by Susan May
She wasn’t quick enough—not for Toby on his mission.
Move quickly forward. Eight, maybe nine steps, is all. Swing now.
Toby accepted the commands firing in his brain, pulled back the gate inside his mind, the guard of all things sane, and allowed the impulses to travel from his head to his body. His arm twitched as the energy flowed through his being, down his arms and his legs, through his hands and his feet. Blue ice travelling at light speed.
A crazy kick thwacked in his mind like a detonator releasing an explosion in his synapses, and he was on the woman. She couldn’t escape. That wouldn’t do for the mission if she alerted the patrons. He couldn’t have that. He didn’t know why. He just knew.
The speed of his forward movement gave him momentum, as he firmed his grasp about the handle and swung the axe behind his shoulder.
Striking distance was three feet, and it was all in the timing.
The woman had expected to only fetch a table’s order; fried calamari and chicken pesto pasta, now lying at her feet. It was in her eyes. The revelation had arrived. She should have run, but she’d wasted time evaluating, thinking this can’t be real, thinking this is some kind of joke. Her hands flew to her face, instinctive and pointless.
As Toby swung it was as though his cognizance slipped outside his body. He saw where he was, saw her, and recognized he had no reason for this, no reason to take another step or do another thing, except put down the axe and run back out the door, leaving these people to their evening and their lives.
Then the thought was gone like a car fishtailing down a street, glancing off parked cars before careening away, without leaving a note—it’s not their responsibility.
It’s not his responsibility.
Toby let go of everything that was him, everything except the arc of the axe as it swung from behind his shoulder and the swish of air sliced like it was a solid thing.
The blade landed square in the woman’s chest, the sound like the thick thud made when a basketball slaps against a wall. The axe stayed there, wedged, as though in a block of wood. She looked down at her front like she’d spilled coffee that could be wiped away with a cloth.
Add some soda to that and it’ll be good as new, sweetheart.
Blood, rich and red, sprayed out at crazy angles. Some landed on him, thick and warm. Blood streamed down her body and legs, to run to the floor and begin to pool. The woman looked up at him again, before collapsing, her life gone.
The axe came away easily, her fall’s momentum loosening it, so it required only a tug on the handle to retrieve. Back, in his control, resting between his legs, he gripped his weapon with both hands like it was a macabre walking stick.
Toby turned his head toward Fryer Guy, who still held the handgrip of the metal basket like it would be his salvation. Toby’s neck stiffened. A sudden dull throb made itself known. A muscle pulled when he swung the axe?
He stretched his neck, twisting it sideways, left, toward his shoulder and then to the right.
“What the fuck, man?” said Fryer Guy, taking a step toward Toby, then moving like a world-class athlete, hurling the basket toward him. The metal container only made it halfway, landing between them; the smell of oil and half-fried chips bloomed in the air.
The woman’s body lay crumpled to the left of the dining room doorway. Her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling as though examining a mark up there as her sprawled corpse blocked that avenue of escape. Fryer Guy appeared reluctant to pass near her, perhaps fearing he’d slip on the blood—there was a lot of it now. The only other exit was through the door Toby had entered. That meant moving by him, the intruder. A lost look crossed over Fryer Guy’s face as he scanned the room, and probably realized there were only bad options.
Toby, also, calculated his next move.
A metal island stood in the center of the room, and it would be five strides to Skinny Kid round the right or three to the left to Fryer Guy.
He trusted his instinct. Straight and true. The phrase, embedded in his head, powered every command, the words like background music to his thoughts.
Skinny Kid cowered by the sink, barely breathing, his hands gripped together as though in prayer, his knuckles white and curled like mini rocks. Not a word or a cry had passed the kid’s lips since Toby’s entrance.
He would be easy.
The bulk of Fryer Guy made him more of a threat; he appeared more aggressive, more of an adversary ready to fight, as he stretched to his full height, his chest expanding as he drew in deep, readying breaths.
