by Unknown
So where are they? he thought.
He shrugged and turned to the stairs.
As Shane climbed the staircase up to the first-floor elevators, he expected to be greeted by the enormous gothic statue of the hooded justice, leaning on his long broadsword as the blade fired down into the floor, as if it pointed toward hell. This was the same statue that had greeted him every day for the best part of a year.
Instead what waited for him at the top of the staircase forced Shane to drop his briefcase. Blood churned and boiled inside his veins. Shock filled his body as if he had bitten straight into a power line with his teeth. Fury seared through his organs and skin.
Shane felt faint. I had never felt that before. I had to come to the surface.
Shane had a crippling claustrophobia. It was a condition that had followed him from birth. It was his kryptonite.
Fear of enclosed spaces had been the only thing that had ever paralyzed him before.
The sight in front of him had the same effect.
He froze in place. He stood at the top of the stairs. Nothing would have snapped him out of his paralysis, nothing.
In front of us was the most grotesque, inhuman diorama of carnage that Shane had ever seen.
Standing three people tall in place of the once-erected statue that guarded the lobby, was a totem pole made of human pieces. Three naked, dead women were hideously mutilated and stitched and sewn together in horrific ways.
Two of the pieces had been completely detached from the rest and sewn into the bottom of the human totem pole. They held the carnage up like a sick Christmas tree stand.
I had never imagined anything like it. I was actually mortified. I had misjudged the evil of the Woodsman. He had to die.
Shane winced at the sight of the totem monstrosity that towered in front of us.
Then Shane noticed the statue of justice had been toppled over. It lay behind the human totem pole. The skirt covering its legs jetted out from behind the art exhibit. It looked like a woman in a dress had toppled over and now she couldn’t stand up.
As Shane’s eyes returned to the gruesome stack of dead women, he noticed the fine details of the totem pole. He saw the various metal rods that extended outward, holding up the different pieces of anatomy. He traced the long cables that pulled up the arms of each woman.
Then he noticed the thing that horrified him the most.
The woman at the very top of the totem pole looked like Sandy Parks. Blue eyes had rolled back in her head. Her mouth was sewn shut.
Her head had been shaved. And her ears were missing, but the face was hers.
Her breasts were exposed and covered in the liquid wood, the signature trace of the Woodsman. Her nipples protruded out of the liquid wood as if she were one of those models covered in a paint-on bikini.
Shane felt guilty for looking at them. Then he felt horrified that he’d let her die.
I am so sorry, he thought.
Suddenly, a woman screamed from behind Shane. He whipped around to see a Hispanic cleaning lady faint and crash to the floor. Her cleaning basket spilled. Dusters, spray bottles, and other products fell out and rolled onto the floor around her limp body.
Great. She saw us, Shane thought. Now he had to stay and give a statement to the cops.
He pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911.
|||||
Shane waited in his office alone. While he waited, a vision came to me.
It was from the night before.
I saw the Woodsman. He sat at a desk. He’d stared blankly at the screen of a laptop. His expression changed to dismay at what played on the video that was displayed across his screen.
He’d watched a security feed. It was from his apartment.
He watched as an intruder entered his home. The intruder was tall and lean. He wore a black suit, black pea coat, and a blood-red scarf that wrapped around the bottom of his face, hiding his identity.
The Woodsman watched me.
He played the feed over and over. Every time that it ended, he clicked on the play icon and restarted it.
He watched as Shane rummaged through his belongings. Then he watched as Shane carefully replaced every single item back to where he had found it. He left nothing of place. The Woodsman replayed the video. He paused the feed and leaned in closer. Then he glared at the intruder’s eyes. He studied them.
Finally, a look of recognition contorted across his face. He had seen those eyes once before, only briefly, but he recognized them.
“Shane Lasher,” he said.
|||||
“Death and murder follow you everywhere you go. Why do you suppose that is?” Kirk Cutter asked.
He stood as straight as a statue. He sneered and cocked his head to one side.
“I work here, Agent Cutter. Lots of people do,” Shane answered.
I knew why the bodies were here. The Woodsman had left us a message. He knew that Shane had broken into his apartment. He had watched us with his hidden security cameras.
He probably had used these cameras to record his interactions with his victims so that he could watch them over and over, reliving the seduction and murder.
He’d killed Shane’s new friend and placed her body here for Shane to find. It was more than a grotesque art exhibit. It was his warning to us. He was saying:
You know who I am!
Now I know who you are!
