by Terry Keys
I heard voices, too close for comfort, so I dove for cover behind a fallen tree stump and burrowed deeper into the thick overhang of an immense oak. Glancing over my shoulder, I was relieved when no flashlight beams cut through the darkness. They, too, navigated the woods with the help of a quarter moon. They didn’t see my tracks.
“Track him down and put a bullet in his head. Then bring his body to me,” Prodinov had ordered his men.
I held my breath as they passed by me. My heart pounded, keeping time with the throbbing in my left arm. It was a relatively clean wound, in and out, no broken bones, but I had no idea how badly I was bleeding. No time to create a makeshift bandage, even if I had the supplies. This couldn’t be the end for me. Bleeding out alone in the middle of Russia?
Suddenly I heard the low, fierce growl of a dog. Its eyes, two yellow moons, seemed to pierce my flesh as it looked at me. I could barely make out its silhouette in the dark. Maybe it wasn’t a dog but a wolf. I couldn’t be sure. Whatever it was, it sniffed and snorted like it had just found its next meal. My only advantage was my gun, which I’d already drawn. If I didn’t deal with this soon—and quietly—the animal would expose my hiding place, and we’d both end up dead anyway. I slipped the silencer onto my weapon, controlled my breathing, and pulled the trigger. And like that, the beast was gone.
I left my dubious shelter and ran as quickly as I could. The snow, two feet deep in places, certainly didn’t offer the best conditions for making a clean getaway. Breathing heavily, quickly growing weak and tired, I forced myself on. Quitting wasn’t an option. All they had to do was hit my tracks with the flashlights, and I would be exposed. Finally, after what seemed an hour but was probably only minutes, I saw a glow of light up ahead. As I crawled closer, I realized it was a small, dimly lit log cabin. I had no idea who the owner was, but this was probably my only chance of making it out of this mess alive. I rose to my feet and staggered through the woods, weaving my way through the trees until I came to the back door. I banged weakly on it.
“Help! Is anyone home? Someone please help me! I’m an American police officer!”
I was hesitant about stating I was a police officer—even worse, an American one. Attitudes in Russia could go either way with that announcement. It would either save my life or ultimately seal my fate.
“Who’s there?”
The voice was female, soft and motherly.
“My name is David Porter! I’m an American police officer,” I explained, catching my breath. “Men are chasing me. Please help!”
Seconds later, the door opened.
“Come. Come in quickly,” the woman said, stepping back to let me in.
The cabin was sparsely furnished and quiet. A fire burned in the fireplace, producing the only light in the room.
The woman, probably in her late fifties, grabbed the straw broom leaning against the wall beside her and went out to sweep my snow tracks off her back porch. I watched intently from the window, leaning against the roughly-hewn wood wall for support.
She returned and glanced warily at me, especially at the gun in my hand.
“You’re hurt,” she said.
Despite my gratitude, I had to know. “Why are you helping me?”
“How about a thank you, American?”
“I mean, yeah, thanks, but why are you risking your life to help me?”
Before she could respond, the sound of voices approaching caused me to straighten in alarm. A fist pounded on the door several times. Prodinov’s men. I glanced from the door to the woman, who had placed a finger over her lips, gesturing for me to remain silent.
“Shhh. I will take care of this.”
I was more than a little nervous about what was about to happen. She could easily turn me over to the Russians. I made sure my gun was ready to fire and waited. They may get me, but I would take at least one of them with me. I wasn’t afraid of dying, but I was fearful that my wife and daughters would have to live without me around to protect them.
The woman stepped toward the door and opened it a crack. As a part of my military training, I had learned several languages, one of them being Russian.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” came a gruff voice from the other side. “We are looking for an escaped convict, an American. Have you seen anyone or heard anything tonight?”
She didn’t respond. I was in trouble. Perhaps she was pointing or whispering something to them. I couldn’t tell from where I stood. Maybe she was afraid because the bastard had told her I was an escaped convict. I couldn’t be sure of anything.
“Ma’am, have you seen anyone out here tonight?”
The voice grew noticeably aggravated.
“No,” she replied. “It’s been quiet all night. I haven’t heard a thing or seen anyone. What does this American look like? Do you have a description? What is he wanted for?” She paused. “Should I be worried?”
“No need for you to worry yourself over the details,” the man replied. “Do you mind if we look around? It will only take a second.”
“Yes, I do mind, actually,” she said. “I have a sick father upstairs in the loft. I take care of him, and I’d rather he not be disturbed. We are letting the cold air into my house. As I said, I have seen no one! You understand that, don’t you?”
A long silence ensued. The men were probably trying to figure out if they could believe her or not. The moment of truth—my moment of truth.
I thought about waiting until the men left, but then I remembered Prodinov. I should use this chance to show him what he had gotten himself into. I quietly slipped out the back door and made my way around the side of the cabin, staying close to the structure and wary of casting a telltale shadow in the wan moonlight. I hoped the sound of snow crunching beneath my feet would not give me away as I hid behind a car parked in the front. I ducked down behind the left front fender and waited. Why did this car have to be so damn small? Trying to hide my sixfoot-three-inch frame behind a car I could probably flip over by hand would be a test in itself. I continued to listen as the woman talked to Prodinov’s men. My wounds ached, but I had no time to cry about it.
