The Last Commandment

by Scott Shepherd

  Grant took a closer look and quickly counted. Frankel was absolutely right.

  “You’re his next victim, Austin. It’s been about you all along.”

  Grant thought of the Tenth Commandment and said it out loud.

  “‘Thou shalt not covet any thing that is thy neighbor’s.’ How am I guilty of that?” asked Grant.

  “I guess we’ll have to ask him when we get there,” said Frankel.

  The attic was filled with pictures of her mother.

  Dozens of them. At every age from the time Allison was a teenager until the year that she passed away.

  The garret could have been a shrine.

  Rachel walked further into the room, unable to speak, wiping her eyes.

  She noticed something glistening on the night table beside the bed.

  It was a piece of glass that looked achingly familiar.

  Rachel crossed over and picked it up. It felt like she would pass out right then and there.

  It was the head to a glass unicorn. The one she’d made for her mother when she was in the fifth form.

  The same unicorn that had been smashed in the Maida Vale living room a couple of years ago.

  “She was supposed to be mine.”

  Rachel whirled around to find Everett standing in the doorway. He carried a wooden box in his hands and a dead-eyed expression on his face.

  “It was you?”

  She barely got the words out before she started to sob again.

  “She was supposed to be mine and your father took her away from me.”

  Then the monster, whom she’d known her entire life as her loving uncle, closed the door and began to move toward her.

  DECALOGUE

  Top of the World

  I

  Everett Grant hung up the phone; he couldn’t believe what his brother had just told him. How could that even be possible?

  Cancer?

  Allison had lung cancer and, according to her doctors, it was inoperable.

  Austin had delivered the news matter-of-factly, as if reciting crime statistics. Everett presumed that was his way of dealing with shock; stick to the cold, hard truth and don’t let others see how much it affects you.

  Didn’t matter. Everett was devastated enough for both of them.

  He had been in love with Allison for over thirty years—ever since he’d met her at an Oxford library, brought her home to meet his folks, and his brother had stolen her away from right under his nose.

  That hadn’t been how Austin portrayed it. For years, he’d dined out on the story that Everett and Allison hadn’t been serious, just friends. And that shortly after she’d called Austin in London to go for drinks, they couldn’t deny their magnetic attraction.

  An outright lie on his older sibling’s part.

  While Everett had been getting the teaching degree that would guarantee him a yearly salary, Austin had gotten Allison caught up in a whirlwind romance. By the time he went down to London with a university job and good intentions, Austin and Allison were engaged to be wed, before Everett had gotten the chance to get down on bended knee and propose.

  He was convinced that Austin had been aware of his desires and purposefully preyed on Allison, knowing he had a small window to dash Everett’s dreams. He was certain that Austin had meticulously plotted a course that would win her heart—getting back at Everett for besting him at countless endeavors throughout their childhood and adolescence.

  Everett had hated his brother ever since.

  But he had still been in love with Allison and realized it was better to have her in his life than not at all. He knew if he ever voiced his beliefs about Austin’s courtship and motives, Allison would have stuck by her husband. She was a loyal and loving woman—one of the many reasons Everett continued to adore her.

  So he’d remained a dutiful brother-in-law and favorite uncle once Rachel was born, hoping Allison would eventually realize Everett was the better man, that she’d fall out of love with Austin and he would be there to pick up the pieces.

  Over the years, he’d even entertained some sort of tragedy befalling his brother, imagining scenarios where he helped it along. But Everett couldn’t see any of those vicious endings through because he couldn’t stand the thought of Allison suffering. He loved her that much.

  As a result, he just waited, figuring Austin would pass first, either from the hazards of his profession or the stress of being an overworked male. Even if it had happened late in life, Everett would have taken her for however much time was left.

  Now, with this devastating diagnosis, he was going to be denied that as well.

  After delivering the news, Austin said he needed to go to Scotland on an investigation—and Everett knew he must go and see Allison.

  Looking back, he hadn’t shown up at the Maida Vale house with the intention of pouring out his heart. But he must have known it on some level, as he hadn’t told his brother he was going there in his absence.

  They sat on the living room couch where Allison served tea and scones. He commiserated on the horrid turn of events, saying what one does in such situations—how unfair life could be and there must be a way to get through this. Allison took his hand and said there was no hope for her. But she was certain they’d all be fine afterward and that caused Everett to fall apart.

  Suddenly, the woman he’d cherished with all his broken heart was comforting him—and three decades of holding everything back poured out of him.

  Everett told her he’d always loved her, how he’d do anything for Allison, how she should have been with him all these years, and that there was still time.

  Allison let go of his hand. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Everett.”

  “But I do.” He put his arms around her and started to plead with all of his misguided soul. “Let me take care of you—let me see you through this.”

  Tears formed in her eyes. “That’s impossible, Everett . . .”

  But he continued to pull her toward him. “Please, Allison . . .”

  He moved to kiss her, but she turned her head away. “Everett, no. Don’t . . .”

