The copper smell of metal and blood invades my nostrils as I see the grizzly sight that was once his treasure trove. The murders Victor committed here were years ago, so the smell of blood shouldn’t be so pungent. Oh, fuck. I am in the heart of the current killer’s lair.
My meter goes even higher on the scale of dumbest shit I’ve ever done as I inhale the smell of death. I shake my head and keep my brain focused on finding what I need—the eight-pointed star and the link to the other murders.
Standard police procedure would insist a detective not investigate a case of this magnitude on your own. Hell, protocol downright demands it, and I understand that I shouldn’t be here alone. Veteran detectives would never do this on their own, but I’m not like them, and I never claimed to be. I follow my gut because that is simply how I work. In this situation, I could call it an amplified death wish.
I should have gone back to my phone and called for back up, yet something unseen keeps me inside this building. It keeps me searching for clues to the answers that will haunt me until I get them.
I look up to see the shelves stacked on the wall are now empty, but remnants of old blood still linger on the wood. It’s a makeshift room Victor created with old scraps of metal and plastic he must have found around the factory. The room inside the building is small, a twelve-by-twelve square-foot area, yet the carnage that happened here was grand. He kept himself hidden in this cave-like room, away from the main road, away from the light of day, and away from the public.
There are two steel tables placed adjacent to each other along the walls. When I walk to them, I find fresh blood is covering the table and the floor underneath. It’s partially dry, but it is fresh, nonetheless. When I look above the tables, two eight-point stars made of flesh are stapled to the wall. The eyeballs hanging from stringy muscles that once were attached to a person’s body are also stapled with the pieces of skin, this killer’s trophies.
“Holy. Shit,” I whisper, knowing I am probably dealing with someone as demented as Victor or worse.
I freeze and my adrenaline soars as I keep my body as still as possible. I am here, inside the killer’s demented operating room, and the sight of the skin and eyeballs may be too much, even for me. My gut is twisting, and I can pinpoint the emotion with precision. It’s terror.
I break my astonished gaze from the grizzly sight. My heart is pounding. I need to get the fuck out of here. I have to call Gabe and the others. Damn it, why the hell didn’t I do that before? One of these days, my careless detective instinct is going to get me killed.
I turn on my heels to head back to the opening in the building when a scraping sound stops me immediately. My breath freezes inside my chest, making my lungs ache with a painful burn. My eyes go wide. My heart pounds rapidly. I am afraid to move. If I can hear him, I am certain he can hear me.
I grip the flashlight tightly in one hand and my gun in the other. The scraping noise sounds again, coming from the vicinity of where I entered the building.
Transitioning into my survival instincts, I turn quickly, looking for a place to get out or hide. I creep to the other side of the room, finding a small opening tucked in the corner. Then I take a deep breath and carefully walk through it. My entire body is on full alert, the hair on my neck standing on end, pricking the collar of my shirt.
The room is the opposite of the man’s kill room. It looks like a dungeon. The exterior walls are the same brick of the building, and the size is no bigger than a prison cell. In fact, it looks like the prison cells from the early twentieth century.
The first thing I notice is a large, heavy bag suspended from the ceiling. It looks to be newer or, at least, not worn out by years of disuse. It is slightly ripped on one side, but overall looks to be in good condition.
I step off to the side of the doorway and tuck myself against the wall. I wait, listening for the noise I heard earlier, but it’s not there. I keep my breathing calm and steady and my pistol securely in my palm.
I wait for what feels like a lifetime before I feel comfortable enough to move around again. I haven’t heard a single noise since I stepped into this room. All I know is I need to get out of here and call for backup.
I push off the wall slowly and ease my feet forward. I pick up my foot and lightly tap it on the ground then freeze before I take another step. I glance behind me one more time as I step on the other side of the doorway.
At the foot of a cot is a silver, metal briefcase. My mind debates with my gut. I know I need to get out immediately, but should I leave this suitcase behind? Will it be that much more effort to take it with me?
I look around one more time, deciding not to leave empty handed. I expel a deep breath and set my flashlight on the floor—if I have to choose between my gun and a flashlight, I sure as hell am not leaving my gun behind. Then I step back slightly and slowly lift the suitcase. It is heavier than I expected, piquing my curiosity when I think of what incriminating evidence I can find in it.
My stomach is on fire, adrenaline overwhelming me, and I know I need to leave this place now. I take a small step, but the moment my right foot presses into the concrete, a blinding, hot pain snaps across the back of my skull. My vision blurs as I drop the suitcase and my pistol. My knees buckle as the immense pain in my head consumes all of my other functions.
A muted light shines from the opposite corner, but my focus is hazy, and my head throbs in agony. I tuck my body into a tight ball, disoriented and confused. I roll my hips slightly to the side and see a figure in black standing over me. He smells of the finest cologne and blood, a combination I will never forget.
“Hello, detective,” the stranger says.
I can feel the blood drain from my face as the horrible memory of my dad’s murder comes back to me in a flash. I may not have seen them, but I heard them, and that is the accent.