“If you don’t have any more questions, I’d like to get back to my father,” she was saying. She started to close the door. “I do hope you find the man you’re looking for. We don’t need criminals running around out here.”
“Yes, ma’am. Have a good night.”
She closed the door and the three men, bundled in long, heavy coats to ward off the bitter chill, stepped down off the porch and headed back the way they’d come.
I emerged from behind the car and, without hesitation, fired. One. Two. Three. Three shots, three dead Russians. As I anticipated, they had let their guard down after talking with the woman and I made them pay. Did I feel bad about ambushing them? Not one bit. They would have done the same to me.
The door of the cabin flew open. “Oh my God!” the woman screamed.
She stared down at the bodies in her driveway, their blood creating dark pools on the pristine ice, and then looked at me, her eyes wide with fear.
“Who are you? Are you some kind of killer? Are you even an American cop?”
Wincing as I bumped my shoulder on the car as I rose, I stepped from my hiding place.
“Yes ma’am, I am,” I assured her. I reached into my jacket pocket and took out my badge, showing it to her. “Relax. I’m a good guy. Have you ever heard of Alexander Prodinov?”
“Yes, who hasn’t?” she stammered, returning her gaze to the men on the ground. “That evil man gave Russians a bad name. He’s a vicious serial killer.”
I slowly walked toward her, not wanting to frighten her more than she already was. “Well, those men were working for him,” I explained. “They were trying to kill me. I am here in Russia trying to do the same to him. A few years ago I was tracking a serial killer in the United States, and it turned out to be Prodinov. He killed my brother in my home while he slept.” I paused, swallowed hard. It was always difficult to remember. �
�For no reason, other than to prove to me how good he was. One day I will kill him.”
“I’m truly sorry about your brother,” she said. “But you know killing him won’t bring your brother back.”
I was grateful she had saved my life, but I wasn’t exactly in the mood for a sermon. “Of course I know it won’t bring him back. My brother being murdered is just one more reason for me to do away with this monster. You know what he is. He’s killed many people, including children. He kills for pleasure. The world would be a better place without him.”
“I understand what he has done, but judgment is not yours,” she said. “You are bleeding badly.” She gestured for me to come inside. “I used to be a nurse. I can patch you up until you can get to a doctor.”
“I need to get rid of those bodies,” I remarked.
“Let’s get you cleaned up first. If you die those bodies won’t matter so much will they?” she said as she turned to go inside.
I followed and shut the door behind me. I settled in a chair near the fireplace while she gathered some first aid supplies from under the kitchen sink. The cabin was small, but comfortably warm. I found myself relaxing.
“You never answered me earlier. We aren’t the most liked here, so why did you help me?”
“Take off your jacket and shirt,” she ordered.
I did as she bade and watched as she removed packaged squares of gauze from the kit, some antiseptic, and a mesh-like bandage roll, and focused on cleaning and bandaging my arm. It didn’t appear she was going to answer my question. I didn’t really care why the woman had helped me. I was just glad I was still alive. I winced as she worked on me. She was not the gentlest nurse I had ever encountered.
“I lived in America over twenty years ago,” she finally said. “One day as I was leaving the supermarket, I had a flat tire. I was stranded on the side of the road when three men stopped to help me, or so I thought. They walked over to my car. Before I knew it, one of them hit me over the head. Luckily for me, an off-duty policeman drove by and saw this. He turned around to come and help me. He should have waited for help to arrive, but he didn’t. He acted bravely, and I owe my life to him, I’m sure. You are right, too. You Americans have many enemies here in Russia. You’re lucky you stopped at my cabin.”
So the actions of a good cop I would never meet, someone who had just been doing his job, had saved my life here in Russia two decades later. I didn’t believe in fate or karma, but if I had, this would be it times two.
“Well, again, thank you,” I said sincerely. “What about the bodies?”
“I will brush your tracks from the snow after you leave. I will tell them when they come— and they will—that I was sleeping and woke to the sound of gunshots. I know nothing more.”
She finished patching me up, and I geared up to leave. Before I left the cabin, I pulled my notepad from my pocket and awkwardly scribbled a note. She didn’t ask me what I was doing. I grasped it in my fingers as I stepped from the door, which closed firmly behind me. Before I left the yard, I tucked the message for Prodinov into one of the dead men’s jacket pockets. I left it sticking out a little so that he could see it. It read:
One day soon this will be you.
I slowly made my way back to the highway, circling wide around the warehouse where I’d had my run-in with Prodinov. Good thing hitchhiking was as common in Russia as back home. When a compact car pulled over to pick me up, I climbed in. The driver said something about where I was headed. Before tonight it had been a long time since I’d spoken the language but I muttered, “Airport.”
It took a while and several rides, but I eventually made it within walking distance of the airport as the sun slowly rose from the east. I was near frozen, but anxious to get the hell out of the godforsaken country. As I walked down the street that would take me into the warm terminal, I pulled my phone from my jacket pocket. I had a text message from Cap. I accessed it.
