Never in Ty’s wildest nightmares would he have imagined finding himself in such a situation. Despite what he told other people, he was a goddamn baker.
The corridor branched to the left, and as the wall on that side disappeared, Ty’s hand brushed empty air and he wobbled. Without the wall as a crutch, he floundered in the dark. Panic set in and he tried to control his breathing. He swung his arms out, searching for the security of a solid surface. The darkness pressed down, suffocating, drowning him in tides of fear.
Then his fingers connected with something solid and he let out a sigh of relief. He straightened his fingers and pressed his hand flat on the solid surface, surprised to find that it felt soft.
Supple. Like fabric.
He ran his hand across the surface, feeling a slight contour in the shape. He frowned.
A warm breeze tickled the hairs on the back of his hand.
And then the surface moved.
Ty squealed and a voice emanated from the dark above where his hand was placed.“Hello, Ty.”
The voice didn’t belong to Paris, but there was something vaguely familiar about it. Ty wasn’t going to hang around to find out who it was though. He snatched his hand away and ran.
He didn’t know which way to go. He didn’t care. He had to get away. Footsteps echoed in pursuit.
Blind in the dark, he collided with a wall and his nose and forehead struck the bricks with a sound like snapping bones; acute pain emanated from where he connected and bright light flashed in front of his eyes. He screamed in agony.
His head spun and warm blood trickled from his nostrils. The blood ran into his mouth, warm and coppery, and he spat it out. He staggered backward and put his hands to his face. Tears ran down his cheeks, the salty taste mingling with the blood that poured from his nostrils and it felt as though a fire burned in his nose and on his forehead.
He heard footsteps approaching and he knew he had to move – had to run for his life.
Fighting back a growing sense of nausea, he continued on, one hand holding his injured face and his other waving in the air like a blind man’s cane.
He staggered forwards, his footsteps unsure as he fought the waves of pain. He felt like a rat in a maze.
A patch of grey light appeared in the darkness, ambient illumination in the shape of a doorway. Ty headed towards it.
His heart thudded and pain pulsed across his face.
Something squeaked at his rear, a floorboard that vented its protest.
Upon reaching the doorway, he discovered it was a stairway leading up to the next floor, slightly brighter because a broken window at the top allowed a sliver of light from the half-moon to shine through.
With no alternative, he began to climb. Each step caused his lungs to labour and his nose to bleed more.
Fear seemed to sap his strength. His limbs felt like jelly.
At the top of the stairs, he heard a noise from below and he turned and looked back down as a figure appeared: the Oracle? A little whimper escaped his lips. What was going on?
Unable to make much out, all Ty saw was a shadow in the dark, blacker than the night. But then he noticed something glint, star-bright and sharp.
The figure carried a knife.
Ty’s eyes went wide. Turning, he found himself in a large room and he staggered across the floor, searching for somewhere to hide. Fear prickled his body like an acupuncturist with needles. His breath came in ragged bursts, and he had trouble inhaling as blood ran down the back of his nose and slid down his throat. He imagined drowning on his own blood, which would about sum up the luck he had.
The empty room offered nowhere to hide; nowhere else to run. Surrounded by high windows, the room became a prison.
Frantic, Ty scurried towards the farthest corner. Behind him, he heard heavy footsteps ascending the stairs, and when he turned to look, the figure appeared.
The figure took a step forward and floorboards squealed.
Ty gritted his teeth. He was trapped.
Although he tried to identify the figure, the shadows were too thick and the gloom too oppressive to make anything out, but there was something …
The knife winked.
Ty clamped his mouth closed to keep from screaming. He looked around the room, eyes narrowed to concentrate his gaze.
A thin beam of grey light shone through one of the walls, a crack in the gloomy fabric of the pervading darkness. Ty licked his lips. A door?
Without hesitating, he ran towards the crack of light faster than he’d ever run in his life. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his pursuer whirl towards him. The bright blade in the figure’s hand streaked through the air like a shooting star. But this was no heavenly body upon which to make a wish. This was cold steel, forged to mutilate, maim, and kill.
