Twenty-one
Three more days, one hundred and thirty-two more dead. I was well past the point of sick and into the realm of deathly numb, if such a thing existed. If I had any doubt that I was the world’s worst person, it was dissolved when some unnamed individual slid a note under my door that I found first thing in the morning. I didn’t bother to ask the guards how it got there. It read:
People are dying by the hundreds and you’re hiding. If he comes back here, you won’t find much help from any of us because everyone here pretty much hates you and we’re all rooting for him to turn you inside out.
Ariadne hadn’t stopped by in several days and the guards hadn’t initiated any conversations, so my only human contact was when a cafeteria worker brought me meals three times per day. It was always the same person, a middle-aged woman who didn’t have anything to say. At all. I caught her scowling at me when she thought I wasn’t looking. Based on her attitude, I had to guess the letter was on target.
The crisis in Minneapolis had gotten so bad that there were police and SWAT teams on constant call. Helicopters circled, watching for any sign. Wolfe had progressed from only slaughtering people in their homes to killing people in public places as he moved between potential victims – he had been caught on several automated cameras. When four houses in a row in one of the western suburbs was hit it started a louder clamor; previously Wolfe had restricted himself to working in Minneapolis proper.
Since then he had jumped around, but the police always seemed to be a couple steps behind him, at least according to the news. Hundreds of witnesses reported seeing him, even just a flash in passing, and the police were overwhelmed because at the slightest hint of a noise people were calling 911 for help; as a result, instances of violent crime were up 142% (again, according to the news) and tons more were going unnoticed. As one reporter put it, “It’s a good time to get away with murder in Minneapolis because, amidst all the other bodies, who’s going to investigate one more?”
All my fault. Every last one of them.
I was still glued to the TV, watching every update, every bit of breaking news that really wasn’t breaking, every police press conference, every release of another victim’s name. I felt more powerless than at any time prior in my life, worse than any occasion I’d been locked away. When I was prisoner in my own home I never had to worry my actions would cause harm to anyone or anything – except maybe Mom’s feelings, if she had any.
I was waiting, hoping to hear that M-Squad had returned or that Wolfe had been run over by a garbage truck (maybe that would kill him) or anything – anything to break the twenty-four hour press of guilt.
And then I did.
“Breaking news,” I heard an anchorperson say for the one millionth time in the last few days. I was lying on the floor. It wasn’t as soft as the bed but I didn’t feel like I deserved the bed right now. “We go live now to Winston Haines, who is in a chopper above Southdale Mall, where Edina police have cornered the suspect in the slayings that have gripped the Twin Cities in a wave of terror.”
I stood and moved closer to the TV. The angle changed to look down on a parking lot, where a lone figure raced across the pavement. My heart stopped, along with my breath.
It was Wolfe.
I watched as he hurdled a car, running flat out from three police cruisers and a SWAT van that were behind him. Two more cruisers cut him off and boxed him in. Cops opened doors and I saw them fire right away, not even bothering to say anything. It was a smart move on their part, but I had to wonder if it would be enough.
Wolfe went down to a knee under the sheer volume of gunfire. The reporter was blathering on about civil rights but I silently cheered the cops on, hoping that they would put him down like the rabid dog he was.
And maybe it would be over. And I could get out of here. And go…anywhere else. Somewhere that I wouldn’t have to think about any of this.
The SWAT van popped open and black-suited team members swarmed toward Wolfe, who was now on all fours, and a moment of silence prevailed as the reporter shut up. They surrounded him and I hoped that maybe the bullets they had shot him with had more power than the shotgun rounds I’d seen him shrug off. They pointed their guns at him point blank, and then one of them stepped in, handcuffs at the ready, going slow, amazed that Wolfe was still alive and moving after the hail of bullets that had been thrown at him.
As he started to reach for Wolfe’s hand to place the cuffs on, I flinched away. It was an involuntary response born of the realization that something terrible was about to happen. When I blinked my eyes open a second later, it was already done. Wolfe was in motion, his claws raking through body armor, sending cops flying through the air just as he had when he assaulted the Directorate.
They didn’t shift the camera away from the scene, which surprised me, especially when the blood started to flow. Wolfe swept through the SWAT team in less than ten seconds, and their Kevlar vests and riot helmets did nothing to stop his slashes and punches.
When he was finished with the SWAT team, he started on the cops from the cars that had surrounded him. The first few kept shooting, dodging him in futile efforts to escape his grasp. He used his teeth when he got hold of them. The last few ran, each in a different direction, and the camera followed him as he bounded after them. I didn’t watch nature programs very often, but I’d seen lions take down wounded gazelles, and it was disgusting to watch.
The reporter provided commentary on the horrors of what we were seeing as Wolfe finished the last police officer with a rough decapitation, holding the man’s head up in the air, facing toward the helicopter. He then pointed right at the camera, and it zoomed in to the point where every detail of his horrible face was visible, his teeth, his black eyes and even the blood dripping from his claws as he pointed.
At me. I could feel it. He was pointing at me. He hoped I was watching. Maybe he knew I was watching.
He mouthed words. “We don’t know quite what he’s saying…” The reporter’s voice was sheer astonishment. But he was wrong. I knew exactly what he was saying. And I didn’t even have to be that good at reading lips to figure it out; just had to have heard the repetitive taunting from him, with that same sadistic look, the one that I knew contained not one ounce of insincerity.
“Little doll…come out and play.”
The Girl in the Box Series, Books 1-3: Alone, Untouched and Soulless Page 21