by Ethan Cross
Lewis continued to check each room as he moved down the hall toward the stairs.
“The problem is that now you’ll have to ask yourself whether I’m lying and trying to make you think that I’m telling the truth, or telling the truth and trying to make you think that I’m lying. Should you even consider these possibilities, or leave the decision to chance? Lots to consider. One last thing … keep in mind that I wouldn’t be playing this game if I thought for one second that it wouldn’t end with your death. That being said and considering that dealing with you is taking away valuable preparation time for tonight’s main event, I’m going to offer you a chance to walk away now. You wouldn’t be any less of a man if you just left now and let Marcus save the girl. Go now and all is forgiven, or stay and dance with the devil. The choice is yours. I’ll be waiting.”
Lewis shook his head in frustration and clenched his teeth. Part of him wanted to run, but his ego and male bravado would never allow that. Marcus surely wouldn’t fare any better against Ackerman than he would. He told himself that he was good at what he did. He could be the hero. This maniac has to be stopped, and I’m going to be the one to stop him.
He made his way up the stairs and onto the second floor. He paused in front of the doors leading into the bathrooms. Door Number One, or Door Number Two? Ackerman had said that the trap was in the girl’s restroom, but after all the people Ackerman had murdered, he didn’t expect him to have any qualms regarding the violation of other commandments. Then again, maybe the killer wanted to throw him off the trail by telling the truth? Either way, Ackerman had succeeded in his real goal of making him doubt and second-guess himself.
He made his decision, stepped forward, and pushed his way into the girl’s bathroom.
Pistol at the ready, he scanned the room but didn’t see anything other than dust and cobwebs. A row of five enclosed stalls sat to his left, and a group of sinks hung on the wall to his right.
The grade-school ambience made him picture young girls staring into the mirrors over the sinks saying “Bloody Mary” three times with the lights off. Although he had tried it himself and survived, his younger sister had always maintained that a cousin of a girl in her class had become one of Mary’s victims after performing the ritual. He missed Caroline, his little sis.
The memories fueled his anger. He had his own monster to face, the kind of monster that sparked such urban legends.
As he stepped toward the first stall, his breathing was the only sound. His gun in hand, ready to face the demon, he kicked open the stall’s door. Nothing but a sturdy American Standard toilet and an empty toilet paper dispenser. Four stalls remained.
He took three deep breaths and kicked open the second stall. Nothing. Another kick revealed the third. Nothing.
His blood pressure boiled as his chances of finding a trap grew with each kick. Ackerman obviously had some plan, and once again, he felt like he was playing right into the psychopath’s hands.
It’s too late to turn back now. He had to see what was behind the last two doors.
He kicked. The door swung inward but showed only the same toilet and dispenser that populated the other stalls—nothing more, nothing less. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to see what was behind the final door.
You can do this. He grasped for some shred of reassurance.
He was about to kick open the last of the stalls, when he heard a loud bang come from the hallway. He jumped and almost pulled the trigger. Forgetting about the final stall, he headed back toward the dark corridor.
Swinging his flashlight and gun in a sweeping motion, he caught sight of Ackerman standing in the middle of the hall. The killer had his hands raised, but the look of fire in Ackerman’s eyes said that this wasn’t an act of surrender. Lewis knew that Ackerman still had something diabolical up his sleeve, and this was all part of the game.
45
Marcus moved toward his destiny. He wondered if everything really did happen for a reason. He wondered if everything in his life up to this point had been preparation for the situation in which he now found himself. If that were so, then maybe some of his gifts—although violent in nature—could serve a purpose.
Maybe his abilities held a similarity to the concept of a gun. A gun wasn’t inherently evil. It was merely a tool. The soul of the person who wielded it determined the nature of the tool’s use. If that was true, then maybe Ackerman was right, and they were truly reverse sides of the coin. Two men with similar gifts, but polar opposites. One man with righteousness at his core, the other harboring a darkness inside.
Then again, maybe he was just seeking justification for all that he had done and was about to do.
As he pressed forward, the school came into view. The building appeared to be in decent shape. It was apparent that someone had kept up moderate maintenance of the structure and grounds. Various shades of gray bricks with white bricks thrown in as accents covered the exterior. One end of the school was rounded and filled from top to bottom with translucent glass blocks. What appeared to be a gymnasium comprised the school’s south side. A fire escape, which ran from the ground up the building’s three stories to the roof, clung to the north edge.
He saw the playground in front. It wasn’t hard to imagine children laughing and running, playing four square, and swinging across the monkey bars. He felt glad that there were no children present now, considering the monster that had taken up residence within the halls that gossiping pre-teens and the clangs of closing lockers once filled.
As he moved toward the building, he heard thunder in the distance and felt the first few drops of rain. The wind increased in intensity. A storm was brewing.
46
Perhaps it was only a trick of the light or an overactive imagination, but Lewis could have sworn that he saw a flash of red in Ackerman’s eyes. “Don’t move, or I’ll splatter your brains all over that wall. Where’s Maggie?”
