The Ackerman Thrillers Boxset: 1-6

by Ethan Cross

Nothing.

  The two-story house was white with black shutters, and a wrap-around porch encompassed half its diameter. The front door opened into a spacious living room with a large picture window. Curio cabinets lined the walls with shelves populated by antique pottery and glassware. A partially open staircase was on his left and an open dining room, attached to the living room in an L-shape, sat to his right. He moved into the dining room and noticed a stack of mail on the table. Part of the stack had been opened, and part sat unread.

  He looked back toward the flight of steps and decided to investigate the second story. He moved up the hardwood stairs without making a sound.

  At the top, a bathroom door stood open on his left. He peered inside. The shower curtain had been pulled back, so he wouldn’t have to jerk it open and pray that no one stood on the other side. A closed door waited at the far end of the hallway with two additional doors along the way. As his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit corridor, the dark wood grain of the closed door seemed to swirl and pulse like worms in an open grave.

  He crept forward, hugging the right wall. He balled his fists into weapons. If his own mother had stepped out of one of the rooms, she would have found herself lying flat on her back.

  A door on his left was closed, but the room on his right was open. Light beamed through the doorway, casting strange shadows upon the wall. He peeked around the corner and, seeing no immediate danger, stepped into the room.

  The space contained an exercise bike, a rowing machine, a small television, and some other baffling contraptions. A layer of dust covered them all. He saw that the source of the shadows in the hallway was a tree swaying just outside the window. He checked the closet and then turned his attention to the first of the other closed doors.

  He twisted the knob and pushed the door inward. He stepped to the side and scanned what portions of the room he could see from the hallway. The bed had been made with care, and decorative pillows covered its surface. A huge pile of stuffed animals, ranging from pink elephants to curious monkeys, rested in one corner. A shelf full of collectable dolls sat above the stuffed animal zoo. He checked the room but found no trace of wrongdoing.

  One more bedroom …

  Maybe my imagination is getting the better of me? This morning, I feel a presence that turns out to be nothing, and here I am chasing shadows. Maybe I’m losing my—

  He stopped dead in his tracks.

  Doubt and wishful thinking were now beyond the realm of possibility.

  Blood covered the doorknob of the next room.

  *

  Marcus’s heart pounded, and his pulse throbbed. He reached out, grasped the knob, but then hesitated. Once again, he had blood on his hands. He turned the knob and gave the door a gentle push.

  Blood was everywhere. The smell of rotting meat and decay filled the small space. Clumps of flies swarmed the room. Their buzzing stabbed at his consciousness like needles into his brain. He felt light-headed. The room spun. Bile rose to the back of his throat. A man couldn’t have done this … this was a monster … a demon … the devil himself.

  The newscaster had used the word “brutal” to describe the acts of random violence committed by the man named Ackerman. Now, it seemed to him that “brutal” lacked the proper depth. He searched for a more fitting word but found none. He wondered whether human language contained a word to describe such acts of lunacy. Perhaps only the language of the damned and the devil could describe the horror contained within the bedroom’s four walls.

  One question remained. Where’s the body?

  He surveyed the rest of the room. Within the reflection on the dresser mirror, he noticed something out of place. The image on the mirror showed a pair of bloody hands jutting out over the door that he had just opened.

  He turned around. Although he knew the image would be etched into his memory until the day he died, he pushed the door closed to reveal the bloody body of a kind and innocent woman.

  Two large spikes pierced her hands, nailing her to the wall. She had been stripped naked. Long cuts defiled the flesh. They were not quick slashes or stabs. The killer had stuck the knife in just far enough to break the skin and then ran the blade down the entire length of the body.

  He prayed to God that she had lost consciousness from the trauma of her wounds, but he knew that a killer like Ackerman would possess the knowledge necessary to prevent shock and prolong agony. At some point, he guessed that she had bled to death.

  He tried to turn away but was unable to keep himself from thinking like a cop. He noticed that signs of decay had taken hold. The body showed evidence of hypostasis, and a milky film covered the eyes. Flies swarmed the remains.

