by Karen Rose
“I’m waiting, Sophie. What do you think?”
Sophie drew on every dramatic drop of blood in her body and laughed out loud. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Simon’s eyes narrowed and his expression went dark. “I don’t kid.”
And he didn’t like to be laughed at. She’d use that. Considering she was still bound hand and foot, she’d have to use anything she could think of to get away. She injected a note of amused incredulity into her voice. “You expect me to walk up to that block, put my neck on it, and hold still while you cut off my head? You’re crazier than we thought.”
Simon stared at her for a long moment, then smiled mildly. “As long as I get my film, I don’t care what you think.” He walked to a tall, wide cupboard and pulled it open.
Sophie had to really work to keep her mocking expression from changing to horror as her heart stumbled to a stop.
The cupboard was filled with daggers and axes and swords. Many of them were very old and pitted with age. And use. Some were shiny and new, obvious reproductions. All of them looked lethal. Simon tilted his head, considering his stash at length, and Sophie knew he was preening for her benefit. It was working. She remembered the dead man in the graveyard. Warren Keyes. Simon had disemboweled him. She remembered Greg Sanders’s screams as Simon cut off his hand.
Fear was again rising to close her throat. Still she kept the loose smile on her face.
He took out a battle-ax, similar to the one she carried on the Viking tour. He rested the handle on his shoulder and smiled at her. “You have one just like this.”
She made her voice cold. “I should have followed my instincts and used it on you.”
“It’s generally wise to follow your instincts,” he agreed affably, then put the ax back. Finally he chose a sword and pulled it from its sheath slowly. The blade gleamed, shiny and new. “This is a sharp one. It should do the job nicely.”
“It’s just a reproduction,” Sophie said with disdain. “I expected better.”
He looked at her for a moment, then laughed. “This is fun.” He brought the sword over to her and held it in front of her face, twisting it so it caught the flickering light. “The old swords are useful to get an idea of weight and size and balance. How someone moved while wielding one. But they’re ugly and rusted and really not that sharp.”
“Well, we’d want them to be sharp, wouldn’t we?” she said dryly, hoping he couldn’t hear the thundering of her heart.
He smiled. “Unless you want me hacking at that pretty neck of yours.”
He was baiting her again. She made herself shrug. “If you use the sword, you can’t use the block. It’s like wearing suspenders and a belt. It just isn’t done.”
He considered her again, then walked to the platform, picked up the block, and placed it off to the side. “True. You’ll kneel. I’ll get a better view of your face that way anyway. Thank you.” He pushed a camera on a rolling tripod into place.
“Any time. So, did you let your other victims handle the old swords?”
He looked over his shoulder. “Yes. I wanted to capture their movements. Why?”
“I was wondering how it would feel to hold a sword nearly eight centuries old.”
“It feels like it had been sleeping all those years and woke up, just for you.”
Sophie’s mouth fell open as she recognized her own words, and when she spoke her voice was barely audible. “John?”
He smiled. “One of my names.”
“But the . . .” The wheelchair. Oh, Vito.
“The wheelchair?” He expelled an exaggerated sigh. “You know, people don’t consider old people or handicapped people a threat. I was able to hide in plain sight.”
“All . . . all this time?”
“All this time,” he said, amused. “You see, Dr. J, I’m not crazy and I’m not stupid.”
She got control of herself, forced the tremble out of her voice. “You’re just bad.”
“You’re just saying that to be nice. Besides, ‘bad’ is one of those relative terms.”
“Perhaps in some parallel universe that’s true, but in this universe, killing lots of people for no good reason is bad.” She tilted her head. “So why did you?”
“What? Kill lots of people?” He pushed another camera into place. “Various reasons. Some got in my way. One I hated. But mostly I just wanted to see them die.”
Sophie drew a deep breath. “See? Now that’s just bad. You won’t—”
He held up a hand. “Don’t say I won’t get away with it. That’s trite, and I’d really hoped for better from you.” He moved a third camera into place and stepped back, dusting his hands. “That takes care of the cameras. I have to do a sound test.”