Agent Cutter’s darkness gleamed in his eyes like a glimmer off the surface of a black planet. The demon inside him stared at Shane unflinchingly. Its claws almost protruded from the FBI agent’s eye sockets as it gazed through his pupils. I was not sure if it could see me or not. I suspected not because he had not tried to kill us, not yet.
“Let’s change the subject for a moment. Remember why you’re here! How is the spying going, Mr. Lasher?” Cutter asked.
“I told you before; I’m not spying for you,” Shane said.
“Where were you last night?” Agent Cutter asked.
“With a woman. She’ll back up my story. Need her information?”
Agent Cutter grimaced and shook his head, waving off the suggestion.
“I believe you,” he said.
“Do you have any leads?” Shane asked.
“Leads? What are you, a cop now?” Cutter asked.
Shane said nothing.
Cutter said, “This is the work of the Woodsman. What would I know of suspects?”
“Someone must suspect something? What about Detective Sandy Parks? Did she have notes on him?”
“Why don’t you let me investigate? You just keep your eyes open around the firm,” Cutter replied. He motioned for Shane to leave, as if he were dismissing one of his own agents.
“Do you need a statement?” Shane asked.
“And say what?” Agent Cutter asked.
Shane shrugged.
“I don’t want you anywhere near my investigation.” Cutter said. “Any investigation that the FBI might have involving your firm will be hindered by your involvement. Not to mention that if the press finds out that you discovered the body, it will be a shit-storm of national coverage.
“So, no. I don’t want you to make a damn statement. Now go back to work.”
Shane, surprised by Cutter’s outburst, turned to walk to the elevators. Before he made it two steps away, the agent’s voice boomed behind Shane.
“And Shane,” he said, “Keep your damn eyes open! I’m not playing around. You find me something about this firm or I WILL open an official investigation into your missing clients. The end of your career will be the least of your worries.”
Shane turned and continued toward the elevator.
|||||
Shane returned to his office, passing Tina’s desk, now vacant, which was the same for most of the floor. The FBI must have blocked most of the staff from entering the building until they were finished taking their pictures, collecting evidence, and removing the grotesque totem pole of bodies.
How do you remove
a human totem pole? Shane imagined that they would have to remove each body part using a pull-and-peel method.
Shane entered his office. He was greeted by a dark presence.
“Mr. Lasher?” the man standing in his office said.
Shane froze and stared. I leapt to a defensive position just beneath his surface, ready to lash out. Before I ripped through his skin and began slashing the intruder, Shane said his name, stopping me just before I showed myself.
“Mr. Dry?” Shane asked.
“Right. We met the other night, at the gala,” Townsend responded. He leaned against one of the pillars in Shane’s office.
Shane didn’t relax. The main thought that plagued both of us was how long Townsend had been trespassing in our office. Had he discovered anything?
“I remember,” Shane answered. He looked beyond Townsend to the doorway. Resting near the entrance to Shane’s office was his kill-case. Shane was unarmed. So he started to nudge back toward the entrance, near his kill-case.
Townsend moved slowly toward Shane like a beast in the wild recognizing another of its kind and studying it just before it decides whether or not to attack.
One of his hands was out in front of him, near his chest. He clenched it into a fist. The other hand was hidden in his coat pocket.
His coat was unbuttoned, revealing his perfectly creased sky blue tie. As far as Shane could tell, there was no evidence on Townsend’s clothes that he had so much as touched one of those bodies.
Even his face looked well rested.
“That’s right; we met. I was with Sandy Parks,” he said coldly.
Shane didn’t speak.
“Sorry we missed our double date last night,” Townsend said.
Shane nodded.
Then he asked, “Is there something that I can help you with?”
The two men stared each other down coldly, darkly.
Townsend slowly closed the distance between them, while Shane remained still like an oak tree with its mighty roots planted firmly in the ground.
Townsend said, “Shame about those women downstairs.”
Shane said, “Then you will understand if this is not a good time for a meeting. Perhaps we can have it some other time,” Shane said.
What are you doing? Shane thought.
My hind tendrils whipped and thrust me farther into Shane’s frontal lobe. I remained as hidden as I could behind his blue eyes. Cautiously, I peeked out and studied Townsend. His hand was still in his coat pocket.
Shane’s fists clenched tightly as Townsend moved in closer. I prepared to attack.
Within the span of a single breath I had planned several violent scenarios in which Townsend would most certainly be dead. The easiest to perform involved repeatedly banging his head on the thick, wooden desk.
“I think that this is the perfect time,” Townsend said.
Finally, I emerged to Shane’s surface. I was not letting Townsend get any closer without being in full control.
Townsend stopped, paused, and said, “What is wrong with your eyes? You look different. Your face.”