  He noted that things were wrong somehow. There was something about the hands and the blood, but he couldn’t concentrate. Emotion eclipsed deduction.

  He imagined the last moments of her life. He could see her screaming with a pain that no one should ever have to endure. He saw her executioner smiling with the same sense of pride that a painter or sculptor receives after completing a beautiful and soulful masterpiece.

  The victim’s cold, dead eyes were wide with unimaginable terror. They screamed out to him. They begged for help. I could’ve helped her … I could have saved her.

  He knew the look in her eyes. He saw it almost every night in his dreams. If I had gotten here sooner, she might still be alive.

  He stood transfixed. His entire body shook. Fury built up within him and boiled toward the point of eruption. It was a righteous rage, the kind that a person with a good soul feels when staring into the face of pure evil. It was the kind of rage that a father wields when confronting his child’s killer, or that a mother feels after discovering that her husband has been molesting their child. He could not allow another person to endure such pain. She deserved justice, and he would see to it that justice was done.

  His thoughts turned to Maggie. He ran down the hallway to the front of the house and peered through the window. The car was gone.

  He checked his watch. Seven minutes had passed. Good girl.

  The Sheriff should be on his way, but I can’t count on that. He suspected that cellular coverage might not be comprehensive in such an isolated and unpopulated area.

  He turned away from the window and moved back to the bedroom. There was only one thing that he could do for Maureen now. He scanned the room. It took only a few seconds to find a trail of blood leading toward a door on his left.

  He moved with a purpose. He opened the door and discovered a set of stairs. He wasn’t paying attention to the blood trail any longer. The volcano had erupted inside him, and a blanket of red had fallen over his eyes like a shroud. The flower of his righteous rage was in full bloom.

  Once in the kitchen, he ran to a door leading into a small office. He opened the door with such force that it nearly came off its hinges. He moved to the closet, opened the door, and searched inside. No killer.

  He exited the office and headed for another door that led into a bathroom. The shower curtain was closed. Unlike earlier, when he would have thrown it open and prayed not to find anyone, he now hoped to find a killer hiding behind the curtain. He found nothing but an empty shower stall.

  He returned to the kitchen and noticed that the blood trail led to the porch. He followed the droplets of crimson liquid to the back door. He noticed the spotless condition of the mudroom and entertained the ludicrous thought of how angry the grandmother would have been that the killer had tracked her blood across the immaculate floors.

  He twisted the knob, but a deadbolt secured the back door. He undid the lock and left the house of pain behind.

  As he exited, he felt as if a pressure lifted. Once again, he was surrounded by blue skies and open spaces. He wondered if the house would always carry the stain of blood and the smell of death, a taint that no amount of cleaning or coats of paint could conceal.

  Once again, he stood surrounded on all sides by the beauty of nature, but the world didn’t seem as bright to him as it ha
d before entering the grandmother’s house. He had felt that his new home was immune to the evil that plagued the rest of the world, but now he knew that darkness and ugliness could thrive and grow even in the center of the brightest light and the most breathtaking beauty. Somehow, such knowledge made the light seem dimmer and the beauty less magnificent.

  The trail of blood had stopped, and he knew that the killer could have gone in any direction. As the adrenaline faded, he realized that his prey was long gone, and the hunt was over. He saw a few buildings scattered behind the house but decided not to bother searching them.

  Although he would have preferred to never set foot in the house again, it contained the closest phone. He decided that it couldn’t hurt to call the authorities, in case Maggie couldn’t obtain a cellular signal.

  He re-entered the tainted house and dialed nine-one-one. The operator asked about the nature of the emergency. “Send the police to …” He stopped and realized that he didn’t know the address.

  He remembered the stack of mail on the dining room table. “Hold on.” He rushed to the table and returned with one of the unopened letters. “Send the police to 91244 Foxbrook Road in Asherton, the home of Maureen Hill.”