Ignoring the pain that pulsed in his nose and forehead, Ty dodged the blade. He heard the hiss of displaced air pass close to his ear.
Gritting his teeth, he ran on and didn’t look back.
The grey crack was closer now, only feet away. He could see that it stretched almost the whole height of the wall. Panic flared through him. Where did it lead? What if it led nowhere? What if it was locked?
He knew it was too late to ponder these things now.
Not slowing his pace, Ty rammed his shoulder into the wall. Wood squealed. He didn’t think it was going to give and a sick feeling filled his stomach, then the wood splintered and snapped and he followed through. He felt cool air on his face, found himself momentarily suspended in the air, one foot still in the room, the other hanging above the vast emptiness of space. His heart lurched and he waved his arms, trying to grab something, anything.
And then he fell.
Cold air rushed past Ty’s face. He couldn’t breathe. His heart felt as though it was in his mouth. In a vain attempt to slow his descent, he flapped his arms.
In real time, the drop took seconds, but in Ty’s mind, it seemed to last for ever.
He braced himself for impact; for the pain to ensue – even for death.
And then he hit.
Hard.
It felt strange, and not what he expected. Although the impact hurt like hell, the surface yielded and he felt himself falling further still.
He opened his mouth to take a breath, gagging as fluid rushed down his throat. He was under water.
The door must have opened out over the river; once used to load the barges that would have been the main source of transport in bygone days, it was now a doorway that served no purpose.
The sense of relief he felt at not dying on impact vanished with a vengeance. Instead of being splattered on the ground, he was going to drown.
Not prepared to land in water, he hadn’t drawn in a deep lungful of air, and what air he did have had been knocked out of him on impact with the surface. He choked, tasting fetid water as he opened his mouth, suffocating.
The darkness he’d experienced in the warehouse was nothing compared to the submerged realm. The water was freezing. Hampered by fear, he tried to swim; felt something brush past his face. Fish? Eel? Piranha? He knew he was thinking crazy thoughts. There were no piranha in English rivers, but he couldn’t help it.
Unsure which way was up, he struck out blindly. His lungs were bursting as he fought to hold what little breath remained. Bright lights danced before his eyes like fireflies and he knew he was on the verge of passing out. His clothes hindered him and dragged him down, wrapping him like a death shroud.
He exhaled the final wisps of air from his lungs, prepared to flood his body with water.
And then the texture on his fingers changed. The pressure relaxed and he realised they were no longer in water. With a quick kick, his head broke the surface and he gulped in stagnant air, coughing and choking. But nothing had ever tasted sweeter.
He floated on his back as he caught his breath. When he recovered enough, he looked around and spotted the warehouse surprisingly far upstream.
His teeth chattered, and he made for the
riverbank, trying to keep his movements as quiet as he could in case the Oracle lay in wait.
Ty dragged himself ashore and lay on his back, panting like a dog. He felt like punching the air with relief, but exhaustion stayed his hand. Unsure where he was, he rolled over and raised himself up on his knees to look around. He could see the warehouse in the distance and his heart did a little somersault. What if the killer had left the building to search for him? His eyes grew wider and his breath hitched in his throat as he frantically looked around.
When he caught his breath, he crawled through the reeds that lined the riverbank. Freezing cold, his wet clothes felt uncomfortable, stuck to his skin like an eel. Somewhere to his left, a frog croaked, startling him.
At the top of the bank, he parted the reeds and peered across the waste ground towards the warehouse. The Range Rover was still parked out front, but he couldn’t see Paris.
Trying to stop his teeth chattering took a lot of willpower, but it wasn’t just the cold that afflicted him.
After waiting a couple of minutes, heart still racing, he slowly headed away from the warehouse. Wherever Paris was, he could fend for himself.
Used as a dumping ground, old shopping trolleys, car tyres, and bottles littered the area.