“A sound test.”
“Yes, a sound test. I need you to scream.”
Go ahead and scream. She shook her head. “No fucking way.”
He clucked. “Language. You’ll scream. Or I’ll use an ax.”
“Either way I’m dead. And I’m not giving you the satisfaction.”
“I think Warren said that. No, it was Bill. Big bad Bill the black belt. He thought he was so tough. In the end he cried like a baby. And he screamed. A lot.”
He came over and touched her hair which was still braided in a crown from the last Joan tour the day before. “You have lovely hair. I’m glad it’s braided up. I would have hated to cut it.” He chuckled. “Although it does seem silly to worry about cutting your hair when I’ll be cutting something more important.” He ran his fingers across her throat. “Right here, I think.”
Panic was making it hard to breathe. Taunting him was going to buy her no more time. Vito, where are you? She jerked her body back, away from his fingers.
“Which one was Bill? The one you disemboweled?”
He was visibly startled. “Well, well. You know more than I thought. I didn’t think your cop boyfriend would give you the details.”
“He didn’t have to. I was there when they were dug up. You cut off Greg Sanders’s hand.”
“And his foot. He deserved it, stealing from a church. You said so yourself.”
Horror turned her stomach inside out. He’d used her words, her lessons to murder so vilely. “You sick sonofabitch.”
His eyes went dark. “I’ve given you some latitude because you amused me. But that time is done. If you are attempting to unnerve me, it won’t work. When I get angry, I become more focused.” He grabbed her arm and yanked her off the table to the floor.
Sophie winced as her hip hit hard concrete. “Yeah, like you did with Greg Sanders.” He’d cut off that man’s hand . . . and his foot. Because he’d stolen from a church. But it hadn’t been what she’d said. That wasn’t right. He’d made a mistake. He didn’t become more focused with rage. He made mistakes. She’d have to use it.
He dragged her across the floor and she struggled out of his grasp. Then saw stars when he smashed her head against the floor, using her thick braided crown as a handhold. “Don’t try that again.”
She rolled to her back and blinked up at him, breathing hard. He was huge, especially from this angle. He stood, fists on his hips, his face like stone. But he was breathing hard, too, his nostrils flaring.
“You fucked up with Greg, you know,” she panted. “The amputated foot didn’t go with the Church. Only the hand. You got so angry that he tried to steal from you that you messed up the details.”
“I messed up nothing.” He reached under her neck, grabbed a handful of the gown, and twisted until the velvet cut at her throat, cutting off her air. More stars danced in front of her eyes and she bucked, trying to get away. Abruptly he released her, and she dragged air into her lungs.
“Fuck you,” she snarled, coughing. “You can kill me, but I’m not giving you anything for your precious game.”
Simon grabbed the bodice of the gown in both hands and effortlessly lifted her to her feet, then higher, until she was eye to eye with him. “You will give me what I want. If I ha
ve to nail you in place you will not fight me. Do you understand me?”
Sophie spat in his face and had the pleasure of seeing his face contort with rage. He drew back one fist, still holding her with one hand and she lifted her chin, ready for the blow. But it never came.
“I won’t mark your face. I need it . . . pretty.” He wiped at his cheek with his sleeve and lowered her to her feet.
“What’s the matter?” she taunted deliberately. “Can’t you see past a few bruises when you immortalize me in your stupid game? Or can you not function without an exact model? It must be frustrating, only being able to copy. Never creating anything on your own.” She swallowed hard and lifted her chin again. “Simon.”
His jaw tightened as his eyes narrowed and once again he jerked her off her feet. “What do you know?”
“Everything,” she sneered. “I know everything. And so do the police. So go ahead and kill me, but you really won’t get away with it. You’ll get caught and you’ll go to prison where you can paint clowns all day long and not need to hide them under your bed.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Where are they?”
Sophie smiled at him. “Who?”
He shook her, so hard her teeth rattled. “Daniel and Susannah. Where are they?”