I try to move. I lift my hands, but I am still too dizzy from the blow to the back of the head. He abandons my body, and I roll completely to my side. I need to make a break for it. I may get shot in the process, but I will never be a victim who concedes to their killer’s wish. If I go down, I am going down my way. I am going down as a fighter.
I wobble slightly yet manage to get to my knees and begin to crawl. With the first step I take, though, everything goes black, and I fade deep into it.
Chapter Fourteen
Nikolai
August 4, 2015 4:37 a.m.
The rain is falling, still falling. It’s dripping down my face as I watch the scene unfold around me. The blue and red lights are flashing, cops are everywhere, and all I can do is stand here and watch. I feel the hate for the human race as I watch body after body get pushed from the house. My pure hatred for the world bubbled and boiled to the surface the moment I came to the Smith’s house.
I knew what was going to happen. I knew, in the eyes of the organization, what needed to be done, but that doesn’t stop my unrelenting fury as I gaze upon the white house. The yellow tape is flapping as the wind picks up and chills the air. However, the heat from my anger is overwhelming my body.
The large police detective makes his way under the crime scene tape and starts talking to the crowd. He is wearing a pair of black dress slacks and a dark blue police jacket. His height equals mine, but it’s apparent the muscles are large. He is asking anyone for any information to the murders of this family, but he’s not going to find shit. Tracks are always covered, prints never exist, and cases like this always go unsolved.
When I step slightly closer, I see her. The woman who took down Zaretski steps from the house, her notebook in hand, blonde hair fastened on top of her head. Her face is even more stunning in person. She looks like she should be in Hollywood instead of ankle deep in blood. She is wearing fitted dark jeans that silhouette her trim frame and long legs. Her round, curvaceous ass sways as she walks purposefully off the porch and meets the large, beefy detective. Although she’s wearing a baggy police jacket, I can tell her body is just as tantalizing and trim as her
legs. For a brief moment, I get lost in looking at this woman. I feel a connection with her. I felt it when I looked at her eyes from the newspaper clipping at Manny’s boathouse. She is someone from my past or a past life—I’m sure of it.
Then our eyes connect. She spots me in the crowd, and we share an undisturbed moment. Everything stops as we look at each other, and I feel this eerie connection between us. She knows. She knows something about me, and the smirk that crosses her face tells me she knows more than I want her to. The fascination evaporates as pure, concentrated rage consumes my body once again.
I move quickly to the back of the crowd and swiftly find my way down a dark alley. Manny was right; this woman is a bulldog and will be my biggest obstacle when I’m here in Blythe Harbor. However, it won’t be too much longer. I will handle Stravinsky’s men locked in the factory, and then I will handle her. She may think she will capture this killer, but what she doesn’t know is I’m not like Zaretski or anyone else, for that matter.
After tonight, all that exists inside of me is the pure hatred for mankind. I have more vengeance inside of me than I’ve ever had before. The sight I just took in proves nothing is good anymore. I will unleash my hate tonight, and I will unleash it on the men I have locked away. Then I will take out my biggest contender.
I will corner Stravinsky, pound my fist into the side of his skull, and then pull my knife from its sheath and plunge it into his throat. I will stand back while I watch the blood spurt from his severed artery. I will smile as I inflict great pain on him and everyone else who’s responsible for this. I will kill and won’t stop killing until the last body falls at my feet. After that, I don’t really care what happens to me.
Chapter Fifteen
Josslyn
August 7, 2015 11:01 p.m.
I follow the tactical team as they rush the metal factory in a quiet, stealth-like manner. My blue police jacket is zipped, and my nine millimeter is drawn as we make our way to the sliding door of the building.
This is finally it, the moment I’ve been waiting for and the moment of my career. The endless hunt for the sick man who’s been terrorizing our city will now conclude when we run through the metal door and take down the elusive Victor Zaretski.
Six bodies have been found, missing their organs or heads. I predict they are keepsakes, but the only way we will find out is by going inside. He was a sly criminal yet not more clever than me.
I will always find the small clues, and when I found the reddish dust on the clothing of two of the victims, I knew the only place dilapidated buildings exist in Blythe Harbor is here, at The Ruins. The crime lab did their job, but it was me who knew where to find the dust, which is why we are here now.
The tactical team jerks the door open, and we all flood in. All openings are exposed as we make our way inside and finally into the room. The pungent smell of death and blood slams into me as my mind attempts to comprehend what I am looking at.
The walls are covered in sheet metal. Shelves align the west wall where, placed neatly, there is what I suspected—his trophies. Glass jars house body parts, the heads of the deceased and the missing organs. Christmas lights are fastened to the edges of the shelf, faintly lighting up Victor’s prize possessions. When I look to my right, I see the man we’ve been looking for all this time.
He is a stocky yet fit man, standing approximately five-foot-ten. He has gray, thinning hair and a wicked look in his eyes, round, blue orbs that send an icy chill down my spine. There’s a crooked smile on his face as he stands in the middle of the room with the blood of his latest victim on his hands.
An officer moves him past me, and I can smell the copper on his skin and feel the evil in his soul. He only smiles and mouths a thank you to me as he’s being ushered out.
