Frozen Statues, Perdition Games

by L E Fraser

  The RAM truck leans on its horn and swerves erratically to avoid smashing into my rear bumper.

  “Jerry Lutz?” Speaking his name causes the saliva in my mouth to dry up.

  “He sent an exquisite bouquet and the sweetest note. He signed that one.” Trilling laughter floats down the phone line. “Jerry invited me for coffee yesterday to apologize in person. I didn’t see the harm, so—”

  “Lorna, where are you?” There’s a whishing noise in the background. She’s driving and the phone is on speaker.

  “If you let me finish, I’ll explain,” she retorts with a sharp edge of defensiveness. “Jerry’s shy, you know? He never intended to upset me. We had a lovely time getting to know each other yesterday. This morning, he offered to reach out to his friend so I can be the first to make an offer on the warehouse. Isn’t that thoughtful?”

  Jerry’s car was at the DNA lab yesterday. It never left, which means he took evasive measures and did a bait-and-switch in the lab’s underground parking garage. Incubus knows I’ve been tailing him. A cold shiver runs down my back. I try not to panic. There’s no way Jerry suspects that I know he’s Incubus. This is about Lorna, but she’s a lonely woman and I’ve put her at risk by not warning her.

  The painting’s extravagance impressed her, I remember. She was utterly charmed by the arrangement of grotesque lilies and hydrangeas. When she saw his face on the CCTV recording, she said he was cute. Lorna was never afraid of her secret admirer. She wanted to know who he was. The monster’s generosity flattered her, and I gave her no concrete reason to fear him.

  “Stay away from him,” I order her now. “Jerry Lutz is not what he seems. He’s dangerous.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says tersely. “Once you get to know him, he’s intelligent and charming.”

  Most psychopaths are. The warehouse could be anywhere, but I know where the maintenance station is. Wrenching the steering wheel, I cut across two lanes and shoot onto the exit for the westbound Gardiner Expressway.

  “Lorna, do not go near Jerry Lutz. He’s a psychopath.”

  “Samantha, I take offence to your unflattering appellation.”

  My blood runs cold. Jerry’s voice.

  His tone is jovial. “Here I am acting the gentleman and escorting Lorna and you’re sullying my character.”

  Nausea rolls across my stomach. He has her. If she dies, it will be on me because I withheld that Jerry Lutz is Incubus. The industrial area around the nest of railway tracks is massive. I’ll never find them.

  “Jerry tells me you’re following him.” Lorna sighs. “Please stop harassing him.” Her voice is formal and tight.

  As the expressway skirts Humber Bay, a plan takes shape. Grinding my molars against a pure, searing hate that pounds through my veins, I say, “Of course! I’m so glad I was wrong.” My laugh sounds hysterical to my ears. “Jerry, I’d like to meet and apologize.”

  I need ten minutes to reach the maintenance facility. I try to think of a plausible reason I would be in the vicinity. “I’m just leaving Toronto South Detention Centre. Can I meet you two at the warehouse?”

  “That’s kind, but it’s unnecessary,” Lorna says.

  “I acted badly. Please, let me buy you two a drink.”

  “We’d be delighted,” Jerry says. “The last time we chatted, Samantha, you reminded me of someone.” His chuckle is like nails against a blackboard.

  My head throbs with rage. “Great! Give me the address.”

  Lorna recites an address and is in the process of saying something else but I disconnect. I stomp on the gas and the back end of my Grand Am fishtails. Horns blare as I whip between cars, racing toward the southbound exit for Islington Avenue. With one hand, I call Detective Bryce Mansfield.

  The second he picks up, I yell, “I know who Incubus is. He has another woman.” I scream out the address. “I’m five minutes away. Send backup. I don’t have a weapon.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, McNamara?” he growls.

  “Incubus is Jerry Lutz, Lorna Maracle’s stalker. He has her. Cops arrested him four days ago but let him go. I’ll explain everything, but get units to that address now.” Before he badgers me with questions, I hang up.

  I turn left into an unpaved vacant lot outside a single-level warehouse that is set away from the more modern developments. A grey minivan sits empty nearby. It must be the van Incubus used to abduct my sister from the grocery store. My rear tires lock against the gravel as the Grand Am screeches to a stop.

  Scrambling out of the car, I run to the warehouse. Posted to a crumbling brick wall adjacent to an open door is a condemned notice. I step through the door and can hear voices echoing inside the vast space—one male and one female. It’s pointless to sneak up on Jerry. I’ll keep up the charade, get Lorna out of the building, and hope Bryce is on his way with backup.