Townsend closed his eyes for a brief moment. He tried to shake off the horrible sight of me.
He reopened them. I saw that he had to be the Woodsman. The look on his face had switched from horror to pure evil. He stared me down.
After a moment of dark recognition, we approached each other. The Woodsman did not shudder in my presence, not like past killers had.
“The devil is in the details you know, Mr. Lasher. I like details. That’s why I’m an architect. I am good with details. My work is perfection all the way down to the last detail,” Townsend said. His cold gaze unflinchingly locked onto mine. He stopped six feet away. He was just out of my reach.
“Another profession that is good at details is the practice of law. Cases are won and lost because of details,” I responded.
Townsend said, “Serial killers have an acute attention to detail. Take the Woodsman. The totem pole downstairs is very detailed.
“I stared at it on the way in. And I was amazed at how much work went into it. It was exquisite. Did you see the wooden skin?”
I said “I don’t know. I thought it was amateurish and mediocre.”
I watched as the evil grin of the Woodsman crept across his face.
Suddenly, the door to Shane’s office swung open. Standing in the doorway with a look of utter disbelief was Tina. Without her usual professional manner, she entered, interrupting our showdown.
“Sorry, sir, I didn’t realize that Mr. Dry was here.”
“How are you? I was just visiting. Wanted to tell your boss that I hope he stays on as the permanent head of Lasher & Associates.”
“Thank you. That’s very nice of you.” Shane said. He had sprung past me and regained control over his body. Tina cocked her head a moment afterward, as if she had caught a glimpse of me, but then she shook it off.
Townsend turned to leave. The Woodsman had also disappeared back into his skin. He walked past Tina and through the open door. Just outside the opening, he stopped, turned, and looked back at Shane.
He said, “You know, I wasn’t sure that it was you until now.”
Then he pulled his hand out of his coat pocket, holding something in his palm.
It was a small, red memory stick. It read 2GB on the outer case. It had two gigabytes of memory.
The tip of the stick was a silver USB connector.
Townsend reared his arm down and swung it upward. He tossed the memory stick underhanded across the room. It landed on a black leather sofa, just missing the glass coffee table.
He shrugged and exited the office. On his way out, he whistled some jingle that I had never heard before. I guess that it was meant to torment us. The sound faded down the hall and toward the elevators. Then he was gone.
“What a strange man,” Tina said. Her accent tickled Shane’s ears.
“Tina, I need some privacy,” he said.
Sensing something demonic in her boss’s voice, she turned and left. Tina shut the door behind her.
Shane bent down and picked up the memory stick. Then he walked to his laptop and inserted the stick into the USB port.
He sat back and watched as a video feed appeared on the monitor. The video showed a dark intruder creeping around Townsend’s apartment. The intruder searched stealthily for the apartment’s tenant. The intruder was Shane in his kill-suit.
I messed up, Shane thought.
Now Townsend knew our secret. Shane no longer had the advantage. The Woodsman would be waiting for him. He had to strike fast. He had to strike today.
|||||
Like a torrent of fire, the darkness of the night engulfed Shane as he traveled to the Woodsman’s apartment. I sat in the cockpit. My tendrils caressed his pulsating brain like the tender fingers of a lover. With each supple touch his body moved in the direction that I wanted it to. He performed at optimal capacity.
Tonight he would find Townsend and tear him limb from limb.
Townsend knew that Shane had been in his home. He knew that Shane had searched for him.
What he didn’t know was what Shane had planned for him. He didn’t know that Shane wanted to murder him, that I wanted to strangle the demon living inside him.
Shane arrived just around the corner to the Woodsman’s apartment building.
Shane had no idea what Townsend intended, but he would be waiting for us. I supposed he wanted to either blackmail Shane or ambush him. Either way, Shane couldn’t take a chance on waiting to find out. He had to act. Townsend had to die.
I shifted gears and completely took over Shane. Anyone who might have passed by and gazed into Shane’s black, soulless eyes would have been staring at me, the shark that swam in his head.
Slowly, I walked to the side of the street where Townsend’s building stood. At the building’s side street, I stopped. That was when I noticed the strobe lights that bounced off the building across the street. The lights were faint from here. The
y flashed blue and red across the second floor of the building.
Oh, no! I thought.
I remained in the shadows and peered around the corner at the scene that unfolded in front of Townsend’s building.
Police cars littered the street. I stepped out of the shadows and stared in disbelief.
Among the police officers, I recognized two familiar faces. The first was Townsend Dry. He was slumped over a police squad car. It looked like he was being read his Miranda rights. They were arresting him.