by Blake Pierce
But he was a large man, too. Tall, proud. That's what these little whores wanted, wasn't it? A man's man—beauty to tame a beast?
Well, this beast wouldn't be tamed.
She gaped, staring at him... “I... I'm sorry, do I know you?”
He felt like he'd been slapped, standing before her, mask clutched in his hand, peeled from his face like the skin of some fruit, revealing the juicy flesh beneath... But now?
Do I know you?
His temper rose like a tide. He yelled in fury, backhanding her across the face and sending her stumbling beneath the sink, her head cracking against the porcelain with a dull thunk. She yelled in pain, scrambling to try to regain her feet, but he closed in, his large frame and barrel chest jutting out like some barricade, his shadow swallowing her whole.
“Stay there!” he spat. “Stay on the ground, Mona! I'm warning you!”
She whimpered, staring up at him. She began to draw breath, but his hand shot out, gripping her throat. His large hand fit entirely around her slender neck, and he gave a soft little squeeze. Any breath she'd been trying to summon suddenly fled in a wheezing gasp.
“None of that,” he muttered, darkly. “Scream and I squeeze. Understand?”
She was crying now, tears streaking her makeup, spreading it down her cheek, removing her second mask as well. Even beneath this one, though, she was a natural beauty. A lure in the dark. A light on cold roads beneath glinting moonlight. The sort of distraction to lure travelers to their demise. She knew what she was doing.
“You all know what you're doing,” he spat, growling deeply. His shoulders heaved. “You know—you know!” He screamed. “How dare you not remember me? How dare you!”
“I'm sorry!” She spluttered. “Please... Please what—what do you want? Help!” She tried to yell, but he clapped a hand over his mouth now. His other hand reached into his belt, pulling out the small knife... a knife he'd used three times before.
“All the same,” he muttered again, his breath ragged, heavy. “All of you, the exact same... You laughed. When I thanked you for the date... You laughed. Said it wasn't a date! What did you think? I paid for the meal and everything!”
Now, suddenly, her eyes widened in greater horror. Recognition dawned across her perfect features. Mona shook her head, desperately, her golden hair shifting about beneath the sink. Something about beauty crammed in such an undignified location gave him a jolt of vindictive satisfaction. It was like watching a crumpled daisy struggle and twist.
He found he was smiling now, his hand still around her throat.
She tried to choke out a response, her eyes wide, but fixed on his face. She hadn't seen the knife yet. Just another little delight, unwrapping a birthday gift one ribbon at a time.
He released his grip just enough so she could choke out. “I'm sorry. I—I remember now! Yes. I thought—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh!”
His eyes narrowed over his leer and he bent his head, dropping to a knee and looking her in the eyes. “Didn't mean to?” he whispered softly. “I suppose I understand.” He caressed the slope of her neck with his large hand, running a thumb along her windpipe until she gagged. “Yes... We all do things we don't mean to. I didn't mean to hurt Rebekah. Or Lorraine. Or Fiorella...” he shook his head sadly. “Didn't mean to at all. Didn't mean to slit their pretty little throats and allow them to bleed out as I watched. I liked it when they gasped the final time. You can see the moment when the light fades, you know? When it disappears from their eyes. It's like a spark.” He shook his head slightly, staring off into the distance, watching, for a moment, a memory seared into his brain.
He supposed, perhaps, if he was being charitable, he might understand why she hadn't known it was a date. He'd contacted her agency—another little model-wanna-be. He'd posed as an employer, interested in an actress for a fake photo shoot. It had been simple enough, using his ties to the festival.
How could he not? He'd seen her headshot passed around with some of his coworkers. He'd seen her beauty—it had snared his eye and he couldn't look away.
He shook his head slowly... Perhaps if he was being generous, he could understand why when she'd met him at the restaurant, she hadn't realized it was a date. She'd brought a portfolio with her work, been smiling, wearing a suit, all professional, all polite.
She hadn't known then, had she? They were meant to be.
So what if it had taken a little deception to get here there? So what? When he'd told her, at the end of the evening he could still remember the conversation...
“Do you remember?” he whispered, his hand still outstretched, the knife still just hidden behind his back. “Do you? Hmm? Do you remember what I said?”
“I'm sorry,” she was gasping, crying still, shaking her head. “I'm sorry! Please, I'm sorry. We can go on a date, whatever you want! Please, I'm sorry!”
His face twisted in rage... “You things will say anything won't you? Just to escape justice? Hmm? I asked you what you thought of the date. You stared at me, then laughed. You said you didn't realize I'd thought this was a date. You looked at me like I was trash. Like there was never a chance someone like you would look at someone like me. You laughed. And then you left. I heard you after, you know. When you paused and called your agency. I heard you yelling, upset. Saying that you'd been set up. Is that what you think of me? Some ugly nuisance? Some weird creep. Remember those words? Hmm? Not laughing now are you. The weird creep is scary when you're alone, isn't he? Hmm? Laugh again, Mona. No—look at me. Don't cry. Damn it, LOOK AT ME!” He said in a fierce, but controlled tone, his voice reverberating. “Laugh. Do it Mona. Laugh for me. Now.”