Fryer Guy had worked it out, weighed up his options. Trapped, yes, but not going down without a fight. Maybe he thought he could win. How could he believe anything else? What creature does when facing death?
Toby saw the thoughts in his eyes. If he could throw this intruder off balance just for a second, he might have a chance. Too bad for Skinny Kid—he was on his own. When death visits, it’s every man for himself.
Fryer Guy lunged for a knife on the counter. A good size blade, too—a blade used for dicing carrots and onions the way cooks do, with machine-like fingers. An axe wasn’t made for chopping onions. No, it was destined for greater things. It’s blade came with a weight of conviction you just don’t get with a knife.
Fryer Guy didn’t understand this.
“You motherfucker,” Fryer Guy screamed, lunging toward Toby, the knife held high as though he were flying a kite. Toby was ready, his thinking clear, as though he was an automaton with only one function. He sidestepped the spilled oil, moving with grace and instinct—and purpose. Purpose is a powerful thing.
Straight and true.
Toby swept sideways, swinging from waist height, instead of bringing the axe across his shoulder. Fryer Guy wasn’t expecting that. The blade caught him in the gut—really more of a paunch—before he’d even come close with the knife. Wounded, he waved the knife in the air for the seconds it took him to glance to his waist, to see the parting of the muscles and skin, now incapable of holding his life within. Released, internal organs gushed out to mingle with the oil and the chips. Blood is thicker than oil—they don’t mix. The evidence lay on the wet, red soaked floor.
Toby swung the axe again as though felling a tree; this time the blade connected with his adversary’s neck. That did it grand. The knife dropped from Fryer Guy’s hand and bounced on the floor before disappearing beneath the cooker and grill. Seconds later, his victim joined his knife to marinate in the blood and oil.
Gurgling sounds filled the room, as Fryer Guy’s mouth opened and closed as though he had words to speak but just couldn’t find them. Then he grew still, just his feet and hands twitching a flicker. A few jerks and he was done.
Toby took a moment to stand over the man and look at his handiwork.
Straight and true, my friend. Straight and true.
“That’s better, now, isn’t it?” he wanted to say, but he couldn’t speak the words. The voice in his head wanted him moving. So move he must.
Two down, one to go.
Slowly he looked up, tilting his head left then right. Toby scanned the room, his attention now focused on Skinny Kid. He stepped over the body of the felled man that he’d never met before this night.
No matter who, no matter what, you keep on going, so said the voice.
He wandered toward the boy, sitting slumped on the floor, his face pressed against the metal cabinet that held plates and utensils he’d never wash again. Five paces and Toby was over him, staring down at the cowering adolescent. The boy’s hands were above his head, flattened against his skull, as though they offered some kind of protection.
A pain blossomed in Toby’s head like a vice clamped round his brain. With each breath, it squeezed tighter, the ache growing sharper. The pure agony stopped him; halted his movement. He needed to readjust. He needed to fight past it.
Skinny Kid, perhaps sensing Toby’s hesitancy, turned his head to look up, his body shaking as though the temperature of the room had dropped to a minus t
en wind chill factor.
“Ple. Plee— pleeease.”
Please won’t help him.
Today was the day, and Toby was here to deliver a message to change the world. If only he knew the full message, maybe he’d deliver a meaningful speech, but he didn’t get that memo. He still couldn’t truly remember why he was here. All he knew: he was exactly where he was meant to be.
There was no hesitation as he swung the axe, because actions spoke louder than words.
Chapter 3
WHEN KENDALL FIRST READ THE bolded heading on the “Breaking News” web page, she gasped. When she’d prayed for interesting news, she didn’t mean anything like this.
Café Attack in Lygard Street
Seven Dead. Three Critical.
Lygard Street was very nearby her apartment block. As she read the article, Kendall realized it was Café Amaretto. Occasionally she’d grab a coffee there; they had the best tiramisu this side of the city. Reading on, she suddenly lost her taste for tiramisu; in fact, her appetite was gone, period.
