Drake had no idea what they—Colin and the others—were doing on the floor, but he had to be ready to act.
Dropping to one knee, he crawled toward the door, staying low to avoid being seen through the glass pane carved out of the wood.
With his ear near the entrance, he realized that someone inside was speaking.
A male voice. He paused to listen.
“How could you, Ryanne? How could you do this?”
Drake leaned even closer, trying to block out the storm by covering the ear furthest from the opening.
“I never thought…” the man sobbed. “You’ve ruined everything. My life, your life… the kids…”
The female voice that replied was nasal, as if her nose had been recently broken.
“You’re such a fucking pussy… I had to do something, had to make money somehow. You’re just pissed that I wrote something in a few hours that sold more than you have in your entire pathetic life.”
This was followed by more sobs, and although Drake couldn’t see who was crying, he knew it had to be Colin.
But the third person… who is that? And why aren’t they speaking?
“Why, Ryanne?” Colin whined. “How could you do something like this? You’ve… you’ve… killed people. Innocent people.”
A wild cackle ensued.
“You said it yourself, ‘write what you know’. I stole your stupid notebook, and you didn’t even notice. I took notes, wrote every detail about the girls… about how they screamed when I cut them. About how at first, they all tried to be tough. But in the end, they all cried. They all whined and pleaded and begged for their lives. They were pathetic, just like you. And you know what the best part is? When the police come, they’re going to come for you. I even mailed the stories to a detective, with your fingerprints all over it. They’re going to pin this on you, Colin.” More laughter. “What do they call that? Irony, I think. Yeah, irony.”
Drake could take it no more. He rose to his feet and then fumbled to pull the gun from the back of his jeans.
They had it wrong; Chase and Agent Stitts had it wrong.
This whole time they were looking for a man, but it was a woman who had committed the horrific murders, written the macabre tales.
The gun felt like a cinder block in his hands, but something in his gut told him that he was running out of time.
He had to act.
Drake pushed the door wide and aggressively strode into the cottage.
“NYPD!” he shouted out of habit. “Don’t move!”
He had intended to sound authoritative, but like the rest of him, his vocal chords were frozen and his words came out in a pathetic wheeze.
And yet it did the trick.
All eyes were suddenly on him and his gun.
The scene that unfolded before Drake took what little breath that remained in his frigid lungs away.
Colin was sitting on the floor, his wife’s head cradled in his lap. Blood streamed from her nose and mouth, and one eye was bruised so badly that it was completely closed.
Behind them he spotted a woman he didn’t recognize, bound and gagged.
And shivering.
Part IV, Drake couldn’t help but think. Red Smile PART IV.
Colin stared at him with wet eyes.
“I didn’t want any of this,” he whimpered. “I didn’t want—”
It was only then that Drake realized Colin was holding the sharp edge of a knife to Ryanne’s throat.
“Put the knife down!” he yelled, this time with more gusto. “Put the knife down, Colin, or I’ll shoot.”
Colin was so lost in his own head that he didn’t seem to hear him.
“All I wanted was to be happy, to write books and spend time with my family. I didn’t want any of this.”
Colin broke into full body sobs, and under normal circumstances, Drake would have seized this opportunity to lunge at him.
But he didn’t trust his fatigued and frozen limbs. Instead, he simply waved the gun.
“Colin, if you don’t put the knife down, I’ll have no choice but to shoot you. Think about what you’re doing… you have kids, and you can still spend time with them. If that’s what you really want, put the knife down.”
This time, Colin took notice.
“It’s ruined. Everything’s ruined.” A small indent appeared on Ryanne’s throat as Colin applied more pressure with the knife tip. “She ruined everything.”
Drake swallowed hard.
“Colin, please, think—”
“I know how to write a book… I do. I write good books; people like them.”
The bound and gagged woman suddenly moaned and started to squirm, drawing Drake’s attention.
She was like the others—like Tanya and Melissa and Charlotte and the other girl, the one hanging from the goalpost. She looked exhausted and terrified, her arms marked with crisscrossed scars.
If he hadn’t arrived, Drake knew that it wouldn’t have been long before her lips were also marked with blood.
“I know what people want!” Colin suddenly shouted. “A twist ending! Everyone wants a fucking twist ending!”
“Colin, no!” Drake yelled, but he was too late.
Colin ground his teeth and drove the knife into the soft skin beneath Ryanne’s chin.
This time Drake lunged, but he was too slow. Hot blood sprayed from the wound, coating Colin’s hands and forearms.
Ryanne started to thrash and sputter as Drake approached.
He knew that he should fire, that he should take out Colin Elliot before he pulled the knife all the way across his wife’s throat, taking with it any chance of saving her life.
But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
As Ryanne’s eyes rolled back in her head, he found himself focusing on her face.
She was no longer a person, despite the blood that soaked the floor beneath Drake’s feet.
She was something else.
She was Dr. Mark Kruk.
She was Craig Sloan.
Ryanne Elliot was the Skeleton King.