  He heard the rhythmic click of a computer keyboard. “I’m not showing that address anywhere in the county, sir. Are you at the location where the police are needed now?”

  “Yes.” He looked back down at the envelope and noticed something strange.

  “Okay, I have your location. Do you need an ambulance, sir?”

  He considered the request and said, “No, but tell them to bring the coroner.”

  8

  The Sheriff stared at the body of Maureen Hill and gazed into her milky, dead eyes. He clenched his own eyelids shut, but the tears found their way free, nonetheless. The look of pain in the lifeless orbs was familiar to him. He had seen the same fear the last time he looked into the eyes of his wife, Kathleen.

  The memories flashed through his mind. Coming home. Finding her mutilated body in their living room.

  She had been dead for two days. Two days, and he hadn’t even noticed that her calls had ceased.

  He had been in Kansas City at the time of her death, consulting on a missing persons case. But most of his time there was spent contemplating another active investigation, a serial rapist and murderer in the Virginia and Washington D.C. area. He had put a profile together for the investigators. The police used his analysis to isolate a suspect, but the man avoided capture and was on the run.

  He was proud of his work on the case. The lead investigator had even thanked him personally during a press conference, stating that his profile played an integral role in identifying the possible killer. He remembered the feeling of pride he felt at the mention of his name on television. Human nature, he supposed. Everyone wanted his or her fifteen minutes of fame. More than that, everyone wanted to be recognized for his or her hard work and diligence.

  And he was most definitely recognized for his role in the case, not by his superiors, but by the rapist and murderer he had helped to identify. With nothing to lose, the killer had decided to go after the families of his pursuers. The man raped and murdered Kathleen and then the lead investigator’s wife and stepdaughter.

  For him, losing Kathleen wasn’t the worst part. He had dealt with death every day and knew that losing a loved one didn’t require the intervention of a serial killer. Disease, a fall down the stairs, a car accident; all were constant possibilities.

  But the hardest thing to stomach was the fact that he had killed her, that his work had been the catalyst to her demise. Even worse than that was the realization that he hadn’t appreciated her while she was still alive.

  He stumbled into the stairwell that led down to the kitchen and slumped against the sidewall. He thought of Kathleen. He thought of Ackerman. Then, he thought of Marcus. He straightened, wiped away the tears, and collected himself. He had a job to do.

  *

  Marcus laid out the story in detail. The Sheriff listened, letting it unfold in its entirety. Now and again, the Sheriff would ask a question, in order to clarify some small detail, but then ask him to continue. The Sheriff’s chief deputy, Lewis Foster, also listened, taking notes on a small pad of paper.

  Foster was a young man, late twenties or early thirties. The deputy wore a snug-fitting, tan uniform, and Marcus could see that the man spent too much time in the weight room. Foster watched with accusing eyes. He could tell that the deputy’s preferred method of questioning was a thick phone book and a locked room. He knew the type—the scrawny kid who got bullied before discovering steroids. Then, Foster became the bully.

  Unlike Foster, the Sheriff exuded confidence and competence, and the man’s face showed no accusatory expressions or doubt.

  “Quite a story,” Foster said with an edge to his voice.

  “Yes, a senseless tragedy,” the Sheriff said. “Before I forget, Marcus, we’re going to need to borrow your shoes.”

  “My shoes?”

  “Yes, we’ll need to get a casting and a sample to compare with any footprints that we may find.”

  He nodded and removed his shoes. The Sheriff walked them over to a young man who disappeared with them.

  The Sheriff returned and said, “So you didn’t actually see anyone in the house or on the property?”

  “No, whoever did this was long gone by the time I got here.”

  “Or they never left,” Foster said.

  The statement caught him off guard, and his eyes narrowed at the deputy. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know. Just seems a little funny to me that a new guy moves in, and within two days, he’s put a couple guys in the hospital and conveniently stumbled upon a homicide. Guess you’re just unlucky, right?”

  “I’m sitting here talking to an inbred moron, so things could be better.”

  “If it was up to me, we’d be doin’ more than just talking.”

