Killer Within

by Jeff Gunhus

  Arnie looked too calm. She didn’t like that one bit.

  “You’re half-right,” he said, picking up a steel pipe leaning against the wall. It was the length of a baseball bat and wrapped on the bottom with rubber grips. “They’re coming, but I won’t be here.” Arnie crossed to the door. Next to it was the breaker box. “We’ll have to pick up where we left off at a later date. But don’t worry, I won’t forget about you.” He opened the panel and put his hand on the main breaker. “And don’t try to follow me. I’d hate to see you get hurt in such a crude way. Bye for now.”

  Arnie smashed the breaker box with the steel pipe. Sparks burst from the wall and the lights turned off. She heard the basement door slam, but the sparks had been short-lived and the room was pitch black. She froze in place, thinking it might be a ruse. She imagined Arnie stepping carefully through the dark room, step-by-step, the pipe raised over his head, until he was right in front of her. But as she listened, she heard the unmistakable sound of steps on stairs. He was on the run.

  Allison crawled on the floor until she was next to Charlie. She felt for a pulse. It was there, but weak.

  She propped him up so he wouldn’t roll back over on the knife. She looked in the direction of the door, then back at Charlie.

  “I’m sorry, Charlie,” she whispered. “They’ll be here in a minute to help you.”

  She walked carefully through the room, her hands outstretched until she found the door. She flung it open and ran up the basement stairs to the main floor.

  CHAPTER 50

  It was night now, and none of the lights were on in the house. Wind howled outside and rain pounded on the windows. Allison couldn’t see anything. She put her hand on the light switch and flipped it on. Nothing. Arnie had killed the power to the entire property. But she realized the dark could be an advantage either of them could use.

  She grasped the metal poker, willing her hands to stop shaking, and walked along the wall.

  Get control of yourself.

  Allison didn’t know if she was still feeling the effects of the drugs mixed with the adrenaline shot, but her heart thumped in her chest so hard that she thought the sound might give her away.

  Lightning lit up the sky, casting sharp shadows through the two-story living room.

  The door leading to the patio was open, swinging open and shut from the storm raging outside.

  He’s going to the boat. That’s his way out.

  Thunder rattled the windows as she sprinted across the room, using light from more flashes of lightning to make her way.

  She flung open the door—and ran right into Arnie.

  His hands gripped her shoulders.

  Fingers digging into her skin.

  She shouted and brought a knee up into his groin.

  It wasn’t a direct hit, but enough to make him slump forward and loosen his grip on her.

  She reared back with the metal poker over her head.

  “Goddammit, Allison, stop!” the man shouted in her face over the thunder. “Allison!”

  Lightning flashed and she saw that it wasn’t Arnie; it was Richard. She lowered the poker and hugged him, allowing herself a few seconds to feel safe. But the reunion was short-lived. “There’s a hostage in the basement. He’s hurt badly.”

  “Where’s Arnie?” Richard said.

  “I think he went to his boat. But I can’t be sure. He might still be in the house.”

  Richard raised a radio to his lips. “Go, go, go.”

  Behind them, the front door burst open and police entered the house, guns drawn.

  “Friendly in the basement. Needs immediate medical,” Richard shouted.

  Allison pulled away from Richard but he still held her arm, as if reluctant to let her too far from his reach. “I’ll check the boat; you clear the house.”

  “No way,” Richard said. “We’re sticking together. Let’s go.”

  Together, they ran across the stone patio and down onto the gravel trail that led to the cliff edge. Leaves and loose twigs flew through the air as the trees around them were blown mercilessly by the storm.

  They reached the wooden stairs that zigzagged back and forth across the cliff face before ending at the pier thirty feet below. Arnie’s catamaran was docked there, and a light glowed inside the main cabin.

  Richard checked his gun. “Come on! Let’s get this son of a bitch!” he yelled over the howling wind.

  She grabbed his arm. “Wait, something’s not right.”

  “He’s going to get away. No chance he can fly in this mess. It’s just us.”

  Allison heard Arnie’s voice in her head.

  Don’t try to follow me.

  Allison looked at the wooden stairs leading down the cliff face. Right under them was a bulkhead of jagged rocks.

  I’d hate to see you get hurt in such a crude way.

  “C’mon. Let’s go,” Richard yelled.

  “Richard, trust me,” Allison pleaded. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “No time for that,” he shouted back. “We have a job to do.” He turned and sprinted down the stairs.

  “Richard, wait!” Allison shouted.

  It was too late. Richard took the first three steps at once and jumped onto the first landing. The entire thing gave way in a sickening crunch of splintering wood. Richard spun, arms flailing wildly for a split second . . . and then he was gone.

  “No!” Allison screamed.

  Carefully, she climbed down the steps that remained bolted into the side of the cliff until she could look down. Richard lay sprawled on the rocks, his back bent at an impossible angle. He wasn’t moving.

  “Oh God! No. No,” Allison cried. She saw movement on the catamaran and shrank back into the shadows. Arnie walked to the edge of the hull and looked at the collapsed staircase. A flashlight came on and it danced back and forth across the cliff, lighting up the wreckage. Allison pushed back behind a bulge in the rock. It didn’t cover her completely, but she hoped it would be enough given the distance and the rain.

