A small portion of her fear had evolved into rage. She wanted to kill the man who had struck her, not only for herself, but for all of those who had suffered at his hands.
She turned back to her attacker and said, “You can’t kill me. You need me as your bait, and I won’t be very good bait if I’m already dead.”
He placed her gun in the back of his pants and picked up a carving knife that lay next to Alexei’s body. He twisted the knife, appearing to admire the blade. “You’re partly right, my dear. But what you’ve overlooked is the fact that they only have to think that you’re alive. Plus, I truly hate to admit this, but sometimes … I simply can’t control myself.”
41
“Something’s wrong,” Andrew said as he placed the cell phone back in his pocket. “She knew we were coming. She wouldn’t have just left.” He had already attempted to reach her twice, once on the road and once in front of her building.
After a cursory scan of the area, they decided to investigate. Marcus went upstairs to her apartment while Andrew went to ask Alexei if he had seen or heard anything. They met back on the landing that led up the stairs.
“She’s not in her apartment. No signs of a struggle,” Marcus said as he came down the stairs. “Did the baker know any …” His words trailed off when he saw the look on Andrew’s face. She’s dead. I’ve failed everyone. None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for me.
His knees felt weak. His heart pounded, and the air in his lungs grew heavy. The act of breathing became a chore instead of a reflex.
“What’s wrong?” he said and tried to steel himself for the response.
Andrew wouldn’t meet his eyes. After what seemed like an eternity, Andrew said, “Ackerman’s been here.”
He didn’t wait for another syllable to be uttered. He pushed past Andrew and ran into the bakery. Visions of Maureen Hill flashed into his mind, only now he saw Maggie in her place. He couldn’t shake the thought of Maggie nailed to the wall and tortured—her lifeless husk trapped in an eternal scream, torment forever carved onto her face.
It was no way to die. He held to the belief of what a warrior from the past would have called “dying a good death.” His father said it was “dying with your boots on.” He simply thought of it as a death with meaning. It was almost as important as a life with meaning. But the atrocities left in the wake of Ackerman’s rage were senseless and pointless tragedies that only served the purpose of quenching a madman’s thirst for blood.
He pushed his way into the bakery’s back room
. From somewhere far away, he heard Andrew asking him to wait, but he pressed forward anyway. He had to see for himself.
It only took a moment for him to find the mutilated body of the baker, Alexei. He searched the rest of the kitchen but saw no sign of Maggie.
“She’s gone,” Andrew said from the doorway.
A wave of relief passed over Marcus, but he felt guilty for the emotion. He hadn’t found Maggie lying there in a pool of blood, but there was still an innocent man dead on the floor whose only crime was being in Ackerman’s way. And it was my fault. He had allowed Ackerman to escape in the first place. He cursed himself for feeling relief in the wake of such tragedy. Plus, there was still no sign of Maggie, and if Ackerman had taken her, the chances of a happy ending would be about the same as winning the lottery without buying a ticket.
He leaned over one of the tables to keep from falling to his knees. He wanted to drop to the ground and weep, but he didn’t have time to cry. Now was a time for action. He turned to Andrew and said, “I’m going to get her back.”
The words gave him strength. He stood straight again, and a look of determination filled his eyes. “I’m going to save her … and put an end to this.”
Just then, what sounded like an explosion pierced the night. It came from somewhere close, no more than a couple of blocks away. He and Andrew glanced at each other and didn’t have to say a word. Within seconds, they were both out of Maggie’s building in pursuit of whatever had caused the sound.
His determination grew with every step. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he was certain that Ackerman had caused the noise. They were on a collision course. All of his inhibitions and reservations were gone. He would save Maggie, no matter what the cost.
42
If Marcus was his other half, then he would come and put an end to this. If Ackerman’s suspicions proved to be true and there was meaning to the universe, Marcus would save these people.