  “Sorry. I don’t kiss on the first date.”

  “You cocky little—”

  “Lewis, that’s enough,” the Sheriff said.

  “It’s all right, Sheriff. Let him keep talking. Someday, he’s bound to say something intelligent. Kinda like the deal where they theorize that a bunch of monkeys in a room full of typewriters will eventually write Shakespeare.”

  Foster moved closer. “Next time, you’re going to find yourself all alone with me in a dark room. You won’t be so funny then.”

  He cocked his head to the side, cracking his neck. When he spoke, his voice was calm and modulated. “You try that with me, and they’ll take you out of that room on a stretcher.”

  “You threatening me?”

  “No. I don’t make threats. Just stating facts.”

  Foster made a move toward him, but the Sheriff put an arm out and stopped his advance. “Why don’t you go help the boys upstairs, Lewis?”

  Foster stared with fire in his eyes for a few seconds before turning and walking away.

  Turning back to Marcus, the Sheriff said, “Not very good at making friends, are you?”

  “I’m an acquired taste.”

  “You used to be a cop, so I would think that you would be able to see things from Lewis’s point of view.”

  “I could try, sir. But, honestly, I don’t think that I could get my head that far up my ass.”

  The Sheriff stared at him with a blank expression and scratched his goatee. “Listen, kid, I don’t think that you had anything to do with this, but you’re not making very good first impressions around here. And the circumstances do seem pretty suspicious, so you better watch yourself. If you’re going to stick around, you need to learn a little self-control when it comes to that mouth of yours.”

  He nodded. “I’ll try, sir.”

  “Good. Now, I want you to go home, get some rest, and put this whole thing out of your mind. I know that it’s easier for me to say that than it is for you to do it, but I think you need to try anyway. This is our
responsibility now. The best thing for you to do is to forget this house and everything in it. If you don’t, it’ll eat you up inside. Trust me, son, I know.”

  There was truth in the Sheriff’s words, and he knew it. He also knew that he hated sitting on the sidelines, and it wasn’t in his nature to forget. “Do I get my shoes back?”

  The Sheriff shook his head. “Yes, you get your damn shoes back. If you think of anything else, here’s my card. My cell number’s on there.”

  Marcus stuck the card in his pocket. “There is one other thing that you should keep in mind when you look at this case.”

  “And that is?”

  He glanced around the room and lowered his voice. “You have a notorious serial killer traveling through the area. It would be a terribly convenient time for anyone who had been planning a murder to execute his or her plans. Think about it. The first thing I thought of when I saw that body was Ackerman. Someone wanting to commit a murder has the perfect opportunity to do so and a completely believable fall guy. Our minds are already tainted with the knowledge that Ackerman might be in the area. I’m just saying that you need to base your investigation on the facts alone—no assumptions.”

  The Sheriff seemed to consider his words a moment. “Thanks, kid, but we know how to do our jobs. Put the case out of your mind. We don’t need your help.” The Sheriff started to turn away but looked back. “And Marcus, until this thing is cleared up, stay away from my daughter.”

  *

  Marcus sat in the dark and relived his experience in the grandmother’s house. He wished he could forget. He prayed for the ability to put the past behind him and start a new life. He prayed to sleep and be carried off to a dream world filled with happy memories. Instead, he knew that he would be transported to a dark world of pain and suffering. A place with gray skies where the sun never graced the world. A place whose only inhabitants were monsters and their victims. A place where every surface seemed to possess teeth and a ravenous longing to consume his soul. He wondered if his dreams held a glimpse of his own personal hell.

  Unlike in his dreams, he was now wide awake and reliving the day’s events on his own volition. He studied every detail of the experience, searching for clues or small details that in the heat of the moment he may have overlooked. He had been blessed with the gift of a powerful photographic memory, and with this ability, he could transform himself into a reasonable facsimile of a human computer. He could store the data gathered in the house and re-access it later from his mental databanks. It wasn’t quite as easy as using a computer terminal, but he often discovered something that he had missed on first glance.