Broken glass crunched underfoot and Ty winced.
Dust stuck to his wet clothes, inadvertently soaking up the water and drying him a little as he hesitated, staring across the waste ground, a barren dust bowl that had cracked under the heat of the relentless sun. A few hardy weeds thrived in the arid landscape; a hunting ground for nocturnal predators.
Ty knew his pursuer was out there somewhere, lying in wait.
He continued on, keeping himself as close to the ground as possible. When he got far enough away, he stood up and ran, tripping on something hidden in the dark that propelled him to the ground.
Dazed, he picked himself up and looked at what he’d fallen over, his eyes going wide as he saw Paris lying half hidden by a tall patch of weeds.
“Paris ...” Ty said, crouching down at his friend’s side. “Are you OK?”
Paris didn’t answer; couldn’t due to the gag in his mouth. Rope restrained his arms and legs. He stared at Ty with an expression of absolute terror.
A trickle of blood ran down the side of Paris’ head, almost black in the darkness.
“Oh my God, Paris.” He started to untie the ropes that bound his friend when he heard something brush the ground behind him.
Ty jerked his head around and opened his mouth to scream.
The blade in the figure’s hand streaked down like the Grim Reaper’s scythe, slicing a furrow across his throat from which blood blossomed and seeded the barren wasteland.
CHAPTER 39
The incident room was its usual hive of activity. It had been two days since the newspaper article appeared, and since then Prosper hadn’t heard a thing from Ty or Paris.
He’d expected them to contact him before now to find out what was going on, and when they didn’t, he tried calling them without success. Now a sick feeling festered in the pit of his stomach. He should have told them the plan. He shouldn’t have listened to Wolfe.
Although tempted to send an e-mail to the Kult account in case Paris and Ty were checking it, he knew it was no longer a safe form of communication.
The Oracle was eavesdropping on their group.
Jill stood on the other side of the room, laughing as she shared a private joke with an officer that Prosper didn’t recognise. He envied them their ignorance. “Shouldn’t you be watching my wife?” he shouted.
Jill looked across the room, the smile fading from her lips. “I asked Johnson to watch her for a while.”
“It’s not Johnson’s job. I specifically asked you to watch her. Now get a move on, she’ll be leaving the house for work soon.”
Prosper looked away, but he still heard Jill say, “What is his problem?”
He snorted loudly. He had never felt so alone. Natasha kept asking him what was wrong, but how could he tell her she was married to a murderer? That the man she thought had sworn to uphold the law, had subverted it.
If he told her the truth, it would tear his family apart.
The new fan on his desk did nothing but circulate the hot air better than its predecessor, and he loosened his shirt collar and prayed for winter.
For what seemed like the hundredth time since arriving at work that morning, he found his gaze drawn to the grisly collection of photographs on the wall. Jerel’s stood out, mocking him. Although he tried not to look at his old friend, the photograph acted like a magnet for his eyes.
DECEIVER. The title stood out like an accusation.
He studied the list of killers’ names associated with the photographs tacked around Jerel’s corpse: Patrice Alègre. Jeffrey Dahmer (twice). Richard Leyva Ramirez (twice). Dennis Nilsen. Jack Unterweger. Donald Harvey. Mack Ray Edwards. Anatoli Onoprienko. And Jane Toppan.
What the hell did they all mean? Some of them, such as Toppan, Kearney, Unterweger, Ramirez, Watts and a couple of others featured more than once in the Oracle’s photographs.
Pondering his tangled emotions, he didn’t take much notice as Mike ran into the room carrying a large, manila envelope.
“Sir, another photograph’s arrived,” Mike said.
Prosper looked up and bit his lip. “Sorry, what’s that you said?”
“There’s another photograph.”
Prosper bristled. “Another murder?”
Mike nodded. “It’s not a pretty sight.”
Sighing in frustration, Prosper slipped on a pair of gloves, took the envelope and opened the flap. As he pulled out the photograph, Jill rushed across the room and stood next to him.