  She began to struggle in his arms, but Everett wouldn’t let go. He couldn’t. Not when, after all this time, he held her this close. “I love you so much, Allison.”

  He kissed her neck. Her cheek. Started pulling at her clothes—unable to stop himself.

  “No!” she cried out. And pushed him off her.

  Everett reached out to grab her again.

  But Allison backed away and smashed into the end table beside the sofa. She tumbled off it and there was a crash.

  A stunned Everett looked down to see Allison curled into a ball on the floor.

  And there was blood. It came from a nasty gash in her arm—caused by falling onto a glass unicorn figurine that had smashed into dozens of pieces.

  Snapping back to brutal reality, Everett bent down to check on her.

  “Allison, I’m so sorry . . .”

  She waved him away, her blood tricking on the floor. “I’ll be okay.”

  He offered a hand. “Let me help you up. Please.”

  She shook her head. “I can do this myself.”

  Not knowing what to do, Everett began to pick up broken pieces of glass.

  “Just leave them be, Everett. Please.”

  He looked down at her. “What can I do? Please, just tell me.”

  She sat up and used napkins to stanch the blood. “You need to go. Rachel is flying in and should be here any minute. I don’t want her to see me like this.”

  “Allison, I don’t know what to say . . .”

  “You must leave. Please.”

  The desperate look in her eyes left him no choice.

  Everett knew he would always do whatever she asked. He left.

  It wasn’t until he got home that he discovered the unicorn head in one of his pockets. He realized he must have put it there while cleaning up.

  He sat down and stared at the remnant of the figurine in h
is hand.

  And understood things would never be the same with him and Allison.

  He could feel what was left of his heart breaking.

  In the days that followed, Everett kept waiting for his brother or Rachel to confront him with what he’d done. But neither ever said a word.

  He gradually came to the realization that Allison had never told them.

  She confirmed it a few months later at a small birthday gathering she’d thrown for Austin. Everett had begged off more invitations than he’d accepted, but knew he had to show up on this particular occasion.

  He’d ended up alone in the kitchen with Allison for a few minutes while she was preparing the cake. She looked much frailer but maintained an upbeat mood as always, although Everett knew the dreaded disease was ravaging inside her.

  “I never said anything,” she told him.

  “I figured as much,” Everett said. “I’m not sure I understand why.”

  “You and Austin are brothers,” Allison explained. “You need to take care of each other afterwards.”

  She asked him to help her with the cake and that was the last time they ever talked about it.

  She was gone a month later.

  II

  Everett stood in the garret of the Zermatt cottage, studying the broken glass unicorn in his hand.

  You and Austin are brothers. You need to take care of each other.

  His brother had been the luckiest man on Earth. All because he had taken from Everett what was once his.

  Thou shalt not covet any thing that is thy neighbor’s.

  He looked around the room at the pictures of his beloved.

  Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife.

  He was definitely going to take care of his brother. Just like he’d taken care of nine others who had violated the Lord’s statutes.

  His eyes drifted to the floor where Rachel lay motionless.

  Everett opened the wooden box he had placed on the bed. He reached inside and chose one of his blessed knives. He lifted it up and stared at it for a long time; thinking how he would be using it again very soon.

  Just not quite yet.

  He returned it to the box and removed what had lain beside it.

  There was work to be done before Austin Grant’s commandment ended.

  III

  “Everett got to JFK on Saturday the fourteenth and headed back to Heathrow the following Friday, the twentieth,” Grant said, reading the text sent by the Yard.

  “How did you explain asking for your brother’s flight itinerary?”

  Frankel had just swung the car onto the Swiss A1 Autobahn and started heading east, shortly after the sun set behind the mountains in the west.

  “I told Morrow it had something to do with year-end taxes,” replied Grant.

  The tech guru hadn’t seemed very interested. Like everyone else at the Yard, Morrow probably had some place to go on New Year’s Eve. Grant couldn’t blame him. Anything beat tearing across Switzerland to keep a date with a lunatic serial killer, who just happened to be one’s younger brother.

  The bored woman behind the Hertz desk said it would take around three hours to get to Zermatt. Frankel had hopped behind the wheel, saying he was a New York driver and would get them there faster.

  “He arrived in time to kill the priest,” said Frankel, happy for a clear road so he could punch the accelerator. “And then he spends the week getting a line on Timothy Leeds, posing as a British reporter . . .”

  “. . . who we were supposed to think was Monte Ferguson,” added Grant.

  “. . . steals a car, lures Leeds to Far Rockaway, kills him in the old hospital, and leaves you that love note in the Sonata.”

  “And we fell for all of it,” grumbled Grant.

  “What about those phone calls you were getting from him in New York?”

  “He obviously placed them from somewhere in Manhattan. When I called his London number, it just forwarded to his cell. For all I know, he might have been staying in the same bloody hotel as me.” Grant shook his head in disbelief. “How could I have been so blind?”

  “Why would you even suspect him? He’s your brother.”

  “Not the brother I’ve known all my life.”