“They’re here, looking for you. Just like Vito Ciccotelli is looking for you. He won’t rest until he finds you.” She narrowed her gaze. “Did you think no one would know, Simon? That no one could find you? Did you really think that no one would hear?”
“No one has found me,” he said. He lifted her higher and she winced which made him smile. “No one did hear me,” he said. “And no one will hear you.”
Fury gave her courage. “You’re wrong. All the people you killed screamed long after you buried them. You just weren’t listening. But Vito Ciccotelli was and he always will.”
He forced her to her knees. “Then I’ll kill him, too. But first I’ll kill you.”
Sunday, January 21, 7:45 A.M.
Selma Crane had lived in a tidy Victorian house before Simon had buried her next to Claire Reynolds in the Winchester field. Vito crept up to the attached garage, weapon in his hand, and looked in the window. Inside was a white van. He nodded to Nick and Liz who stood behind a cruiser at the end of the driveway.
Behind Nick and Liz stood the SWAT team, ready to storm the house on Vito’s signal. Vito joined them. “It’s a white van. I don’t see any sign of movement inside.”
The leader of the SWAT team stepped forward. “Do we go in?”
“I’d rather surprise him,” Vito said. “Hold for now.”
A car approached, Jen McFain behind the wheel. Daniel Vartanian was in the front seat, his sister in the back. They approached in silence, leaving their car doors open.
“Is he in there?” Daniel asked quietly.
“I think so,” Vito said. “There’s a back door that leads into the kitchen. All of the windows on the back side of the house are boarded up and covered in black tarp.”
“Then this is his place,” Susannah murmured. “Simon wanted to control his lighting so he blacked out the windows of his room and installed lights he could dim.”
“McFain filled us in,” Daniel said. “She told us he has your consultant. Let me go in.”
“No.” Vito shook his head. “Absolutely not. I’m not letting you go in there half-cocked because you feel guilty that you didn’t turn him in ten years ago.”
Daniel’s jaw twitched. “What I was going to say,” he said carefully, “is that I’m SWAT trained and a trained negotiator. I know what to do.”
Vito hesitated. “You’re still his brother.”
Daniel didn’t look away. “Now you’re just being mean. I’m offering my help. Take it.”
Vito looked at Liz. “When will our negotiator get here?”
“Another hour,” Liz told him. “At best.”
Vito checked his watch, even though he knew exactly what time it was and exactly how much time had passed. Sophie was in there, he could feel it. He didn’t want to think about what Simon could be doing to her right now. “We can’t wait another hour, Liz.”
“Daniel is a negotiator. His CO told me so when I checked up on him the other night. Do you want me to take over and make the call?”
It was tempting. But Vito shook his head and looked Daniel Vartanian square in the eye. “You follow my orders in there. No questions, no hesitation.”
Daniel lifted his brows. “Think of me as a consultant.”
Vito was shocked he could still smile. “Suit up. You and I go in the front, Jen, you and Nick go in the back. SWAT stays at ready.”
“I send them in at the first shot,” Liz said and Vito nodded.
“Be prepared for anything. Let’s go.”
Sunday, January 21, 7:50 A.M.
Sophie was kneeling, Simon’s fingers tunneled under her braid. Fiercely he gripped her head, yanking her upright as she struggled. “Scream, damn you,” he gritted, twisting, making her scalp burn but Sophie bit her tongue.
She wouldn’t scream, wouldn’t give him what he wanted. She wrenched to one side, awkward with her wrists and ankles tied, still kneeling. Simon’s foot crashed down on her calf, holding her legs in place. He jerked her up again by her hair and fumbled behind him. She heard the singing of the sword as he pulled it from its sheath, then the sheath fell on the floor in front of her. His left hand was yanking at her hair, pulling up so that he had free access to the back of her neck while still pointing her face at his cameras. He raised his right arm and Sophie bit her tongue again.
Do not scream. Whatever you do. Do not scream.
“Scream, damn you.” He was furious, shaking.
“Go to hell, Vartanian,” she spat. His foot crashed down on her calf again, sending pain radiating up her spine. She bit down on her tongue even harder and tasted blood. She strained to try to spit it at him, but he dug his fingers in deeper. Her head throbbed from the pressure on her scalp as he held her head in the palm of his huge hand.