Have to cut your vacay short. Child killer here has everyone up in arms.
Vacation? Yeah, right. He knew damn well why I was in Russia. I would have to put my personal battle on hold for now.
I had allowed my anger to control my thinking and underestimated what it would take to kill Prodinov, especially here in Russia. Revenge had clouded my judgment. It might take me two months or two years, but I would regroup. I had the patience and the determination. One day, I would return to Russia or wherever my hunt for Alexander Prodinov took me. One day we would meet face to face, and I would kill him.
1
I sat in my car and watched the officers working the crime scene. Some tried to control the crowd, while others took photographs of the vic. Even though we were all trained professionals, this murder was horrible – even for Police. Channels 2, 11 and 13 were here covering the story. Their news vans lined the street.
Captain Wilcrest had already warned me that this would be one of the saddest things I had ever seen. I had seen some pretty bad ones over the years, so I was mentally prepared for anything. This vic, Emily Miller, age eight, had been kidnapped, raped, cut up, and left in the park like a piece of animal meat. Wilcrest was probably right, and I was not looking forward to it.
I forced myself out of my squad car and headed across the street to MacGregor Park, where her body had been discovered. Boy was this becoming quite the mess. Little Emily was the second kid killed here this month. We definitely had a serial on our hands, or so it appeared. In a city the size of Houston, narrowing down a suspect was never easy. I had left Prodinov behind in Russia, so I was sure it wasn’t him, but that was all I was really sure about.
As I got close to the body I noticed fresh tire tracks. From their width and depth, the set of tire marks appeared to come from some sort of van. The tracks were a little wider than those left by your typical SUV.
“Cap, have someone run a report on rented vans and cross that with people with medical training. Start off with a hundred-mile radius and let’s see what we get,” I said as I walked up behind him.
“Good idea, David. Whoever did this has definitely had medical training. Those aren’t random cuts.”
I figured as much before I even saw her body. I was pretty sure the MO would be exactly the same as the first, which was good and bad. Maybe now we could take suspects in this case and compare them to the list created from the first killing. If we found a match—anything— we’d catch our first break. Lord knows we could use one.
“Porter, it’s bad. We gotta catch this son of a bitch,” a patrolman said as he passed.
As Captain Wilcrest and I strode closer to the vic, I smelled an unusual, putrid odor. The smell was so strong, it almost made my stomach heave, and I have a strong stomach. I tried to breathe through my mouth.
“It’s the body,” Wilcrest commented. “Whoever did this poured something all over her little body.”
“Has the lab finished taking photos?” I said. “If so, let’s get her covered up, please.”
This murder was horrific. Whoever did this didn’t need a trial, not in my book. Probably explained why I was a cop and not a judge. Criminals wouldn’t like me as a judge. They would be armless, handless, dead . . . or worse. This perp had spared nothing. He had even cut on her genitals. I slipped on a pair of latex gloves, crouched down, and carefully turned her onto her side so I could see the back of her body. It also had been mutilated.
“What do we got?” I asked, glancing up at the captain. “You got anything I can use yet?”
“No, not much.” He shrugged. “A note was left for you—by the killer, I presume. It said, ‘More to come, Porter. Blame yourself.’ That was it.”
“I don’t know what the hell that’s supposed to mean,” I said, frustrated and angry.
“Well, hopefully you’ll figure it out, ’cause that’s our only chance here, I think. Someone’s calling you out. You get any serious threats lately? Prodinov, maybe?”
“No. He’s a killer, no doubt about that, but this isn’t his style. Something abo
ut this is different. It’s too complex for Prodinov.”
Maybe Prodinov was paying someone else, I thought. Maybe I had underestimated what he was capable of. That was the worst part of it all. People were dying for no apparent reason. It was a game to these sick assholes, and this was probably just another. So far, I was eighteen and zero. No serial had ever called me out and won. None. Prodinov was the only one I had yet to bag. Till now.
We kept a close eye on web traffic, because there was always lots of chatter there. Hell, Vegas even had a line going on whether anyone could elude me for more than five years. Prodinov was two years in so far. I had recently been exposed to recruitment efforts by the FBI and CIA, but staying home and around my girls was important to me—even more so than upping my arrest record or enhancing the prestige surrounding my name. I knew I could take some office job, do it well, and probably enjoy the hell out of it. But I also knew watching my girls grow up would only happen once. Maybe after it was just my wife and me, I would consider a change of scenery.
This was the only aspect of my job I hated. I didn’t want to be playing games with killers, but that’s exactly what everyone else had made it out to be. A cat and mouse game with people’s lives. At this point, I didn’t see a way out. Hell, deep down, maybe it was a game to me, too.
End of preview.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR USA TODAY Bestselling author Terry Keys is an award winning novelist, songwriter, and poet. Keys spent time working in law enforcement and corrections; he now writes for Examiner.com and works in the oil and gas industry. A native of Rosharon, Texas, Keys spends his free time hunting, fishing, and working out. He lives in Dickinson, Texas, with his wife and two children. Please visit his website at www.terrykeysbooks.com