Duncan had her right where he wanted her. He stood and made his way down the fire escape. As he descended, his anticipation grew and his fists were balled so tightly that his fingernails cut into his palms. He reached the ground. The alley was empty. Perfect. He moved behind a dumpster and retrieved the baseball bat he’d left there.
He crossed the street to the park, sat on a bench and watched her. She was a mess, curled into a ball with her head in her hands, crying. A few passersby offered assistance, but she ignored them. Duncan waited. He had all the time in the world. He liked watching them disintegrate.
His victims went through four stages of loss. First, he took away their identity. Second, he removed the things that made them happy and successful. Third, he engineered the loss of everything that mattered to them. Then, finally, they had to reckon with him.
When the time was right, Duncan used the bat to push himself to his feet. She’d just stood and was starting to stagger deeper into the park. Her gait was unsteady, as if she was drunk, but Duncan knew it was because she was so rocked by grief and loss she could barely stand.
Duncan followed her, gripping the bat tightly. Her red hair was unkempt and messy, and her T-shirt was grimy from the grass and dirt. The sight was beautiful. Duncan wished he could read her mind; he’d love to know what she was thinking. He’d hurt her, but that was nothing compared to the pain she’d inflicted.
Or the pain he’d suffered.
Duncan quickened his pace, gaining on her rapidly. He half-expected her to turn and confront him, but she didn’t seem to realize he was there at all. When he was only a few steps away, he glanced around again, then swung the bat at her head. The blow connected with a crack and she collapsed onto the grass.
Duncan smiled as he looked around again. It was late afternoon in the middle of winter and there was barely anyone around. He whistled cheerfully as he tossed the bat to the ground and hefted her up. She was a dead weight, out cold, but she didn’t weigh very much. Duncan pulled her upright and wrapped an arm around her.
Although the woman had been punished for her indiscretions, there was still more to be done. Duncan whistled as he manhandled her to the edge of the park, where nature met the city. He drew a few curious glances, but nobody challenged him. He looked like a guy helping his drunk girlfriend into the car and most people didn’t like getting involved in the affairs of others.
Duncan considered it his duty to do so.
3
Chris
FBI Special Agent Chris Horan tapped impatiently on the steering wheel. “This traffic is slower than my sister’s kid. We haven’t got time for this.”
“What’s the hurry?” His partner, Manuel Rodriguez, shook his head. “I could be three beers and six innings into the Yankees game, but instead, thanks to you, I’m here.”
Chris felt a little guilty. He’d answered the dispatch call right before they’d been scheduled to finish for the night. “I just didn’t want to miss the action.”
Manny was unrepentant. “The action was when some dude let rip in a movie theater. The victims would be just as dead if the late crew handled the job.”
Chris shrugged as he rode the horn, then reached over and flicked a switch on the dash. Though the emergency lights started to flash, they didn’t help much. None of the cars could move out of the way; the traffic was bumper to bumper. Chris loved New York, but law enforcement there dealt with problems that just weren’t an issue in most other places.
Chris and Manny rode in silence the rest of the way, inching closer to the movie theater where a lone gunman had killed a dozen people before turning the gun on himself. It was just another day on the job with the FBI/NYPD Extreme Homicide Joint Task Force.
Though the FBI wasn’t commonly in the murder business – except for serial cases or when things crossed state lines – Chris, Manny and a half-dozen other agents from the New York field office had been working with the NYPD for the better part of two years, investigating extremely violent, mass, or serial homicides. It involved long hours and heartbreaking cases.
As they arrived at the movie theater, Chris could see a dozen other law enforcement vehicles, from NYPD cruisers to a couple of big SUVs like theirs. Chris pulled up and killed the Chevy’s emergency lights. There were enough vehicles creating a disco in the street already. They climbed out of the vehicle, donned their FBI windbreakers and then headed for the scene.
When they reached the perimeter, the NYPD uniform manning it held out his hand. “I’ll need some identification, guys.”
“The giant fluorescent lettering on our jackets isn’t enough?” Chris sighed as he flashed his badge.
The uniform studied his ID for a second and then nodded. “Okay, thanks guys, head on in.”
Chris ducked under the police tape that had created an exclusion zone around the theater. Portable floodlights had been erected outside, but Chris suspected all the action was inside. That fact hadn’t stopped rubberneckers being drawn to the scene, which the uniforms were trying to keep at a distance.
As he walked inside the theater with Manny, Chris felt a familiar apprehension. No matter how many times he worked a murder scene, he still got a feeling in the pit of his stomach, a primal urge to run away and let someone else deal with it. He swallowed hard as he took in the scene, his hands on his hips.
“What a fucking mess.” Manny was a step in front of him, his voice laced with disgust. “I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.”
It was hard to disagree. The gunman had sprayed the lobby. There were bodies splayed in random positions, a spark contrast to the ordered evidence markers placed next to them. Shell casings, blood splatter, and the murder weapon itself had also been marked. The JTF was fast and thorough.
“Nice of you guys to make it.” The familiar voice of Captain Jane Geary, head of the JTF, broke Chris’s focus on the bodies and the crime scene.