He yanked up and she was lifted almost off her knees. Then she heard a noise from upstairs. A creak. Simon’s body jerked. He’d heard it, too.
Vito. Sophie spat the blood from her mouth, filled her lungs with air and screamed.
“Shut up,” Simon gritted.
Sophie wanted to sing. But she screamed again. Screamed Vito’s name.
“You stupid bitch. You’re going to die.” Simon raised his arm, bearing his weight on her legs with his good foot.
Good foot. Abruptly Sophie rocked right, then left with all her might sending her shoulder into Simon’s artificial leg. He swayed for a split second, then toppled. The sword clattered from his hand as he tried to break his fall. She rolled to one side, barely avoiding becoming his crash pad. But his hand was still in her hair and she couldn’t get away. The door at the top of the stairs opened and footsteps thundered.
“Police! Don’t move!”
Vito. “I’m down here,” Sophie screamed.
Simon came up on his good knee, then reared back, pulling her into him. Making her a human shield. “Go back,” he called. “Go back or I kill her.”
The footsteps continued until Sophie saw Vito’s feet, then his legs. Then his face, dark with controlled fury. “Are you hurt, Sophie?”
“No.”
“Don’t come another step,” Simon warned. “Or I swear I’ll break her fucking neck.”
Vito was still on the stairs, his gun trained on Simon. “Don’t touch her, Vartanian,” Vito said, his voice low and ominous. “I will shoot your head right off your shoulders.”
“And risk killing her? I don’t think so. I think you’re going to go back up those stairs and call off your dogs. Then we’re going to walk away, me and your pretty girl.”
Sophie was breathing hard, one of Simon’s hands twined in her hair, his other arm crossed over her throat. There was no way Simon could have planned this better, no way he could have found a deeper vulnerability, capable
of stopping Vito in his tracks.
“Kill him, Vito,” she said. “Kill him now or he’ll just kill again. I couldn’t live with that.”
“Your girl has a death wish, Ciccotelli. Come closer and I’ll make her wish come true. Let me walk away and she lives.”
“No, Simon.” It was a soft drawl, calm and steady. “You won’t. I won’t let you.”
Sophie felt the sudden tense of Simon’s body at Daniel’s voice and she jerked to one side, but he came with her and they crashed to the floor. He flattened her against the concrete floor, his weight knocking the breath from her lungs. He jerked back to his knees, dragging her with him. She swung her bound hands but hit only air. He twisted her hair harder and tears stung her eyes.
She swung her hands, scrabbling for any hold, any way to put enough distance between them so that Vito could get a shot. She toppled again, but this time her hands touched metal. Simon’s shiny sword. Sophie kneeled over it, fisted her hands around the hilt, twisted her body so the blade skimmed her side.
And jabbed backward with all her might. The sword met flesh and kept going, plunging deep. With a startled gasp, Simon fell backward, dragging her with him. She let go of the hilt and rolled to her knees, bowed forward, twisted painfully, his hand still gripping her scalp. For a moment all she could hear was her own labored breathing, then footsteps thundered down the stairs.
Simon lay on his back, his own sword plunged into his gut, the blade leaning at an awkward angle away from his body. His white shirt was rapidly becoming red. His mouth was open and he gasped for air. Still his eyes burned with hate and rage and he lunged upward, his free hand going for her throat.
“Don’t move a muscle,” Vito said. “Because I really want to shoot you.”
Breathing hard, Sophie straightened as much as she could, her eyes still on Simon’s. “Go ahead and scream, Simon.”
“You bitch,” Simon spat. His eyes narrowed and once again he lunged, and too late Sophie saw him jerk his wrist outward, bringing the slim blade he’d hidden in his sleeve into his hand. She heard the shots at the same time she felt a searing pain in her side.
The hand in her hair sagged, dragging her so that she knelt at Simon’s side, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle. She could see up, but not down. From the corner of her eye she saw Vito step back and holster his gun.