A snake slithered around his stomach, started to squeeze. He really didn’t want to look at the photograph, but he had no choice. He focused his eyes on the picture, and then wished he hadn’t. His jaw dropped and he blinked a couple of times.
There, entwined in a bloody embrace were Ty and Paris.
“The sick bastard’s taken to killing two at a time,” Mike said.
Prosper hardly heard the words as he looked at the photograph and its label: BROTHERS IN ARMS courtesy of the Oracle.
Prosper gagged. The photograph shook in his hands.
Stripped naked, Ty and Paris had been sewn together, perversely joined from head to toe. The thread stretched their flesh, tearing large, ugly gashes. Their arms were sewn around each other’s shoulders in a parody of affection, and it was hard to see where one body ended and the other began.
The room began to spin, getting faster and faster; Prosper felt giddy, felt his life spiralling out of control.
He couldn’t believe it. First Jerel. Now Ty and Paris. What the hell was happening?
Distant voices echoed in his head, and he didn’t know if they were real or imagined. He absently wondered whether some people had heard divine voices, but fearing for their sanity, they ignored them, and the messages never got through. Is that what he could hear now, divine voices, the word of God?
Realising it was Jill talking to him, and not any form of divine intervention, he didn’t know whether he felt relieved or not. A bit of divine advice could be what he needed now.
Prosper looked up at her.
“Sir, are you OK?” Jill asked.
“Yes, I’m fine,” he lied.
Jill frowned. “Are you sure?”
“And what does that mean?” Prosper barked, rankled by her veiled attempt at concern.
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
Prosper nodded his head, the movement almost imperceptible.
“He’s changed his M.O. again by the looks of it, killing two at once, I mean,” Jill said. “How can you catch someone who’s as changeable as the weather? The pattern’s changing every time.”
“The pattern might be changing, but the signature’s the same,” Mike said. “The way he mutilates the body and then surrounds it with pictures of other serial kill
ers.”
She looked at Mike. “Let’s see what we can find out about the victims. And then start identifying the killers’ pictures he’s placed around the bodies.”
Mike nodded. “I’m on it.”
Prosper remained mute. How long would it be until they discovered a connection between the victims and himself? Perhaps it would be better to be up front about it, show he had nothing to hide. Wouldn’t silence be a guilty confession?
“Also, find out if there’s a connection between them. Lovers perhaps.” Jill said.
Prosper stifled an ironic laugh. He could imagine Paris’ indignant expression at being associated so closely with Ty. Not that there had ever been any proof of Ty’s sexuality.
Jill peered at Prosper over the top of her notebook, her eyes narrowed into slits. “You’re quiet, Prosper.”
Prosper swallowed to wet his dry throat. The streamers that fluttered from the whirling fan were beginning to annoy him. He exhaled slowly. “I know those men … I mean, I knew them.”
All eyes in the room seemed to focus on him, but all he saw was Ty and Paris.
“You knew them?” Jill said. “Just like you knew Jerel Jones?”
Prosper nodded. “They were friends of mine. That one’s Ty,” he pointed to the picture, “the other one’s Paris. I’ve … I’ve known them for years!”
“Fuckin’ hell,” Mike said.
“Why didn’t you speak up sooner?” Jill asked.
“I … I don’t know. I guess I … I didn’t want to believe it. They were my friends, you know.”
“Well this can’t be a coincidence,” Jill said.
“Coincidence! Of course it’s not a fucking coincidence,” Prosper barked. “The bastard’s playing with me. I don’t fucking know how, but somehow, he’s targeting people I know.” He couldn’t tell whether they believed him, but it was the best he could come up with at such short notice. Besides, it wasn’t far from the truth. He just omitted that they were all members of a group called the Kult that had tried to frame the Oracle for a murder he didn’t commit.
“Well we need to ascertain some details. How it happened. Where it happened and why it happened,” Jill said.
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