“Sorry, we got stuck in traffic.” Chris fought to keep his face passive, anxious to conceal his feelings of distrust toward Geary.
“Okay, well, I appreciate you guys showing up.” Geary placed a hand on Chris’s shoulder. “Just take care of yourself, okay?”
“I’m fine.” Chris kept his voice and face neutral, but couldn’t help tensing when she touched him. “Honestly.”
Chris wondered if her concern was genuine. She’d spent the last few months riding his ass for suggesting there was a link between several of the killings they’d worked. The JTF was scheduled to be shut down, so he doubted she wanted a serial killer on the books. She’d had success with the task force and was looking for her next promotion.
“Just making sure.” Geary lowered her hand and then nodded at both Chris and Manny. “I’ve got to get back. I just wanted to make sure things were under control here.”
Chris watched Geary walk away, trying to hold it together. As soon as she was out of sight he felt the nausea in the pit of his stomach worsened. His troubles with Geary were one thing, but being reminded about the basis of her concern rocked him – the night he’d found his girlfriend murdered in her own home.
Chris pushed the door open, a bunch of flowers in one hand and the keys to his apartment in the other. The lights inside were blazing and the heat was on, which meant Tamara was home. He called out to her, but she didn’t respond…
“You good, Chris?”
Chris blinked and looked up. Manny was watching him, a look of concern on his face. He was one of the few people on the JTF who knew the whole story about Tamara. He was also one of the few people who knew Chris’s theory about that night and many of the other murders they were working.
“I’m good.” Chris lied. He couldn’t tell Manny what he was really thinking: that he was less interested in these murders than the other ones. “Let’s get to work.”
Chris didn’t want to work this case, but he had a job to do. He’d already clocked a full day and now he was in for a long night. After that, he’d put in a few hours off the books working on his own p
roject. His desire to find the serial killer was like an itch he desperately wanted to scratch, but couldn’t right now.
His answers would have to wait.
4
Ashley
Ashley sat with her head in her hands and her back against the concrete wall, doing her best to ignore the other people in the holding cell. They were a noisy and chaotic mix of addicts, drunks, and minor criminals who hadn’t yet been bailed out. She didn’t think she belonged here, but here she was.
For the past twelve hours Ashley had kept to herself, struggling to keep it together. She had seen Lucy for only a few moments, but now it felt like she had been away from her daughter a lifetime. She didn’t know what she was being charged with, but the arresting officers had accused her of trying to kidnap Lucy.
She didn’t understand how that could be. She’d made a poor choice in trying to take Lucy, but she wasn’t a criminal. She was Lucy’s mother.
After another hour or so, a booming male voice cut through the noise of the holding cell. “I’m after Ashley Wheeler!”
Ashley looked up, squinting against the light. The other personalities in the holding cell were looking at each other, trying to work out which one of them would be back on the street shortly. Feeling self-conscious, Ashley stood and shuffled over to the police officer. She waited, and didn’t speak.
“Ashley Wheeler?” The cop raised an eyebrow, looking down at his clipboard and then back up at Ashley.
“Yes.” Ashley’s voice was soft. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“Come with me please.” The cop clearly wasn’t interested in her questions.
Ashley thought about pressing for information, but decided it was pointless. She kept quiet as the cop flashed a thumbs-up to a security camera. The cell door unlocked with a clunk. The cop slid it open and gestured for Ashley to exit the cell. Without looking back, she followed the police officer down the corridor.
Ashley hoped she was being escorted to freedom. Not that she deserved it. She’d reflected on her decisions and now realized she’d made a poor one. Though her motives in trying to re-unite with Lucy were pure, she’d almost lost everything. She had to make better choices.
Her hopes of freedom were short lived. The cop wasn’t walking her toward the exit. Instead, he deposited her in an interview room and left without a word. She was alone, but the interview room was quieter and less frightening than the holding cell. She closed her eyes, controlled her breathing and waited for whatever came next.
The sound of the door opening woke Ashley. It was no surprise she’d fallen asleep, given she’d been awake almost twenty-four hours. She looked up as two cops walked into the room, one with a look as hard as granite, the other with a kinder face. She sat back and waited to see what they wanted from her.
The kinder-looking cop sat down first, placing a coffee cup down in front of himself and another in front of Ashley. He smiled. “Figured you could use this.”
Still trying to wake up, Ashley took a sip of the coffee and savored its warmth. “Thanks for that.”
“Here’s the deal, Ms Wheeler,” the other cop spoke for the first time. “I’m Sergeant Fasano, he’s Officer Wilson, and we don’t like having our time wasted.”
Ashley gripped the coffee with two hands as her gaze flickered between them. She swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
Fasano fixed Ashley with a hard stare. “We know you’re an important witness in a bigshot mob case. We get it – witness protection is terrible, Connecticut sucks, and you miss your daughter. But you can’t slip away from witness protection, catch a train to New York, try to take your girl, and put yourself in danger.”
Ashley sighed. The cops had clearly spoken to the two US Marshals responsible for guarding her. They’d pieced together how she’d climbed out of a bathroom window, hitched a ride to a train station, and made it to New York. They also clearly knew about the danger she faced in the City.