“Where’s Maggie? That’s an intriguing question, Lewis. Where are any of us really? Why are we here? What does it all mean? All very relevant questions, but I never took you for the philosophical type.”
“Shut up, you sick freak! You know damn well what I mean. Where is she?” He considered shooting first and worrying about Maggie later, but the Director would never forgive him if she died.
“Sick freak? Splatter my brains all over the wall? You’re starting to scare me, Lewis. Honestly, is that any way to speak to an old friend?”
“We are not friends. We are not acquaintances. Hell, I doubt we’re even the same species, so just shut your mouth and tell me where she is.”
“How am I supposed to shut my mouth and tell you where she is? If I shut my mouth, I won’t be able to speak.”
“Tell me what you’ve done with Maggie,” Lewis said through gritted teeth. He shook with rage as he spoke.
Ackerman just grinned.
He had endured this long enough. If Ackerman wasn’t going to tell him of his own free will, then he would beat it out of him. He moved toward Ackerman with his gun held at the ready.
Ackerman’s demeanor abruptly changed. His smile faded. “Take another step forward, and she dies.”
Lewis stopped dead in his tracks. As Ackerman’s words sank in, he noticed for the first time that the killer held something in his right hand.
“Drop the gun and step away, or the beautiful Maggie won’t be so beautiful anymore.”
“Drop the gun? You must think that I’m a complete moron. I’m not dropping anything. Show me what you have in your hand.”
“My hand? Oh, yes … this is the remote detonator to the bomb that I’ve strapped to your precious Maggie. If you don’t drop your gun by the time I count to five, I will, as you so elegantly phrased it, splatter her brains all over the wall.”
A frantic wave of defeat washed over him. Ackerman could have been bluffing, but he had already caused one explosion that night. He didn’t have a clear view of what Ackerman held, but he could see enough of it to know that it could be some
kind of detonator. He had a gut feeling that this was a trick—but can I wager Maggie’s life on a hunch?
“I tell you what,” Ackerman said. “I’ll make you a deal. You drop your gun, then I’ll drop the detonator. We can finish this like men. Mano-a-mano. No weapons.”
Lewis considered this a moment and decided that he had no choice. He lowered his weapon and placed it on the ground. “Okay. Your turn. Drop the detonator.”
“Detonator?” Ackerman said. “Oh … this?” Ackerman raised his hand to show the item contained in it. “It’s just a garage door opener.”
Ackerman let the false detonator slide from his hand. Before the opener hit the floor, the killer kicked Lewis in the stomach. As Lewis doubled over, Ackerman continued the assault with a punch to the face that knocked Lewis to the floor.
He pulled himself up and turned to confront his insane attacker. Ackerman seemed unbeatable, but he had a surprise of his own—a little treat to help even the odds.
He reached into his pocket and removed the ASP tactical baton. The device was basically a collapsible nightstick that could be compressed into the size of a flashlight. He flicked his wrist down and extended the weapon to its full length. Then, he swung on Ackerman before the madman could react to the new development.
Ackerman sustained a blow to the side and retreated back from the reach of the weapon. “Lewis, you continue to surprise me. I thought we agreed on no weapons.”
Lewis rotated the baton. “What can I say? I cheat.”
Ackerman smiled. “I guess turnabout is fair pl—”
Lewis snatched at the opportunity when he saw it, and before Ackerman could finish speaking, he lunged out and landed a strategic blow to the killer’s right kneecap. The madman fell, and Lewis continued the barrage with several more strikes to the back as he drove Ackerman to the floor.
The adrenaline flooded through him. He was doing it. He was defeating the man who only a moment ago had seemed invincible.
He raised his arm over his head to deal the hardest blow yet to the killer’s most vulnerable area. If the madman died, then so be it, but at the very least, he would be incapacitated.
The baton sliced the air, flying toward Ackerman’s skull. As Lewis brought down the deathblow, he released a guttural scream.
As the final strike traveled like a homing missile to its intended target, Ackerman reached out and caught the nightstick in mid swing. The rage in his eyes burned like the fires of a funeral pyre, ready to accept the sacrifice of flesh.
In one fluid and violent motion, Ackerman twisted the baton and Lewis’s arm with it, regained his feet, and struck a quick succession of rabbit punches into Lewis’s abdomen. Ackerman finished his attack with a powerful head butt that sent Lewis flailing backward. The baton slipped from his grasp.
Lewis wobbled and his knees felt insufficient to hold the weight of a two-year-old. Before he could fall, Ackerman grabbed a handful of his shirt and pounded fist to skull, over and over. The killer finished the barrage and shoved him into the railing that overlooked the stairwell.
Using the rail for stability, Lewis tried to steady himself, but he couldn’t shake the starry sky that crept over his field of vision. He shook his head and looked up to see Ackerman reveal a concealed weapon of his own.
The blade of the knife shimmered in the light of the moon like an ancient weapon with mystical properties, a remnant from an age long forgotten when magic was still alive and flourishing. Ackerman’s eyes seemed to shine as well. The killer slunk forward like a lion about to pounce. “It really has been fun, Lewis, but play time’s over.”