  The flashlight beam passed within inches of her and stopped. She sucked in a breath and pushed back harder against the rock face. If she had any chance at all, she needed the element of surprise.

  The light hesitated for a few seconds and then moved on. She exhaled slowly but caught her breath and stifled a cry when the flashlight beam swung over to Richard’s unmoving body. It lingered there for nearly a minute before turning off.

  She leaned back against the rock, fighting to control her emotions. Her chest felt like it was being crushed by a vice. She was underwater, unable to catch her breath. Her trained mind recognized the signs of a panic attack, but the animal part of her brain, the part wired with the fight-or-flight instinct, didn’t care about the diagnosis. It only knew that Richard was likely dead, and Arnie was going to get away with it. Unless she did something.

  Instead of fighting her instincts, she decided to give herself over to them. If her choices were fight or flight, she reached deep into herself and picked between them. It was a decision forged from a decade of anger and pain. She would fight. And with the decision, as if preparing for action, the pain in her chest released its hold on her, and she was able to catch her breath finally. She steadied herself, feeling an unnatural calm come over her, and got to work on how she was going to get down to Arnie before he escaped.

  Allison examined what was left of the staircase. It still looked sturdy below the section that Arnie had booby-trapped. She saw Arnie moving deliberately around the catamaran, preparing to sail in the middle of gale-force winds. Her only hope was that he would be so focused on getting ready that he wouldn’t reexamine the stairs.

  Allison eased her way down to where the wooden pylons had broken away. She tested her weight on each step, cautious that Richard may have only found the first of many traps.

 
I’d hate to see you get hurt in such a crude way.

  For once tonight, Allison agreed with the serial killer she was chasing.

  The gap in the stairs was a good eight feet wide. There was still a twenty-foot drop if she fell. With the real reason she was chasing Arnie Milhouse front and center in her mind, she didn’t think twice about the risk.

  Giving it everything she had, she jumped through the air.

  As soon as she launched herself, she knew she was going to come up short.

  She arched her body and reached out as far as she could, bracing for the impact.

  With a whack that knocked the air out of her, she hit the stairs with her chest.

  She slid backward, clawing for a handhold on the wet, slippery boards.

  At the last second, she wrapped a hand around a half-broken support post and stopped her fall.

  Her entire body dangled in open air, buffeted by the winds and rain.

  She pulled herself up onto the stairs with a grunt and took a second to catch her breath. She rolled her head to the side to see if Arnie had noticed her. Even with only the small amount of light coming from the main cabin, she could tell he hadn’t seen her.

  She breathed a sigh of relief . . . until she realized that Arnie had just cast off one of the main lines.

  He was about to leave.

  She pulled herself up and sprinted down the stairs. There was no time to worry about any more traps. If she had a chance at all, she had to go, and go fast.

  Three steps at a time. Then four. She flew down the steps, half running, half falling.

  She reached the bottom and hit the pier running.

  The catamaran was already underway.

  She sprinted the length of the pier, digging her heels hard.

  The catamaran slid along the edge of the pier, a second away from being out of reach.

  Allison planted her foot and jumped through the air—

  —and landed on the back hull, grabbing a handful of rigging to keep her on board.

  She got her balance and crouched down low to the deck. Arnie was busy piloting the catamaran from the wheel in the middle of the boat, and the sound of the rough water had disguised her hard landing.

  Allison held on tightly as he steered the cat into the center of the Chesapeake and straight into one of the most violent storms of the year. She had no idea what she planned to do next, but she knew whatever it was, she had to do it quickly while she still had the element of surprise on her side.

  CHAPTER 51

  The Bay matched the thunderstorm in its rage. Whitecaps rolled up and over the twin hulls of the catamaran, and massive swells bashed violently against it. Arnie steered diagonally through the waves, the catamaran’s twin Mercury motors whirring loudly when their rotors pulled completely out of the water. The sails remained tied down. The howling wind would give them breakneck speed, but it would also either slash the sails or flip the boat over.

  Even with just the motors, the catamaran plowed through the Bay. The wide design gave it more stability than a regular boat. The thousands of gallons of water that poured over the side with each wave simply drained through the netting stretched between the hulls, both aft and stern.

  Arnie white-knuckled the wheel. Not from the stress of sailing into the storm—that was a cakewalk. He’d sought out days like this to challenge himself on the water. No, he didn’t like how messy things had become in the last few hours. Control was the essential ingredient to evading capture, and both here and in Miami he’d made bad choices. Choices that left a trail and put him in danger.

  The real problem was that he knew he was exposing himself to these risks on purpose. The adrenaline rush of the kill wasn’t enough anymore. It wasn’t enough to hold a life in his hands, squeezing it until there was nothing left but pulp and bone.

