by Sam Harding
He came to a stop for the only traffic light in town, the SUV sliding about a foot on the frozen road. He took this time to turn in his seat to assess his cargo in the back, the boy was gagged with a dirty rag and hogtied with zip ties, laying on his stomach across the leather seats. Tears streamed down his freckled face and snot bubbled at his nose with each exhale. David curled his upper lip at the boy, disgusted by what he saw.
Vile little demon.
David wasn’t sure who this boy’s father was, but he had been told he was a very capable man, one whom had hunted his Master to near capture years ago. David had been warned not to underestimate the man and to always be on his guard, leaving David to wonder even more why he hadn’t been allowed to just kill the boy and get it over with.
The will of God, he reminded himself. And speaking of God’s will, David knew his purpose on Earth could not be ignored, not even for today. Although he was certain he’d get his chance to kill the young demon tonight and put him on display after his father’s failed attempts find him, David had urges that he very much doubted could wait that long. And why should he? With the blizzard raging outside, David was certain he could kill whomever he pleased without ever raising suspicion from anybody until the weather cleared, and by then, he’d be long gone and onto whatever new mission awaited him.
Today was the beginning of the end, the day David was to kill the youngest in the bloodline of Lucifer, the first steps in the foreseen battle for Earth. The book of Revelation was about to begin, and the killing of this boy was how it would start – with the warrior of God striking the first blow. So then, why not kill as many demons as he pleased while he tormented the Devil with the capture of his son? Why not use the downtime until six o’clock productively and rid the world of as many creatures of the underworld as possible?
David smiled at this thought as the light ahead turned green. The big SUVs tires spun a little on the ice before gaining traction, and then he was on his way again.
As he drove through the town, David noticed that even in the blizzard, some people were still outside. Most were coming in and out of restaurants, that, of course, were more famous for their bar selection than their food. Just a bunch of stumbling Christmas Eve drunks without a family back home that cared for them – the perfect targets for David to pick from.
Even though the Demon Slayer drove well under the speed limit due to the weather conditions, he was through the tiny city in no time. He sped up to about forty miles-per-hour once he hit the sixty zone, and continued along the main highway for a few more minutes until he pulled off onto a side road leading through a clump of snow-covered pine trees and then down a gradual hill towards the river.
The primitive road he had pulled off on had at least six inches of snow piled onto it, but the large SUV with thick snow tires bullied through it without much effort, and, after a few more minutes, a large structure of concrete and metal came into view through the snowfall; the roof was entirely covered in a thick blanket of snow with long icicles hanging from the end of the sheet metal. A good portion of the windows running the length of the outer upper wall had been broken out, and the large rollup door in front was caved inward, making it all but useless. The warehouse, originally known as the Cedar Falls Storehouse, had once been used to store apples and then later became an antique shop, and then had been abandoned in the 1950s due to being structurally unsound after a violent windstorm swept through the valley. Oddly enough, the building had never been torn down and rebuilt stronger, nor had it ever actually collapsed since it’s construction in 1906. But, even still, most locals avoided going inside of it, certain that if they did, that would be when the structure finally decided to fall.
As far as David was concerned, the place was absolutely perfect. As per usual, his Master had chosen well.
The Demon Slayer pulled the large SUV in front of the damaged rollup door and threw the vehicle into park. He hopped out of the driver seat, opened the rear passenger door and grabbed the little boy by both of his upturned ankles. As expected, the little demon started to squirm, although not very much due to the tight restraints. David pulled hard and the boy slid across the leather seats, literally ejecting from the back seat and landing on his face and stomach in the thick snow, nearly hitting his head on the doorframe of the SUV with mere inches to spare.
In a violent rage, David bent down and grabbed hold of the restraints connecting the boy’s wrists to his feet, and hefted him up like a heavy piece of luggage. The sudden strain on the boy’s joints caused him to squeal in pain, but David ignored him as he drudged through the snow towards the service door adjacent to the damaged rollup one.
It was a relief for David once he opened the rusty door and stepped foot inside the warehouse. Although it was cold inside, the thin, metal walls at least were enough to break the wind-chill and shield him from most of the heavy snowfall. Snow blew inside from the broken windows high on the wall, but it wasn’t enough to cause David any real discomfort. And, besides, the boy was dressed in a thick winter jacket—something David had thought last minute to grab before heading here—so at least he wouldn’t die of hypothermia before David got his chance to cut him up.
David carried his cargo to the center of the warehouse where a metal loop was bolted into the ground. Originally, the loop had been an anchor point for when there had been tall shelves in the warehouse that needed to be chained to the ground to keep from tipping over, but now, David had other uses for it.
He carelessly dropped the boy onto the cold concrete, pulled a fixed blade from a sheath from underneath his pant-leg, and cut away the restraints binding the boy’s hands and feet together. He liked the idea of leaving the boy to suffer in the hog-tied position, but David was afraid if left in that position for too long, the boy would eventually suffocate, so instead, he took a new set of ties from his coat pocket, looped them together around the metal loop in the ground, and then cinched the ties down around the boy’s wrists before he decided to fight back or try to get away. Now, seated cross-legged on the cold concrete ground, the boy would be able to breath, but still be unable to get away.
