"No, I never really liked the concept of waiting around for something to come along and nibble at what you have dangling. I’ve always been more of a go-getter."
"Is that another of your sexual innuendos?"
"Well, sure, it applies to sex too," he admitted. "But it's also a part of life. You don't wait around for nice things to happen to you. You have to go out and get them for yourself."
"It sounds like a good way to live your life," she said. "But I think we should return our attention to the matter at hand."
"Right. I'm supposed to find what might have left the bodies behind and honestly, this is as good a place to start as any. Whatever it was had to have at least passed through here, and that means there's a chance that whoever is staying here might have seen it."
"I have the feeling that this is a best-case, worse-case kind of scenario," Desk said. "What's the worst-case?"
"Well, if I had to guess, I'd say you're thinking the same thing I am." He spoke in a low tone as he approached the cabin as slowly and as quietly as he could.
"What, that it wasn't a Zoo monster that killed those girls?"
"Well, yeah. I guess the first thing that tipped me off was the fact that only women were targeted. Hungry mutants don't tend to be too selective about gender. But yeah, I don't think it was something goop-spawned that killed those girls. Whether or not it was a monster is still up for debate."
"How will we settle this debate?" she asked with what might have been clinical curiosity. He did notice the “we,” however, and despite his inherent resistance, the thought of company was appealing in the circumstances.
"Well, I need to investigate further. Hopefully, I'll find something to either settle my suspicions or confirm them before the owners of this horror-movie-bait of a house get home."
"I'll try to alert you if I see or hear anything from here," she said.
"That would be appreciated. But it's not like this place is that big. It shouldn't take me too long to ransack it."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
There weren't many things in the world better than time spent out with your friends to catch fish, drink beers, and simply not care about what happened in the world around you for a few glorious hours.
Wallace hadn't had too many friends before he'd started at Trellix Inc and certainly none who shared his enjoyment of taking a boat out on the open water to throw out a line or two. But, as it turned out, the people who worked at the IT firm were actually the same brand of geek he was.
Eventually, when he mentioned the fact that his dad had left him a cabin near a small lake that would allow them to catch anything from large-mouth bass to channel catfish, they had all agreed to head out. They hadn't caught much the first time, but they'd had a good enough time that a weekend trip had become a monthly tradition for their little branch of the firm.
A couple of the others had cabins and the like that provided similar outings and this month, it was his turn to host. As always, they intended to spend the weekend out there. Everyone brought their own food, drinks, and other vices they were into, as well as fishing rods, tackle, bait, and the accessories they would need for a successful fishing trip.
He really was excited about it—so much so that he had elected to take Friday off to arrive at the cabin a day early to set everything up. He had brought board games as well as other pastimes, and he would prepare the venue, spruce it up, and clean what he hadn’t bothered to attend to when he had visited on the previous weekend without his friends.
The cabin admittedly didn't exactly have all the connections to the outside world. There was running water from a well nearby but there was no electricity and certainly no cables to provide even sketchy Wi-Fi.
He did have a satellite connection that helped with the Internet and the well had an electric motor that pumped the water out, but it all needed to be powered by a generator that needed more gas. It was annoying to have to drive back to the nearest gas station almost ten miles away when he realized that what he had wouldn't last them through the weekend, but there wasn't much in the world that could bring his mood down.
He pulled his jeep up to the cabin, stepped out, and hauled out the jerrycan of gasoline he had collected from the station. Utterly content with life, he strode toward the cabin and circled to the back where the generator purred happily, already working on charging the batteries inside the house and the shed in the back.
Unfortunately, it would take a while to bring them to full charge, and Wallace thought about getting solar panels that would keep the batteries charged even when he wasn't around.
It was something he needed to look into but maybe later in the year. He was due a raise and a bonus after helping with the development of the company's newest imaging software and would attend to it then. Some things were worth waiting for. The fact that he understood that so well was probably why he was so good at fishing.
On their last trip, he had caught a bass and it had been a delicious treat that fed all five attendees for dinner.
They still raved about it. His dad had taught him most of what he knew about fishing, which included preparing the fish after he'd caught it. The man certainly had left his impression and had, in fact, taught his son almost everything he knew about almost everything.
He missed him sometimes.
As he reached the generator, his gaze fell on the shed and his eyes narrowed when he noticed that the door stood slightly ajar. While he had spent a good deal of his last visit in it, he had made sure to lock it securely. It was where most of his equipment was stored and having it all stolen or ruined by a wandering animal would cost him thousands of dollars.
No, he hadn't forgotten to lock it. He was sure of it.
His first reaction was indignation, but it settled after a moment and he crept to closer the door, conscious of the fact that something or someone might actually still be in there. He scowled, thoroughly offended when he saw that the stainless steel lock intended to keep the wooden door shut had apparently been ripped off.
"What the fuck?" he muttered and edged closer when movement out of the corner of his eye made him spin in alarm.