I walk deeper into the room and come face to face with the seventh victim. His head was in the process of being cut off, but his body is sliced open. The organs are missing from the body and lying in a plastic bucket on the floor.
I choke down the disgust when the light beams so very brightly. I can’t …
My head throbs, shaking me out of my unconscious state. I detect a peculiar sound when a dull thumping noise marries with the classical piece quietly playing. I hear a pounding sound in front of me. It’s a muffled, thumping noise.
I try to open my eyes to detect where the sound is coming from, but I feel like my lids are filled with lead. It’s impossible to open them. I decide to keep them closed and only focus on what I hear, feel, and smell. The faint hum of a light bulb sounds in the background as the classical piece starts over again, and the thumping noise resumes. It comes in a succession of two. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
I can feel my skin break into a cold sweat while I try to get my bearings. I am lying on my side on the concrete floor, but when I try to move my arms, I find they are fastened behind my back with something unforgiving and plastic. I move my feet and note that my ankles are also hooked together.
I inhale a deep breath, and it’s then I pop my eyes open as my memory floods back in. The smell of that sweet cologne and blood was all around me before I was bludgeoned on the head. I know exactly what is happening to me now. I am a captive to the psychopath I’ve been trying to find for the past four days.
My vision is blurry at first, but then he finally comes into focus. The man is wearing only his black boxer briefs, exposing the markings all over his body. The thumping sound comes from his steady punch when his fists collide with the heavy bag. It creaks as it swings from the hook.
I can’t see his face, only the back side of him. What draws my attention first is the cathedral tattoo covering his entire back. It looks like the famous Saint Basil’s Cathedral located in Moscow’s Red Square, and it baffles me slightly. If he thinks he’s doing God’s work, then he is far more detached from reality than I originally expected. My body shivers from the thought.
My left side aches as I lie here, looking at his body, and the cold, concrete floor is unforgiving, but I keep my attention only on him. Random markings are covering his legs. They all seem to be the same theme and all look like the same markings I found on the John Doe’s.
He slams his fists with expert, deadly punches, and I can feel the end of my life coming much sooner than I wanted.
This man is a killer. There is no doubt about it. He will kill me once he’s done with me. I’ve seen firsthand what he’s done already. I think about Monica Smith, the terror she endured while this asshole raped and stabbed her.
I could relate to Leah through my childhood experience, and now I will be able to relate to her mother, too, because I can sense my fate will be the same. I am certain it will be my fate. Although I escaped them once, I won’t escape them again.
The thumping stops, and my heart does, as well. He shakes his arms out and rolls his head and shoulders in circles. Then he bounces on his feet for a moment, cooling himself down before he stops altogether and stands with his back to me. His shoulders are hunched forward, and his head is down. He looks cold and menacing, and I haven’t even seen his face.
I don’t move. I lie there, hoping he forgets about me or thinks I am still knocked out.
The glow from the lantern is muted, giving an eerie ambiance to the room and outlining his rigid frame. He is a tall man. Not incredibility muscular like Gabe, but there is a definite skill about him. In the low lighting, you can barely see the markings etched into the wall, but I know they are there. All you can really see is his body spotlighted in this white glow.
I can feel the terror rise from my stomach and threaten to expel from my body, but I swallow it down. I will not lose my composure. That’s what this asshole is looking for, and I will die before I give it to him.
He leans forward, pulling a bottle of water off the small table where the lantern sits and takes a long drink, almost consuming it all. Only then does he speak.
“I know you’re awake, Josslyn. I can tell by the way you breathe.”
My body goes
cold when my name comes from his mouth. It’s spoken in that familiar accent I tried for so many years to forget, an accent I have recently learned is Russian. Chills consume me. I am dead. The end of my life will be nothing but pain and torture as he does what he will to my body.
My phone is shut off and on the front seat of my car, so Gabe won’t be able to track me when he discovers I am missing. My fate is sealed with death. Well, at least I gave it my all to catch the family’s killer.
Then he turns around slowly, and my eyes travel up the length of his body. I look over his trim, muscular legs, the way his manhood rests inside his black boxers, up to the V cut of his lower abdomen, and the multitude of tattoos and scars. However, it’s when I connect my look with his, and the light illuminates his face that I realize the blow to my skull must have done more damage than the raised bump on the back of my head, because there is no way I am seeing this. If my eyes weren’t deceiving me, I would swear I am looking at the ghost of Ryan Smith.
Chapter Sixteen
Nikolai
August 5, 2015 11:57 p.m.
“Mmmmm,” Boris murmurs through the gag placed over his mouth.
I simply ignore everything around me and listen to the sounds of Tchaikovsky coming from the CD player. His 1812 Overture reminds me of bedtime at the orphanage, the only peaceful time of day there. I let my soul be swept away by the music as I stand with my back to him, an apron covering my fine suit. I sharpen my knives, especially my small carving one. It will be particularly useful soon.
It’s been over a day since I left the Smith’s place, and when I left there, I was not the same person I was when I arrived. Anything that was tolerable inside of me died the moment I got back to my car. Nothing is inside of me anymore, though perhaps nothing ever was.
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