A crazed psycho had entered the restaurant through the back door and killed several staff, unlucky enough to be in the kitchen. Then he’d headed into the dining area and attacked diners. Kendall’s hand went to cover her mouth. My god, he used an axe to kill them. An axe!
That was too barbaric. What was happening in the world when things like this occurred in such a peaceful place? This neighborhood was home to mostly thirty-something professionals like her and retired the-kids-are-gone-and-we’ve-downsized people. It wasn’t home to axe murderers.
She Googled Café Amaretto looking for more information on the killings, but all the links were just copies of the same article with no new information. Involuntarily, her body shivered at the thought of the crime’s proximity.
Kendall stood and walked back into the kitchen to make a herbal tea. Something to calm her nerves, like chamomile. She wished she’d stayed in bed instead of waking up to this. Forget the lack of work. This trumped everything. A terrible tragedy in her neighborhood that, if not for fate, might have found her involved.
What a way to start a day.
Chapter 4
LANCE O’GRADY LOOKED OVER AT his partner, Trip Lindsay, and said, “This is not the way to start a day.
They hadn’t been to bed yet, so technically this day had started yesterday. They’d attended the Café Amaretto murder scene late last night. The last time he’d checked, thirty minutes and two strong black coffees ago, it was still only around seven in the morning.
Since this had begun, they’d spent four hours at the crime scene, answered over twenty inquiries and phone-in leads, and had two update meetings with their sergeant, with more to come. By Lance’s estimates, they would still be here until six tonight with everything they needed to do to keep the police commissioner and the mayor happy.
Everything they’d learned so far, made the crime cut and dried to him. Lunatic walks into a popular Italian restaurant and goes berserk with an axe. Out go seven bodies, with at least one survivor currently in intensive care probably about to make it a tally of a neat round eight. To say that he’d never seen anything like the bloody scene he’d walked into last night was not just an understatement, it missed the spot by a million miles.
So far, they understood little of what set the guy off. All they knew was bank clerk Toby Benson decided to hack his way through the rear entrance of Café Amaretto. Once in, he sliced and diced three of the staff in the kitchen, then took to patrons in the dining room simply enjoying a meal. No provocation and, so far, no claims of association with any terrorist groups.
Police arrived at the café approximately six minutes after the event began, thanks to several mobile calls from terrified patrons. Benson then decided to take a swing at the officers. Of course, the size of his axe was irrelevant. Guns trump axe pretty much every time. So their Friday the 13th wannabe ended up as the repository of a dozen bullets and just as dead as his unfortunate victims.
Everybody from O’Grady’s boss to the mayor to the goddam president (if the already churning rumor mill could be believed) wanted to know how this could happen. This not-easily-answered question landed on his and Trip’s plate to figure out. The police commissioner demanded answers yesterday because the PR minions wanted everything tied up in a neat little bow for the six o’clock news.
Even though there was an investigating team, the responsibility for managing the investigation fell on Trip’s and his shoulders. As senior detectives of the city’s smallish major case unit—small because these types of crime didn’t usually happen in their city—it was expected they pull all-nighters. Only a few hours in, those responsibility-carrying shoulder were already weary.
With the killer as dead as his victims, the only urgency O’Grady saw was in giving the mayor something to calm the public. If the mayor had a little patience and foresight—which he clearly lacked—he’d find the next bad news story blowing in, would cause the public to quickly forget this.
It never took Joe Public long to move to the next news sensation. Downed airliners, earthquakes in China, tsunamis killing tens of thousands, or myriad of disasters that trotted across the news bulletins regularly, all of them were always replaced by the next big headline.
“Are you ready?” said Trip. “The sooner we get out door knocking, the sooner we get some sleep. I’ve gotten hold of Benson’s boss at the bank. He’ll see us just after eight. Then I think a visit to Benson’s apartment in case CSI missed something.”