Her eyes were wide, they flicked past his waist and then froze. She'd spotted the glint of the knife. Her lips were trembling where she rested, crumpled beneath the sink.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Hmm. Things don't look very nice right now, do they, Mona? Hmm? Laugh for me. Laugh, I said!”
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Adele didn't bother with a paddle this time, and instead sat in the back of a small speedboat, tapping her fingers rapidly against the metal of the side, waiting impatiently as the boat guide headed towards the dock outside the glass-structure of Ricardo's restaurant. The festival around them was in full swing. Twice, now, someone had thrown flowers towards the boat, and a red rose had landed in the vessel, which the boatman had lifted and tucked behind his ear, waving towards the masked audience on the side of the water.
Fireworks were exploding all across the city, and music and dance and spectacle filled the streets and bridges along Venice's canals. But Adele's eyes remained fixed on the glassy structure of the looming restaurant ahead of them.
“I'll pay after,” she said, quickly. “Sorry, look—just stay here. No time—no don't tie off. Wait!”
The boat tapped delicately against the rubber guards against the side of the wooden docks. Many other small watercrafts lined the jetty outside the restaurant. Inside, she could see figures moving about, bright lights, people in strange, old-fashioned outfits and masks to match the victims. This was it.
This was the ball. It had to be.
“Come on, come on,” she muttered, poised now as the boatman guided them in. Before they'd come to a full halt, she jumped from the vessel, her feet tapping against the jetty. She then raced forward, her dress fluttering, her shoes slapping against the wood, her purse clutched in one hand.
She stood out, no longer wearing her mask, but now wasn't the time to worry about tickets or decorum.
Two doormen raised their hands as she approached, like some sort of guardians, their masks expressionless as they tried to intervene.
“Police!” Adele snapped, shoving one of their hands away.
The doormen were hesitant though and tried to block her path. One of them grabbed her arm, yanking a bit too hard.
She snarled, pulling her gun—not pointing it, but pulling it. Both doormen immediately backed away, letting go and allowing access.
; Adele kept the gun pointed down and said, a final time, “Sorry. But police. Move!”
They stepped fully away from the door, and she shoved through, into a much smaller, cozier masquerade ball than the one she'd left. Here, people in strange garb were dancing in time with live stringed musicians at the back. Food was being served and small groups were gathered around translucent gaps in the ground, watching the water beneath and laughing together.
Adele's eyes danced around the room, her breath heavy, trying to find something anything that stood out. Behind her, she could see the two doormen muttering quickly into cellphones, likely calling for police.
Good. She thought. Back up.
Where was he? Had she made a mistake? A hunch was only a hunch... But the mask maker had been clear. The masks were from this ball. Seventeenth century something or other. She'd forgotten now. It didn't matter either way. The killer had a message; he'd wanted to share it. But he'd also gone out of his way to kill guests from the other ball—a competitor. Much larger and better funded judging by the looks of things inside the small, glass restaurant.
Still, through the windows, displayed against the city, the scene of the buildings on either side of the canal, the lights and spotlights from the passing floats and the fireworks in the distance gave even this small gathering an eerie, otherworldly appearance.
She breathed heavily, mask-less—attracting more than a few curious glances.
“You,” she said, pointing towards a passing waitress with a golden name tag. “Is anyone missing? Hey, stop, police!”
The young woman in question only picked up her pace though, shooting uncomfortable glances towards the doormen, then Adele, and then towards the customers she was serving.
Adele huffed in frustration, approaching a table with young partygoers. Some of them wore powdered wigs and odd neckerchiefs. “Hey,” Adele said, waving her hands to catch their attention. Masks turned towards her, like barn owls on a branch. Their conversations quieted as they stared at her. She tried again, slowly, speaking English just in case anyone understood. “Is anyone missing? Any of your friends? Anyone you've seen?”
Blank stares. She growled and tried French. But this didn't help either. A couple of the younger women at the back of the group were giggling now, whispering to each other and Adele exhaled in frustration, turning to face the rest of the restaurant. She spotted the band playing, violins and cellos mostly. She watched as five or so couples danced around the clear floor, moving in time with a slower music than had been allowed back at the Compagnia dei Cielo ball.
She needed to think.
If the killer was back at the other ball, then John and Leoni would have to handle it. They were more than equipped. But the three victims had nearly shut down that ball. The masks didn't match. It was like the killer was speaking, his language clear and obvious.
Not everyone could communicate in the native tongue of psychopaths and killers. Especially seeing as the words were more subconscious, psychological, than voiced and reasoned. But it all made sense to her. It did. She had studied the language—she could speak it.
And whoever the killer was had been playing a game. He thought he was clever—smarter than the rest of them.
So where was he now?
Cautious. He'd always been cautious.
Adele watched the two doormen behind her, still yammering into their phones, both of them glaring at her through the glass, but standing close enough to the dock they could jump in case.
Now, some of the partygoers had spotted her gun and were whispering.
“Polizia,” Adele said quickly. “Polizia!” She repeated.
Some partygoers calmed a bit at this, but others still kept a watchful eye on her, nervous now in their motions. She exhaled in frustration, forcing herself to think, to ignore the eyes on her, ignore the attention. She wished more than ever she hadn't been forced to wear a stupid dress now.