A ruthless, heartless murderer who deserved her fate for what she had done to Clay Cuthbert, to Dr. Eddie Larringer, Dr. Tracey Moorfield, Tanya Farthing, Melissa Green.
To him.
For what the Skeleton King had done to Damien Drake.
Chapter 68
Chase nearly slammed into the back of Drake’s Crown Vic as she pulled up to the Elliot cottage.
She hopped out, gun drawn, and burled through the snow toward the side porch.
Halfway there, she came to a full stop.
“Drake?” she asked, heart pounding. “Drake? You okay?”
The man on the porch lifted his head and stared up at her with bleary eyes.
Chase ran to him, and then stopped again when she realized that there was someone resting on his lap. She was so tightly wrapped in blankets, that it was hard to make out her face, but for a split-second, Chase thought that it was Ryanne Elliot in Drake’s arms.
“Get away from her!” she cried. “Get away!”
Agent Stitts hurried up the stairs, beating her to the punch.
“It’s not her,” he said. “It’s not Ryanne.”
Drake nodded.
“It was her next victim—but he got here just in time.”
Agent Stitts bent down and picked up the girl. Drake didn’t resist.
“She’s alive,” Stitts said, as he made his way toward Chase’s car. “We have to keep her warm.”
Chase nodded and felt relief wash over her. They hadn’t even known that another woman was missing, but she was safe now.
Her solace was short-lived, however, when she realized that the killer was still on the loose.
Grasping her pistol with two hands now, Chase bounded past Drake, staying low as she scanned the interior of the cottage.
“She’s dead,” Drake said at the same moment that her eyes fell on the woman lying in the center of the room, her body surrounded by a pool of blood.<
br />
“Oh my god,” Chase whispered. “What happened?”
Drake’s words echoed in her head.
He got here just in time… But who’s he?
Drake, with no emotion in his voice, his eyes still locked straight ahead, replied, “I was too late—I got here too late. Colin was already gone.”
Chase breathed deeply.
“What? Where is he now?”
Drake shook his head.
“I don’t know, but he’s gone. I doubt we’ll ever find him. But Ryanne’s dead, Chase. She was the one writing the books, killing the women.”
He pulled a small black notebook from beneath the blankets that were draped over his shoulders and held it out to her.
She took it, noting that his hands were shaking badly.
“We need to get your warm, Drake. You’re going to freeze to death out here.”
But even before the puffs of warm air that accompanied her words dissipated, a strong feeling suddenly came over her.
A gut instinct that she just couldn’t ignore.
That’s what he wants, Chase thought with horrible sadness. That’s what Drake wants.
Chapter 69
Drake looked down at his phone, and stared at the video of Dr. Kildare and his campaign manager, their lips pressed together. The doctor swept the papers off his desk and propped her on top of it. As the video continued to play, Drake raised his eyes to look at the condo building before him.
He felt dirty, he felt wrong.
Drake was reminded of his night with Jasmine, and thought about how he would feel if someone had caught them on tape. In that moment, he felt a strange kinship with Dr. Kildare, even though they had never met.
The doctor was having an affair, and he had had an affair with Jasmine. It didn’t matter that Clay was dead while the doctor’s wife was very much alive.
He had broken his friend’s trust, his honor.
And this shame ran deep.
“I can’t do this,” he whispered. And then, before he lost his nerve, he glanced down at his phone again.
The woman was on her back, her shirt open revealing pale breasts while the doctor kissed her hungrily.
Drake felt sick to his stomach.
His thumb hovered over the garbage bin icon, but only for a split-second.
He pressed it, and with that, the video disappeared.
Drake wiped a tear from his cheek, then he left his car and made his way toward the building.
***
“You sure you don’t want something to drink, Drake?”
Drake shook his head.
“I’m fine.”
Ken Smith nodded.
“And do you have something for me?”
Drake pictured Ivan Meitzer’s bruised and battered face and Raul’s bloodied knuckles.
Ken did this for you, Drake.
“I don’t,” he said, aware that Raul had crept up behind him as he spoke.
Ken Smith’s expression soured as he took another sip of scotch. He paused, swirled the liquid, then looked up at him.
“You sure?”
Drake held the man’s gaze.
“I’m sure. If I find anything I’ll let you know.”
Ken Smith’s cheek twitched, but then he turned his attention back to his drink.
Drake’s eyes narrowed. He had expected more, outrage perhaps, or, in the very least, to be berated.
And yet, this silence was somehow worse.
“What about our other situation? The Sergeant?” Ken said at last.
Drake felt anger flash inside him, but he forced it away.
“She’s good,” he said.
Ken raised an eyebrow.
“We won’t be having any further issues with her?”
Drake’s gaze didn’t falter.
“She’s good,” he repeated.
Ken nodded.
“You can go,” he said.
Drake nodded and turned to leave, shoving by Raul in the process.
The elevator opened and he stepped inside.
“We’ll be in touch, Drake,” Ken Smith said from his chair. “I’ll contact you soon.”