Ackerman charged with the knife.
Lewis grabbed Ackerman’s arm before the knife could be thrust into his abdomen. He held the arm in place while Ackerman tried to drive it home.
He knew now that his pride would cost his life. The truth was that, ever since Marcus had come into the picture, he had been jealous. The Director was his mentor, his friend, and more. He was like a father to him. Despite these facts, there was something in the way that the Director spoke about Marcus that made his blood boil. He sensed somewhere deep inside that his mentor respected Marcus—even as an opponent—more than he would ever respect him. He had made the decision to prove himself, and now he would pay for that choice.
Ackerman pushed the blade closer as Lewis pressed desperately against the advance.
They fought a battle of strength, and he was faring no better than he did in their previous battle of wits. The killer had leverage on him and was using it.
Inch by inch, the blade drew closer.
His face turned red from the strain, and fear lived behind his eyes. He knew now that his life was over. Tears streamed down his face, and he whispered, “No.”
He spoke more to some higher power or presence, praying for help, as opposed to seeking mercy from his adversary. He knew that any cry of mercy would fall on deaf ears.
Ackerman responded to his plea in much the same way a mother hushed her child to sleep. “Shhhhh,” he whispered, and then he made the final push, running the blade through the ineffective protection of the bulletproof vest and into Lewis’s abdomen.
A mask of death fell over his face. He went pale as the cold hands of the reaper crept over him. He thought back on his life and how everything had ended up. He thought of the long road that had brought him to this point. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Ackerman jerked the knife up, slicing through his body and ending his life.
The cold night carried him away. He slipped into the darkness and through death’s door, past the boundaries of this world into whatever lay beyond.
47
Marcus couldn’t put a name to the emotion that had overtaken him. The only other time he had felt the same way was his last night as a cop back in New York. It was like knowing that he was in the right place at the right time—not even the right place, but the only place … the only place that he could have possibly been at that moment. He knew that he could run away and never look back, but he also knew that for whatever reason, he would never choose that path. He would press forward into unknown and dangerous waters and fight his way to the other side.
Maybe he would be the hero, or maybe just another casualty. Either way, he would find out soon enough.
The rain poured out of the heavens as if all the angels wept in unison. He was soaking wet, but he didn’t rush into the building to find shelter. He took his time and examined the perimeter.
Satisfied, he slipped into the back door of the abandoned school. Cobwebs filled the corners, and eerie fingers of light lit the hallway when lightning struck and illuminated the world outside the windows. The flashes appeared to show dark figures around each corner. He knew that this was only a trick of the light, but he also knew that around one of the corners lurked a dark presence that could prove deadly.
Although he hadn’t slept in what seemed like an eternity, his mind was sharp, and his senses were attuned to the slightest sound, the slightest movement.
At the end of the corridor, he reached a stairwell that led up to the second floor or down to the basement. He checked up and down with his gun at the ready. There was no sign of Ackerman, but he could feel the killer’s presence close by. He decided to check upstairs and began to ascend. The stairs creaked beneath his weight.
He heard a slight noise from above and looked up just in time to see a shape hurtling toward him.
The stairs ascended to a landing before turning and leading up to the second level. He dove for the landing and narrowly missed being crushed by what he then recognized as a falling body.
He took cover in the only place he could, the spot where the railing of the stairwell curved upward. The area was just wide enough for him to hide behind.
He looked up to the place from which the body had fallen, but he didn’t see anyone. He looked back down at the body and recognized Lewis Foster, the Sheriff’s right-hand man.
Foster was bare-chested, his abdomen split op
en by a deep gash. The deputy looked like a surgery patient who had gotten up in the middle of an operation and walked off.
Marcus couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man. No matter who he was or what he had done—enemy or not—no one deserved to die that way. Then again, he could think of one person who did.
Foster’s dead eyes stared at him and burned into his soul. He had seen that look of death too many times. People died every day without the aid of a killer like Ackerman, but he couldn’t do anything about those deaths. He could, however, make sure that no one ever died at Francis Ackerman’s hands again.
An eerie voice echoed down the stairwell from somewhere above. “Marcus, come out and play.”
He looked up but saw no signs of the killer. He ascended the stairs, staying low and keeping his weapon fixed on the next floor.
When he reached the top, he found the madman standing in the middle of the hallway with his arms stretched out at his sides. In his right hand, Ackerman held a small object, but from Marcus’s vantage point, it wasn’t clearly discernible.
Their eyes met. One set of eyes shined with madness while the other shined with determination.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Marcus. I’ve been waiting a long time.”
48
“Don’t move a muscle,” Marcus said. His voice and mannerisms were calm and collected. His breathing was steady, his hand like a rock.
The storm raged outside, and the rain struck the roof above them like a billion tears falling at once. It created a constant roaring whisper, adding to the dread that permeated the moment. Lightning continued its periodic illuminations, accompanied by the roar of thunder.