A man, tall and bulky, stepped into his line of vision. The intruder was dressed in a mud-spattered leather jacket and a motorcycle helmet and merely stood and watched him through the black visor.
"Shit!" Wallace shouted and ducked quickly into the shed. He had no intention to even bother trying to hide in there. The lock was broken and besides, it only locked from the outside.
His goal was something inside that he could use to defend himself. He ducked under the table in the back, hauled out the shotgun he had stored there, and loaded shells from the drawer before he thrust a few more into his pocket and rushed out again.
The biker hadn't moved from his position, although he did tilt his head when he saw the shotgun.
"I don't know what the fuck you're doing on my property," Wallace shouted, aimed the weapon at the man, and stepped closer. "But we live in a neck of the woods that it takes the cops a while to reach, so don't think I'll think twice about shooting you if you don't get the fuck off of my property right fucking now."
The man's head straightened when he came within three paces of him and drew the pump-action back.
"Do you think I won't shoot you, idiot?" he yelled and brandished the gun in an effort to be as menacing as possible. He wasn't a small man at a little over six feet and he went to the gym regularly. Keeping his body healthy was a part of keeping his mind healthy, and he was confident enough to not back down from a biker who thought he could wander around on his land.
"Fuck, I warned you!" he shouted but received no response except that steady stare. After a moment of hesitation, he pulled the trigger.
The gun kicked like a mule and knocked his aim up a little, but he could see the buckshot strike the man. He knew well enough to know that people catapulting away after being shot with a shotgun was pure film fiction, but he had still expected some kind of reaction.
"What?" His disbelief was pushed aside when the man moved again and advanced on him. He pumped the action again and tried to aim the weapon, but the biker moved quickly—too quickly, he realized—and caught the barrel as he pulled the trigger almost by reflex. A full load of buckshot burst skyward and left his ears ringing.
The man's grip was inexorable, and while Wallace tried to put up a fight, it didn't amount to much. The weapon was yanked out of his hands like it had been held by a toddler, and the man looked at it. After a moment of contemplation, he grasped it with both hands, then squeezed and pushed until it was, impossibly, bent in half.
"What?" He gasped again and tried to back away. The biker drove a fist into his gut that thrust all the breath out of his lungs, picked him up like a rag doll, and tossed him the five yards between him and the shed.
He landed hard and ribs cracked to leave him wheezing for air.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he said once he was able to speak again. "I…what do you want? I don't have much money, but the stuff in there is worth…like, ten grand. My jeep is in good condition too. Take that."
The intruder didn't respond, at least not verbally. He moved forward, caught him by the collar, and dragged him into the shed. Wallace groaned in pain as he was hauled into the back and deposited in front of the same table from which he’d retrieved his shotgun. In his hurry, he hadn't even realized that his laptop was resting on it, open and unlocked.
He absolutely knew he had locked that shit himself using code he'd developed in college that was meant to be unbreakable.
"What… You want my laptop?" he asked and looked at the impassive black visor.
Once again, his assailant made no answer and instead, reached over him to press play on the video that was queued on the screen. His heart jumped to his throat at the image of a woman lying on the ground, bound and trying to scream around a gag as he cut through her clothes with his scaling knife.
"I…I don't know how that got on there," he said quickly. "There are— My friends come to my cabin all the time and they use my laptop. They—"
The biker turned to look at him, and he didn't need to see through the visor to know that he wasn't buying it. There were hours upon hours of footage, as well as pictures and recordings, some of which had him talking. He had been careful to never let his face be caught on any of the images, but given that this wasn't a court of law, the standard of proof was much lower.
From where he sprawled, he could see the sun starting to set over the swamp through the open door. His heart dropped to his stomach considerably faster.
There was no way he would be able to bullshit his way out of this one.
The black visor stared at him while the sounds of the woman's screams filled the shed.
"Fine… Fucking…fine," Wallace said and scowled. "What do you want me to say?"
The silence seemed expectant, like the stranger waited for him to continue.
"They…they were hookers at first," he admitted and wondered at an odd sense of relief to finally talk about this to someone—anyone. "I picked them up in a rental car, drugged them, and brought them here to…be with me. When one of the bodies washed up, people started to panic that there was some kind of Zoo monster on the loose."
Now that he had started, there was really no way to stop. "The local news covered it, and there… Well, I had an opportunity. Hookers were fun but they were kind of used to it. They knew they deserved what they were getting and it felt so much more intense with the new girls. They… I don't know, I felt like our connection was so much more intense, especially when they realized I would make it look like a Zoo monster had taken them. I don't know how to explain it, but it was so…so real, you know?"
The relief he felt over finally letting it all out was overwhelming, and tears welled in his eyes as he looked at the emotionless visor that reflected his own image back at him.