David looked into the boy’s misty eyes and said, “Do you know why you’re here?”
Timidly, the boy shook his head.
“You’re here, because of what you are.” David ran the backside of his hand down the boy’s wet cheek, feeling the young demon tremble beneath his fingers. “Demons like you and your father cannot be allowed to live in God’s world. You see, God has sent me to not only kill you, but your father as well.”
Although only seven years old, Thomas Donovan knew he was in grave danger and he most certainly did not want to die. The tears came harder now, and the snot bubbles expanded and popped at a much faster rate. All he wanted now was for his father to save him, for his father to come wake him up from this moment that surely had to be some sort of nightmare.
“But, alas,” David continued, “we must be patient.” He stood to full height and headed for the open door at the end of the empty warehouse. It was time for him to hunt. “I’ve got to run an errand, please don’t go anywhere.”
Thomas watched as the man danced towards the raging blizzard outside, his wicked laughs echoing off the metal walls of the warehouse until they were silenced by the closing of the door behind him.
And with that, Thomas was left alone. The only thing to keep him company were the sounds of the whipping winds outside, his rushed breathing, and the thumping of his own heartbeat.
He had never missed his father more in his entire little life.
CHAPTER THIRTY
11:07 A.M.
Kate’s apartment is located in a brick building overlooking the park in Solace City. From the second story window, I can see the frozen pond below, collecting a thick layer of snow from the relentless blizzard. Normally a place filled with good memories, all the park reminds me of now is the journal found in Alexander Irving’s guest bedroom and the written name of the old man who had been stabbed to death
here only a few days ago on one of the park benches. His name had been Ronald Quaid, an eighty-four-year-old retiree with two daughters and seven grandkids.
“What is this place?” I ask, turning away from the window to take in the white and gray and stainless-steel studio.
“It’s my own place for some peace and quiet,” Kate replies, standing next to the kitchen counter, staring at me as if she’s worried I’m about to jump from the window. “Not even dad knows about it – up until a few days ago, I’d actually enjoyed the view of the park.”
I nod and, to ease her mind, I move away from the window and turn my gaze to the paintings on the wall. I’m not really paying attention to them, though, not really caring who painted them or the style in which they were done. My mind is solely on my son.
Seven hours left.
“I should have never taken your father’s money,” I say. “I should have walked away, just as I’d promised myself I was going to do years ago.” My eyes begin to mist over again, and I wipe at them with the sleeve of my jacket.
“No,” Kate says, stepping forward and placing a hand on my shoulder. “You did the right thing –”
“How?”
“Micah, if someone doesn’t stop this monster, he’ll never stop killing. You understand that, right?”
“Of course I fucking understand that, Kate.”
“Then you know you didn’t make a mistake. You’ve come the closest anyone ever has to catching him – and he knows that. Taking Thomas? That’s him scrambling for control that he’s afraid he’s going to lose with you chasing him again.”
“What are you, a doctor now?”
“No, but I’ve lived with one my whole life. You can snap at me all you want, Micah, but the fact of the matter is, you’re Thomas’s only hope. Whether you want to regret taking the job or not, it doesn’t matter anymore. You’re in it and you need to focus.”
“He’s all I’ve got, Kate,” I say, my tears flowing harder now. “I can’t lose him.”
“Then let’s figure this out,” she squeezes my shoulder even rougher now. “Together.”
“Do you have anything to drink?”
“I don’t think that –”
“Kate, I can’t even think right now. Do you have anything or not?”
She moves away from me and walks across her living room to the kitchen area. I watch as she opens a cupboard and pulls down a clear bottle with two glasses. I’m not much of a vodka drinker, but right now I’d take almost anything just to help me think straight. I feel like I should be moving, like I should be out looking for him, but the more rational part of my brain is, so far, prevailing, telling me I need to calm down and think things through instead of wandering aimlessly through a blizzard in search of Thomas.
I take one of the glasses and down the liquid in one swallow, wincing as it burns its way down my throat and into my chest, and then plop down on a black leather couch underneath one of the bizarre paintings. I hold the glass out and let Kate refill it before she, too, takes a seat next to me.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I just – I just don’t know what to do, Kate. I thought nothing could be worse than what happened three years ago – but today – today –” I stop talking and take another drink. Pull yourself the fuck together.
“We’ll figure this out.”
I take another drink, thinking back on the bloody message on the wall. “Something’s wrong,” I say, my mind finally able to grab onto something.
Kate looks at me with a yeah, no shit expression, but doesn’t say anything. Instead she sits silently, waiting for me to formulate whatever it is I’m trying to say. She’s seeing me at my worst right now, and yet, she’s more patient with me than I think I could be if I was in her shoes.
“The message on the wall.”
“What about it?”
“He referred to me as the ‘Son of Lucifer’. He’s never done that before – I mean, never in five years has he used any kinds of religious context or symbolism.” I think silently for a moment and then add, “He’s also never taken a hostage, never played games with the family of the victim. This is different. Something is off, Kate.”