  The close calls with law enforcement had taken it all to the next level. He hadn’t felt more alive and powerful in years. And that’s what made it dangerous. He was playing with fire. Even tonight, if the FBI had come with a SWAT team, or if the storm hadn’t been bad enough to keep a helicopter from tracking him, or if Allison had picked up that something was wrong and used a gun, or . . . or if a hundred other things had gone differently, he’d be on his way to prison or lying facedown in a pool of his own blood.

  And where would that leave Jason?

  An orphan. Probably a ward of the state once they found him.

  That wasn’t acceptable. Arnie decided right then that he would make a clean break and go back to the way things used to be. With his new alias set up in Florida, he and Jason would live under the radar. Giancarlo assured him that he’d done this exact thing for people dozens of times. That he and Jason would be safe.

  He would kill, of course. That always had to be there. But he vowed to stop taking these ridiculous risks. Life was too short to spend it in prison. And a boy needed his father.

  Even in the middle of the raging storm, Arnie felt himself relax. The FBI was behind him. He wondered how aggressively Allison would seek him out. She’d proven more resourceful than he’d expected. More tenacious. But if it hadn’t been for Charlie escaping, she’d already be dead.

  No, Arnie didn’t think she had the stomach to chase him for long. She’d had a taste of what he could do. How he could exert his power over her. There was no way she wanted more of that. He doubted he would ever have to worry about Allison McNeil again.

  Allison stared Arnie down from the back of the boat. She wrapped the rope from some of the rigging around her arm to keep the waves from sweeping her off the deck and into the roiling churn of water. She considered for a second that she could hide out until Arnie reached whatever destination he had planned and then attack him there. But she knew it was wishful thinking.

  The second Arnie turned around to check the rear of the catamaran, he would spot her. There was no place to hide. And if he had a gun on board, which seemed likely, she’d be an easy target.

  Well, maybe not easy, as the bucking deck and the rain would make shooting her a challenge, but he would have as many shots as he had ammunition. If that happened, her only option would be to jump overboard. One look at the black, angry water around her and she knew that was near-certain death.

  Like it or not, she had to make her move now.

  She lay flat on the deck and pulled herself along using whatever she could get her hands on. This kept her profile low so that the waves washed over her and minimized the chance Arnie would spot her if he looked over his shoulder.

  Closer and closer.

  A massive swell caught the boat at an odd angle, plowing the entire hull under water. Allison gasped for air at the wrong time and choked down a mouthful of water. She felt her entire body lift off the deck as the swell nearly ripped her from the boat. Only the rope in her right hand kept her from being tossed across to the other side of the catamaran and probably off the boat entirely.

  When the hull popped back to the surface, Allison hacked water out of her lungs, gasping for air. Her legs dangled over the netting stretched between the hulls. She quickly pulled them back in and eyed Arnie.

  He continued facing forward, as calm as if he were motoring on the Bay in eighty-degree weather with glassy surface conditions.

  She looked around to see what she could use as a weapon. Everything had been secured for the bad weather, so there weren’t any poles or gaffs lying around.

  Her hand found a coil of extra rope tied off on a strut. She quickly unwound it, estimating it was about twenty feet long. She tied one end into a crude hangman’s noose. It wasn’t great, but it was all she had.

  Fighting the waves, she crawled toward Arnie, the rope clutched to her side.

  Only a few feet away, she tied the end of the rope to a rail and climbed to her feet. Holding the noose in front of her, she rocked with the motion of the boat to keep her balance. She’d on
ly get one shot at this. And, at that moment, she was totally exposed. If Arnie turned around, he’d be looking right at her.

  She leaped forward, slid the rope around his neck, and yanked back as hard as she could.

  Arnie spun in place, arms flailing.

  Allison fell but held on to the rope, cinching it hard around Arnie’s throat.

  Arnie grabbed at the rope.

  Lightning flashed and Allison saw his face twisted in a grotesque mask of pain and surprise. His eyes bulged out of their sockets. His mouth gaped open for air.

  Then he did the unexpected; he ran straight at her.

  Allison braced herself for the impact.

  Snarling, he bore down on her.

  At the last second, she turned, grabbed the side of his body, and used his momentum to heave him past her and over the side of the boat.

  The catamaran hit a wave right as he flew through the air. The rope, tied to the railing, snapped tight.

  His body jerked, neck twisting nearly backward, then slammed into the water.

  The railing held and the rope pulled taut as Arnie’s body was dragged behind the boat.

  Allison went to grab the rope, ready to pull him in. She hesitated, looked back into the darkness of the storm, and thought better of it. Instead, she flipped on the high-powered floodlight next to the wheel and swiveled it until it pointed behind the boat.

  Arnie’s body dragged lifelessly through the water.

  It wasn’t worth the effort to haul him in.

  Allison let out a sob, an emotional release that it was finally over. The chase that had started more than a decade ago was done. The promise she’d made had been kept.

  It wasn’t how she’d imagined it would turn out. There would be no trial. No final confrontation. No satisfaction when he found out who she really was and why she had spent her adult life preparing to bring him down.

  Still, without all those things, she was happy the son of a bitch was dead.

  Now she just needed to make sure she didn’t join him in a watery grave.