O’Grady stood, pulling his jacket from the back of his chair.
“As ready as I’ll ever be on no-hours sleep. Did you see one of the vics was celebrating his birthday? Some birthday present, right?”
O’Grady shook his head.
Trip sighed at the comment. His mouth sagged as he ran his hand over his sleek, shiny head, adorned with nothing but moisturizer.
“The guy had to be psychotic, or schizophrenic, or something with crazy in the subtitle. If we don’t find out which, we’re not getting the weekend off. Like the Sarge said,Average Joe needs a reason for these things to feel safe at night. I need the reason cause I got plans for the weekend. And they don’t involve work.”
O’Grady actually didn’t mind if he worked weekends. What else would he do? Outside of the job, he had little to occupy his time. No wife, few friends. What was left of his family were all out on the coast.
Trip continued to muse aloud on the case and why Benson would go crazy in that particular restaurant. O’Grady’s partner talked a great deal, most of the time speaking out loud what seemed was every idea that floated through his mind. The fact O’Grady only responded every now and then didn’t seem to faze Trip.
O’Grady preferred to keep his thoughts to himself. After what happened to his brother, he’d learned zipping it was a safer way to live. The less people knew about you, the better. After three years as partners, Trip knew only as much as O’Grady cared to reveal. His partner seemed content with that. More opportunity for Trip to talk, O’Grady figured.
As they exited the building, they passed the arriving day shift staff. O’Grady threw out a few hellos and nodded to others. Mostly he kept his head down to avoid engagement. Trip smiled and greeted everyone who passed them.
Already O’Grady’s thoughts were focused on Toby Benson. Something didn’t sit right. Something itched in that place in his mind where the bullshit net was positioned; a mild flaring he just couldn’t settle.
CSI had done their preliminary sweep of Benson’s apartment. They discovered nothing. Hard to believe. Nothing, no evidence, was wrong. Unexpected. When someone commits a crime, even less savage than this, there are always indicators in his or her life pointing to issues that spun out of control. Big red, flashing signs blinking: “This person is dynamite just waiting for a match.”
So far, this Benson seemed like just an average guy. Had a girlfriend; several smiling pictures of her and him dotted his apartment, CSI had informed. Had a stable job at
a bank—a check of the website LinkedIn told them he’d been employed there five years. He’d lived in Danbridge all his life. Plenty of friends. From Facebook they’d gleaned his interactions and attitudes appeared normal.
Yet on a cool early-winter Sunday evening, he left his home prepared with a weapon, drove into the city, targeted a restaurant—for what reason, they were yet to ascertain—and had a swing-the-axe party.
As much as O’Grady wanted this to be a suicide-by-cop show, his itch told him it might turn out to be something quite different. He didn’t know what, and he didn’t know why. That bothered him.
O’Grady climbed into the front passenger seat next to Trip, who had launched into a dissection of a recent baseball game where his home team—according to him—was robbed by the umpire. Things like this mass killing didn’t seem to invade his head. He treated the job like a job.
Not O’Grady. He needed to solve the crimes. In doing so it temporarily filled something missing in him, which no amount of women—whom he soon forgot—or phone calls home could satisfy. The emotional impact of the scene last night had left him drained. He looked ahead to when he could clock off, hit the sack, and get some dearly needed shut-eye. Hopefully, today would end better than it started.
But this damn itch in his gut still bothered him. Maybe sleep might reveal the answer. He hoped the answer would be simple and obvious and happen soon. One thing about Lance O’Grady, he didn’t like loose ends.
Chapter 5
KENDALL SHOWERED AND CHANGED INTO her work gear—tracksuit pants, a t-shirt, and fleecy sweater. The chilly winter wind seeped inside, and the heater couldn’t compete, even on full blast. The dilapidated thing, on its last legs, only warmed the air within a few feet.