“Maybe he considers you to be special?”
I nod. “I think that’s part of it. We have history together – only he knows way more about me than I do him. He’s been ahead of me every step of the way, Kate.”
“Which is why you think he’s a cop?”
I nod again. “It makes the most sense, right? But still, the religious text. I don’t understand it. The last time we – the last time we met, he only acted. He didn’t leave a note, he didn’t try to communicate, he just acted. I don’t think he said two words to me the entire time. Why change it now? Why does that one encounter make me special?”
“Because, you’re the one that got away. You and Thomas both are. He sees you as an adversary just as much as he does his prey.”
“Maybe,” I say, my voice trailing off as I think about it. I still can’t help but think about the cop angle and, no matter how hard I try to remain objective, my thoughts keep turning to William Blake. If anyone makes the most sense, it’s him. But still, I have no proof, and hating the son of a bitch is not anything remotely close to proof. “All I know is, I can’t trust anybody Kate, except for you. The people I thought were on my side – I’m just not so sure anymore.”
She nods. “Tell me about that day, Micah.”
“What?”
“Three years ago. Tell me what happened, you never have before.”
“What, now?” Why the fuck would she ask me to relive that on top of what I’m already going through?
“I know it doesn’t seem reasonable for me to ask this of you, but just please. Walk me through it. You say there’s nobody you can trust, that you think someone you used to work for or used to work with could be the killer. Retell the story of three years ago and maybe something will come to mind. Maybe you’ll remember something you’ve forgotten.”
“Kate, I remember every second of that moment. I –”
“Then tell me.” She leans close to me and kisses me softly on the lips. “Trust me.”
I take another drink, finishing off my second glass, and then take another deep breath. “Fine. But I’m going to need more vodka.”
*
Three Years Ago
It was early in the morning and I’d just gotten out of bed to get ready for work. Dani didn’t want me to work today, but my partner Jason and I had decided long ago that Christmas Eve was not a day we would dare miss. If the pattern was to repeat itself, today would be the third year in a row the killer would plague Solace, leaving behind the severed and battered corpse of an unfortunate child. Jason and I had dreaded this day all year, and it wasn’t lost on us that in the past 365 days, our investigation had barely gotten anywhere. Sure, we’d managed to check off a variety of suspects, but not once had we come close to pinning down the killer himself. Not even the FBI, who’d sent in Special Agents from the Spokane office, could provide any real help, which to be fair, really wasn’t saying much.
I walked into the bathroom and started the shower, letting it heat up before getting inside. As the water heated, I went to the mirror above the sink and ran my electric razor across my face, getting rid of my usual morning stubble. After putting my electric razor away, I checked the clock on the wall above the door and saw Jason was due to arrive within the next half an hour.
My unmarked duty vehicle was in the shop; unfortunately, the day before, I’d creamed a deer on my way to interview a suspect in a theft case I’d been working on for the past couple of days. Because of my head-on collision with the now very dead deer, I now relied on my partner to get me to the office in the morning and back home safely at the end of the day, at least until my rig got fixed up.
I got into the shower and let the steaming hot water hit me at full stream. I always took hot showers, it’s something I’ve done since my time in the infantry. Some of my most miserable memori
es involve being cold and wet, pulling guard in a rain or snow-soaked hole during a training exercise in Germany or Slovenia during the winter, so I guess when I left the military, I’d gone out of my way to make sure if I was going to be wet, I sure as hell wasn’t going to be cold, and if I was going to be cold, I sure as hell wasn’t going to be wet. Obviously since becoming a cop, I’d been cold and wet plenty, but not if I had anything to say about it, at least.
With my mind preoccupied with thoughts of my past days and of work, on top of the sound of the running water disrupting my hearing, I never heard my front door get kicked in. I never heard my wife scream for help. What I did hear, was the booming of a twelve-gauge shotgun vibrate through the house. I felt my blood run cold despite the hot water and jumped out of the shower without bothering to turn it off.
I nearly slipped on the wet floor as I sprinted out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. Still naked, I grabbed my duty Glock 21 from the top of my dresser and stepped out into the living room, my weapon up and ready to fire. But, instead of looking for threats, my eyes were drawn downward to the floor in front of me, and it took everything I had to not scream out in horror.
Dani, my beautiful wife, was laying on her back in a pool of blood. The right side of her head looked as if someone had taken it away with a giant icecream scoop, her blood and brains pouring out onto the dark floor. A spent 12-gauge shotgun shell sat upright at her feet, smoke still coming from its opening.
The shock of the scene before me had completely taken away my situational awareness. It was like I’d been sucked into a vacuum—into a world where only my wife’s dead body existed. I was in a daze until the sound of breaking glass caught my attention, and I turned to see my four-year-old son literally run through the safety glass of the sliding glass door, shattering it into a million pieces. I saw a black-clad figure chasing him, and then realized Thomas had ran through the window out of a sense of animalistic fear.