Still, she needed to think like the murderer.
Had he lured his next victim somewhere?
She hesitated, but then shook her head, her eyes moving away from the glass corners, the walls staring out at the city.
No. He killed under the cover of night, wearing a mask. This was not a bold man. He was a coward. Someone who preferred his actions hidden from plain sight...
Which meant what?
She breathed slowly... And then, her eyes turned from the glass, the walls, the crowds, the witnesses. They settled on a single dark hall at the back of the restaurant.
The bathrooms?
He didn't lure his victims. He sprung when they were vulnerable.
Her eyes remained fixed now on the dark hall, the only space in the restaurant not girded with some see-through material. The only space for privacy.
Privacy, the place for the intimate, but also the depraved...
She picked up her pace now, marching forward. She reached the hall, past a row of paintings, ignoring the artwork, her eyes dancing from a door with a male figure. She pushed it open. “Hello?”
The bathroom was empty. She frowned, turning to the other door. She reached out and tried to enter.
Locked.
Her heartbeat pounded; she could feel eyes still watching her down the hall. In her form-fitting dress, her purse in one hand, her gun in the other, Adele's eyes narrowed, and she rapped the purse-clutching fist against the door. “Hello? Hello!” She said, louder.
No response. Then, a sound. Was that a whimper?
“Hello?” she called, more urgently.
She tried the handle again. Still locked.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Adele backed up, her shoulders slamming against the wall. She breathed deep, thanking her lucky stars she'd refused high heels and then, with a yell she rushed forward, slamming her foot hard into the weaker section of the door.
These bathroom doors weren't thick oak, but rather flimsy and serviceable. It cracked beneath the pressure and she kicked again, her ankle jarring, wincing but feeling a flush of relief as the door slammed open and she stumbled forward, her gun still clutched in one hand.
The scene before her curdled her blood.
A large, very large fellow stood over a small, bleeding woman. The man had a knife, which was pressed to the woman's neck. She was twitching and gasping, moving still. Alive, then. But blood had begun to trickle down her throat.
“Stop!” Adele yelled. She fired, twice.
But the big man had been alerted by the shattered door and he dropped on top of his victim, going flat and twisting suddenly, using the woman in the teal dress like a shield.
Adele cursed, her bullets slamming into tiles above the sink, chipping flecks of ceramic and sending them scattering across the ground.
“Don't move!” Adele yelled. “Don't you dare!”
The large man had odd features, a scarred lip and deep, ghoulish eyes. He was easily as tall as John, and wider—though partly due to a poor diet, it would seem.
Still, he dwarfed the woman clutched in his grip, like some sort of sea monster grasping at a silver fish.
He snarled in her direction, spitting Italian words she couldn't understand. But the gesture of his knife now against the woman's bleeding neck was obvious enough. His eyes blazed at her, and he flung a mask in her direction which she dodged, by sidestepping. The face covering slammed against the wall behind her.
“Let her go!” Adele said. “Or next bullet is for your head.”
If he understood her, he didn't show it. Instead, he seemed caught between a decision, glancing down at the shivering, trembling woman in his grasp, then back up at Adele, his eyes still blazing with fury and anger.
He stared at her features for a moment, his eyes sliding across her face, down her nose to her cheeks. For a moment, Adele felt gross like she was some sort of prized hog being examined at a butcher's shop. The man seemed to see something in her he didn't like and gestured wildly with the bloody knife. Moving it from her to his victim, screaming more words she couldn't und
erstand.
Now, she heard footsteps behind her, hurried, rapid footfalls. She glanced in the mirror, spotting the two doormen had pulled up and were now staring in horror at the scene in the bathroom.
“Stay back,” she demanded, aiming the words over her shoulder, but her eyes and barrel still pointed towards the threat.
He was staring from her to his clutched prize, further enraged, somehow, by Adele's arrival. Why, she couldn't say. But she knew that sort of leering, ogling look. A look she'd received before. Some called her an exotic beauty, others called her all sorts of other, colorful names. Hating her before she'd ever so much as said a word due to appearance alone. Getting ahead in a profession in law enforcement had always come with obstacles due to facial symmetry alone.
Again, Adele hated she'd worn the dress.
“Let her go!” she demanded, voice rising to fill the space. Seeing, in the mirror, the two doormen behind her frozen in place as if unsure what to do.
The large man on the ground was shaking his head though, clutching the gasping, trembling form of his new victim against his chest like some security blanket. One large, hairy arm wrapped around her slender waist, holding her tight against him. His other hand kept the knife against her windpipe. She was still bleeding—a superficial cut, though, Adele realized.
She aimed, carefully, trying to gauge the likelihood of a successful shot.
The man wasn't calming down. He was becoming more agitated under Adele's watchful glare. For a moment, she wished Leoni had come with them.
She needed someone to translate. Then again, perhaps that would only make things worse. The man, the gorilla of a fellow, was getting more and more agitated, his wide, deep set, ghoulish eyes flashing with some demonic rage. His knife was pressing harder and harder against the woman's skin.