"I guess you don't know what that feels like," he said and relaxed against the wall of the shed. "Okay, so…fine. I confessed. What will you do? Call the cops and have me arrested? There's enough evidence in here to make sure I'm locked up for years. So do it. Get it over with. Maybe I can finally get treatment for my condition. Whatever the fuck it is."
The biker stood motionless for a moment before something weird happened. It looked like he was shaking at first, but the exaggerated movements of his shoulders suddenly started to make sense.
He was laughing.
"Don't you fucking laugh at me!" Wallace screamed and the blood rushed to his head. "You…you don't know what I am or what I feel. You don't know what it's like to be in my shoes."
"Oh," the man said and his voice had an odd, metallic quality to it, “don't get me wrong. I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at the…what's the word—irony?”
"What irony?"
"Okay, I do work for the FBI, and I guess their policy for dealing with sick fucks like you is to lock you up someplace dark and throw away the key." His nemesis continued to chuckle softly. "But see, I'm not into the whole arrest and due process crap. I'm in the hunt and kill monsters business and honey, you done made the cut."
Wallace opened his mouth and tried to think of some way to change the man's mind. He was great at bullshitting his way out of awkward situations.
Before he could get a word in edgewise, though, the large figure was already in motion. A fist collided with his jaw hard enough that he didn't even realize he was flat on his back until he noticed that he was staring at the roof of the shed.
That view was instantly replaced by the man's boot over his face and descending rapidly with a jerky motion. He tried to scream.
The sound of the fire consuming the damn cabin and the shed was music to Taylor's ears as he moved away. Thankfully, the sick fuck had brought enough gasoline for him to be able to start it without a need to coax it to life. Before too long, the whole place was ablaze.
Part of him protested that even that kind of funeral was too good for the guy. He had only seen enough of the footage to determine that he was the one who had killed the women who had been found—and many, many others besides, by his account. Desk had collected most of the recordings in case they needed them for evidence, but everything else went into the fire.
This wasn't vengeance, he decided as he made his way through the marshy wetlands to where Banks was supposed to wait for him. It was taking the garbage out. If the killer had ended up in jail, he would be locked up. The evidence all but guaranteed it. But there would also be the whole circus of the court case and that would turn the sicko into a damn celebrity.
There would be movies and TV series made of his story. They would interview him and make him famous—everything a lowlife like that wanted out of his life. It was too damn good for a piece of shit like that. Let him burn and let the cops think it was some kind of accident.
There would be a small funeral service and his friends and family would mourn, but in a few weeks, they would already start to forget him.
"Do you feel better?" Desk asked as he moved out of sight of the burning house.
"I don't think I'll feel better for a while," he replied and tried to keep his voice expressionless.
The agent waited for him at the SUV, from where she could clearly see the fire and the smoke despite the distance.
"How did your hunting trip go?" she asked and fixed him with a no-nonsense look.
"All's well that ends well." He eased his helmet off and placed it on the hood of his truck. "It’s safe to assume that bodies won't appear around here anymore."
Banks narrowed her eyes and seemed to see through at least some of his bravado. "You know I can't simply take your word for it, right? I need to see a body or at least what's left of the body. I can't pay you otherwise."
"Well, that's fine. You don't have to pay me for this one." His voice was suddenly much softer than he’d meant it to be and he began to remove his a
rmor as a way to avoid looking at her. "If you want, you can send one of your other cryptid assassins in to verify my work, but they'll find the same thing I did."
She shook her head, yanked her phone out of her pocket, and pressed one of the quick-dials. "Hey, Desk, would you mind telling me… Oh, come on, that's bullshit and we both know it. His suit lets you see through the HUD… So you weren't looking, is that it?"
Taylor froze for a moment. Was Desk keeping his secret for him? The thought made him realize that perhaps there was more to her than he realized. That, added to the fact that she’d made quick work of hacking into the killer’s laptop, reminded him of their agreement. Maybe, he conceded, they had already begun the process of becoming a team.
After a quick series of insults, Banks pressed the end call button emphatically. "Well, I guess I'll have to trust you on this."
"And what a strange, terrifying new world that must be for you. Do you want to get a drink?"
"Fucking… Fine." She glowered at him but the effect was eroded by the anticipatory gleam in her eyes. It seemed the persuasive power of alcohol had its uses.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Taylor peeled out of his suit and climbed into Liz as Desk offered him the directions to the nearest decent watering hole in the area. He took the time to find a hotel to spend the night nearby as well as to take a shower and pull on a fresh set of clothes.
After wandering through the swamp for a few hours in a suit of armor, he was sure he could fell a water buffalo through its sense of smell alone.
It had been a long day, and he felt there would have to be many, many showers before he finally felt cleansed of everything he'd seen in that shed. It wasn't that he had a particular aversion to killing people. He'd killed his fair share in the Zoo and elsewhere during his time in the military. They had mostly been illegal bounty hunters who tried to cause trouble around the jungle or combatants in a military engagement, but still.
Hired Killer (Cryptid Assassin Book 1) Page 22