Drake scowled.
I bet you will, he thought as the elevator doors closed.
***
“What should we do with him?” Raul asked when Drake was gone.
Ken Smith clipped the end of his cigar, took a dry pull and then struck a match.
As he waited for the sulfur to burn off, he turned his attention to the photographs that Raul had laid on the table in front of him.
His eyes skipped across the images of Drake in Dr. Kildare’s campaign office, first looking back as he opened the door, then the zoomed images of him setting up the camera. Then he stared at Drake hovering over Ivan Meitzer’s slumped form, his fists furled, the man’s face bruised.
Ken scooped up his cell phone next and pressed the play button. Dr. Kildare appeared in the frame, first kissing then caressing his campaign manager.
Drake had given them what they wanted, even if he had gotten cold feet at the last moment. After all, he had set up the camera.
Ken brought the flame to his cigar and watched the wrapper turn a dark gray.
“Should we deal with him?” Raul asked.
Ken leaned forward and picked up the finger bone that Raul had retrieved from Dr. Kildare’s office, and wrapped it in a tight fist.
“No,” he said, without looking up. “We still need him.”
With the video that they had procured, the election was as good as won.
Which meant that they were ready to enact stage two of the plan.
“He’ll come back to us, and we still need him,” Ken said absently. He raised his eyes and stared at Raul. “But I think it’s time for you to make some calls. We need to prepare for what’s next. We need to think about bringing Dane in.”
Raul’s mustache twitched.
“You sure? Even before Drake is on board?”
Ken took a long, slow pull on his cigar, and watched the smoke drift toward the ceiling.
“It’s time, Raul. Make the call.”
Raul nodded and left the room.
The next stage is upon us, Ken thought as he brought the cigar to his lips. And New York City better be ready.
Epilogue
Drake sipped his drink and then turned to face Chase. She was smiling at him, her pretty face lighting up for the first time in as long as he could remember.
“Why are you so happy?” he said over the obnoxious music pounding from the speakers.
Chase shrugged.
“I wouldn’t say I’m happy, not exactly.”
“Then what is it?”
“I dunno. I’m just amazed by you, is all.”
Drake turned back to the bar, noticing that Mickey, who was pretending to be drying a glass, was looking at him out of the corner of his eye.
“You getting soft on me, boss?”
“No—but you seem to…” she paused. “You just have a round-about way of doing things, you know? But you get there in the end.”
An image of the blade slicing across Ryanne’s throat came to mind, but he forced it away.
“Not exactly.”
This put an end to the line of conversation, and for a several minutes, Chase and Drake enjoyed their respective drinks without speaking.
“There’s an opening as Sergeant at 62nd precinct, you know,” Chase said at last.
Drake sputtered.
“You’re shitting me, right? I’d rather scoop my eyes out with a rusty spoon than take that job. If they’d have me, of course, which is about as likely as making bacon from pigeon meat.”
Chase threw her head back and laughed, and Drake stared at her. She looked beautiful beneath Barney’s eclectic lighting.
Drake couldn’t look away, even when she stopped laughing. She caught him staring, and he flushed.
“What? You going to miss me or something?” she said in a soft tone that was barely audible over the musi
c.
Drake smirked and took a sip of his drink, enjoying the way it burned his throat.
“Something like that, yeah. I can’t believe that the FBI is going to take you on, though. You. I mean, come on, don’t they have standards? Or is this just some feminist outreach program?”
Chase smiled.
“Well, apparently, my skills outweigh my poor decision making—which consists mainly of being friends with you.”
With that, she raised her glass and Drake cheersed her.
There was another short silence, before Chase said, “I’m going to miss you, too, Drake. But here’s the thing about chasing bad guys; we’re bound to come across each other again eventually.”
“Touché,” Drake said, turning back to Mickey while he finished his drink. The glass felt strange in his frostbitten hand, and the irony of having a burn on his cheek while his hands were frozen was not lost on him.
“Hey, Mickey, you just gonna gawk all day or fill me up?” He turned to Chase, “What’s—”
But Chase was no longer there. Her seat was empty and her glass half full.
“—with this guy?”
Drake lifted his eyes in time to see Chase slipping between the two bouncers guarding Barney’s entrance.
“Yeah, I’m going to miss you, too,” he whispered.
Mickey came over and filled his glass.
“The one that got away,” he said with a wry smile.
“The one I never—”
But his phone rang and Drake paused, pulling it from his pocket. When he saw the word UNLISTED on the screen, he frowned. His first instinct was that it was Ken Smith again, who was probably the last person on earth he wanted to speak to right then, but then he thought that it might be Screech calling from the Virgin Islands or wherever the hell he was ‘working’ from.
In the end, it was neither.
“Hello?” he said.
A quiet, female voice answered.
“Drake? Thank god, I’ve been trying to reach you for days now.”
Drake’s spine suddenly straightened.
“Jasmine? Is everything all right? Is Suzan okay?”
The only sound on the other end of the line was heavy breathing.
Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 1 Page 73