  “How many psychopaths have you encountered where those closest to them didn’t have a clue as to what they were really like? It goes with the territory.”

  “He must have been laughing behind our backs all this time,” rued Grant. “Especially with me updating him all the time on the murders he was committing.”

  Frankel flip-flopped between lanes while keeping a steady speed around 125 kilometers an hour. “How about that nifty trick he pulled texting Rachel while he was standing right beside us?”

  Grant thought back and recalled the text, the same threat Everett had repeated on the phone a few hours before.

  Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Commander.

  Suddenly, Grant remembered his brother keeping his hands buried in his coat, ostensibly trying to ward off the winter chill.

  The cocky bastard.

  Grant and Frankel had spent most of the flight discussing whether to bring in the Yard or Swiss police—despite Everett’s demands to the contrary.

  For all the pros and cons, they kept coming back to the same conclusion. Grant would do exactly as his brother had asked because he had Rachel with him.

  Besides, Monte Ferguson was already gone in Hampstead. Waiting an extra twenty-four hours for his body to be discovered by the Yard wasn’t going to hurt anyone—especially the Mail ’s former star reporter.

  One thing neither of the two cops hurtling toward Zermatt could answer was what Grant could have done to make himself the ultimate target in Everett’s Commandment spree. Grant couldn’t think of anything belonging to Everett that he possibly wanted, let alone coveted.

  But Everett had obviously been working himself up to this point for some time—a murderous rampage that so far numbered ten (nine marked victims and Sergeant Hawley).

  As they circled the north shore of Lake Geneva and got on the A9 directly to Zermatt, Grant realized the answer must lie in the cottage he had never been to. Otherwise, why would Everett drag them there?

  He shared this with Frankel, who didn’t disagree. He asked the detective if they could push the speed limit further.

  “Don’t see why not,” responded Frankel as he tested the limits of the speedometer. “Let’s see them try to pull over a couple of cops.”

  IV

  They covered the two-hundred-and-thirty-eight kilometers in just over two hours without being stopped, Frankel making good on his word by besting the Hertz’s woman’s estimate by almost an hour.

  He parked a couple of blocks from the address in Zermatt, made sure that his NYPD firearm was properly holstered, and exited the car. Grant had gotten out and moved to the driver’s side of the rental to confer one last time.

  Even though they’d heeded Everett’s demand that Grant keep the Swiss authorities in the dark, Frankel’s presence ran the risk of setting the killer off and endangering Rachel before either could get in the door. They figured Grant should park in front of the cottage and approach on his own.

  Meanwhile, Frankel would situate himself somewhere with a direct line of sight to the cottage and wait till Grant went inside. If Everett gave Frankel an opportunity to get off a clean shot without jeopardizing Rachel—Grant agreed that the detective should shoot to maim and ask questions later.

  They told each other to be careful and went their separate ways.

  A few minutes later, Frankel had traipsed through the quiet Zermatt neighborhood whose denizens were huddled inside working their way through long-saved bottles of bubbly or celebrating elsewhere. He found a black BMW SUV hybrid parked across from the Grant cottage that provided the cover he needed.

  Frankel watched Grant pull around the corner in the rental and get out the driver’s side. He could tell the Scotland Yard man had just sighed deeply as his breath manifes
ted in the near freezing temperatures.

  As Grant walked up the path, Frankel pulled out his gun and perched himself against the SUV, set to fire.

  He watched Grant knock on the door and waited for what seemed like forever. Nothing happened. Grant knocked again and got the same result. Twenty seconds later, Frankel watched Grant try the handle and ease open the door.

  He felt helpless watching the commander enter his brother’s cottage.

  This time the wait was an excruciating ten minutes.

  Suddenly, the lights on the first floor began to flicker on and off—three successive times. There was a pause and then the pattern repeated. It was the signal they’d agreed on if Grant ended up inside and Everett was nowhere to be found.

  Frankel raced across the street, gun raised, and went inside the front door.

  He lowered the gun when he saw Grant sitting on the stairs. Frankel might have been mistaken but it looked like Austin Grant had aged a couple of decades in the ten minutes they had been separated.

  “Everett?”

  “Not here,” Grant confirmed in something that resembled a whisper.

  The man looks like he’s going to have a heart attack.

  Frankel imagined the worst. He was barely able to ask the question.

  “Is it Rachel?”

  Grant shook his head and pointed up the stairs behind him.

  Frankel took the steps two at a time. He could hear Grant right behind him.

  At the top of the steps was an open door from which an eerie glow emanated.

  Frankel stepped through it and found himself inside an attic that had been converted to a quaint apartment. It was lit by at least two dozen candles.

  And filled with dozens of pictures of Allison Grant from photos he’d seen on the commander’s desk at the Yard and the Maida Vale house.

  “Me and Allison,” Grant said, appearing behind him. “That’s what this whole thing’s been about.”

  In a number of photos—the ones featuring Allison and Grant specifically—the commander’s face had been crossed out with a familiar black marker.