“I—”
Fasano held up a hand, cutting Ashley off before she’d had a chance to speak. “No, Ms Wheeler, now is the time to listen.”
“Okay.” Ashley let go of the coffee cup and placed both hands on her knees. “I’m listening.”
“Great.” Fasano’s voice suggested otherwise. “You’re free to go, with a few conditions. First, poor Wilson here will take time away from his busy job and his lovely family to drive you all the way back to Connecticut. Second, you’ll return to witness protection and stop trying to escape. Third, you’ll turn up to court a few weeks from now and sing for the US Attorney.”
Ashley breathed a sigh of relief. Though it burned her to the core that she was still separated from Lucy, being in prison wouldn’t fix that. The deal on the table was the best she’d get. Though every taste she’d had of the legal system had turned to ashes in her mouth, she was glad to avoid charges. A stern talking to sure beat a cell and felony charges.
She nodded. “Okay.”
Wilson spoke for the first time since handing her the coffee. “Fourth condition is that you take care of yourself once you’re back in Connecticut. You’re a mess, Ashley, and you’re not helping anyone in this condition. We don’t have a view on your family situation, but a whole lot of us want Saul Laverri put away for life.”
Ashley preferred Fasano’s hard-man treatment to Wilson’s kind words, which pierced whatever flimsy barricades she’d put in place to protect herself. She placed a hand over her face to hide the sobs that racked her body, overwhelmed by a lack of sleep and the sheer ache of missing her daughter.
They let her cry. After a few moments Fasano excused himself, but Wilson stayed. After a while, Ashley regained her composure. She looked up at Wilson, feeling broken, but was touched to see him smiling at her. There was no hint of the judgment or the harshness she’d expected.
“Ready to go?” Wilson stood. “It’s a few hours’ drive, but you can sleep in the car. If you’re lucky, we might catch someone speeding.”
Ashley wiped her nose and offered a weak smile. “Can I shoot out his tires?”
“Don’t push it.” Wilson laughed. “Let’s go.”
Ashley followed him out of the interview room, through the station, and to Wilson’s vehicle. Wilson opened the passenger door and Ashley climbed in. As soon as she was inside, she buckled up and closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure what came next, but she hoped she’d make better decisions than she had in the past few days.
She was asleep before Wilson opened the driver’s side door.
5
Duncan
Duncan removed the blindfold covering the woman’s eyes. “Hello, Bridget.”
He enjoyed the look in her eyes as she let out a squeal that was mostly suppressed by the gag Duncan had forced into her mouth. Her eyes widened, her nostrils flared, and her breathing became quick and shallow. Though she’d been tied to the chair for hours, this was the first time she’d seen him.
It was fun to watch the fear playing out across her face. It was like the finest art. Duncan smiled at the sight, but she couldn’t see that. All she could see was a masked man inches from her face. Bound to a kitchen chair, and gagged, she had no way to escape or cry out. The effect was perfect.
“I hope you made peace with your husband, Bridget.” Duncan’s voice was calm, but her reaction wasn’t. “Because you’ll never see him again.”
Her squirming and squealing grew more insistent as Duncan leaned in close and licked her on the forehead. Though the balaclava put a layer of material between them, he enjoyed the reaction his gesture elicited. She thrashed violently, her head jerking away from him as if he’d just violated her in a far more severe way. Duncan laughed as he straightened up.
He walked over to the kitchen, still getting used to the layout of her apartment. Though he’d watched her through the windows for weeks, this was his first time inside. The interior of the apartment was decorated just as he’d expected, cold and expensive. There was no warmth here, no sense of home.
“How could you?” Duncan spoke to himself, asking a question she was unable to answer. “There’s no way this could be a nice place for your husband. You treated him like shit, disrespected and hurt him. You even fucked another man in his bed.”
Duncan ignored the muffled screams from behind him. Even if he could understand her, there was no answer she could give that would satisfy him. He ran a gloved hand over her benchtops, opened cupboards and drawers, deciding how best to give her the justice she deserved. He wanted to take his time.
Getting her back here had gone flawlessly. The blow to her head in the park had knocked her out, but she’d started to come to in the rental car he’d bundled her into. He’d reassured her, explaining that her husband had assaulted her and he was taking her home. She’d believed him and relaxed instantly.
It had never occurred to her to ask how he knew where she lived. When they’d arrived at her place, he’d offered to walk her to her door. In the elevator on the way to her apartment, she’d thanked him and started to cry. The shock of the assault and the thought that her husband was responsible had apparently hit her hard.
Though not as hard as his fist to her face once her door was unlocked.
She’d gone out cold again and Duncan had bundled her inside, tied her to a chair with pantyhose, using another pair to stuff in her mouth. He’d left her there for hours, using the time to search the rest of her apartment, completing his mental picture of her. He was satisfied he’d got it right.
As he opened the top drawer and selected a large kitchen knife, Duncan wondered what would happen if, one day, one of his victims genuinely repented. If that ever occurred, he might consider leniency, but it never had. They usually screamed, begged, and moaned for him to leave them alone. It was wasted breath.
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