  Slowing my frantic pace, I stroll in a casual way, stepping over broken glass, and crumbled plaster. They are standing together, silhouetted against an open loading dock door. “Wow, nice space.” My own voice, falsely cheerful, floats up into the vaulted ceiling. It sickens me that Lorna is holding Incubus’s murderous hand.

  “Jerry says not to worry about the condemned signs. The owner is bringing everything up to code.” The right side of her mouth tilts up in a lopsided grin as she stares adoringly at him. “It’s just perfect. Thank you so much, Jerry.” Her simpering tone makes me weak with dismay.

  Pasting on a jolly smile, I give her free hand a gentle tug. “Would you mind waiting outside so I can speak with Jerry?”

  She doesn’t budge and wraps her arm around his despicable waist. “Whatever you have to say, you can say in my presence.”

  Hoping my expression appears chagrined rather than homicidal, I say, “I’d like to apologize in private.”

  Jerry steps away from Lorna. “Give us a moment, sweetheart. We’ll put this unfortunate business behind us and join you outside.”

  He swipes his chin-length blond hair behind his ears.

  Lorna practically swoons. “Don’t be too long.”

  He blows her a kiss and his eyes follow her until she exits the warehouse. He turns to me. The charming pretense drains from his face. His eyes harden until they resemble cold sapphires.

  “You aren’t that different from me, Samantha.” He smiles. “You’re a killer. I see it in your eyes.”

  “Figured out who I remind you of?” I ask through gritted teeth.

  “Your sister, of course.” He smiles with satisfaction. “Would you like to know how Mrs. Russo caught my eye?” He holds open his arms as if inviting me to dance.

  My neck cracks as I rotate my head. A crowbar rests beside an open wooden crate a metre to his right.

  He clicks his tongue and wags his finger at me. “Touch it and I kill you.”

  If he has a concealed weapon, I’m done. If he hasn’t, I may be able to hold my own until the cops arrive. Three months’ training in Muay Thai isn’t sufficient to beat a man his size in combat, but if I stay away from him and he doesn’t knock me off balance, I stand a chance. Low kicks and teeps—a Muay Thai specialty kick—should allow me to keep a tight guard and slow him down.

  “You’re welcome to try,” I say.

  I stagger my feet, placing them a bit wider than my hips, and angle them a little to the side. My right elbow and forearm are close to my torso, and my fist aligns with my jaw. I drop my chin, tilt my head, and tense my abdominal muscles.

  “Fighter stance—oh, I’m aquiver with trepidation.” He claps. “You’re very different from your lovely sister. I had so hoped she’d be a challenge. Alas, she was the same as all whining whores.” There’s a mocking, singsong quality to his voice. “She certainly showed spirit by throwing a box at you that day, however. What was it she hollered before you drove away?” He snaps his fingers. “Ah, yes. She never wanted to see you again. How fortuitous it was that I was able to grant her wish.”

  The room spins and my breath rattles. M
y core weakens and I brace my legs to keep from falling.

  “Do you understand?” He raises an eyebrow and smirks at me. “Do you see the chain of events you initiated?” His voice is soft with the condescending tone of a parent disciplining a child.

  “You followed Lorna to my office.”

  Jerry holds up his index finger. “That’s one point. Wish to go for two?”

  “You tailed me.”

  “And…”

  “You saw Joyce.” The ugly truth jackhammers inside my skull. “You were the gardener in the yard that night.”

  “And…”

  “You picked my sister because of me.” A hysterical bark escapes my gaping mouth.

  I was the catalyst that led to my sister’s murder. A jet engine roars inside my head. Muay Thai flies from my mind. I lunge. My fingertips graze the crowbar. Jerry grabs the back of my hair and yanks. My feet grapple for traction as he drags me backwards. I stop struggling and gravity pulls my limp body down. With a grunt, his grasp weakens, and I jerk out of his clutch. Leaping to my feet, I turn and run at him and smash the heel of my hand against his nostrils, driving the impact up to force bone splinters into his brain. His head whips back and blood spews from his nose, but his powerful uppercut catches me on the chin. My teeth snap against my tongue. Blood fills my mouth and pain floods across my jaw.

  Shaking my head to clear my vision, I stumble backwards. A fraction too late, I glimpse the hazy outline of the crowbar clenched between his hands. The hooked metal teeth plow into my hip. He wrenches it free. Blood streams down my thigh. He lifts the crowbar and swings again. All I have time to do is pivot and duck. Hard metal collides with my right shoulder. There’s a pop. Blazing pain engulfs my upper arm. Warm urine flows down my inner leg. Gasping for breath, I choke on bloody vomit and collapse.

  Air whistles above me. I roll to my left. The crowbar tip clashes against the floor and sparks leap up from the concrete.

  He will not kill me while I lie submissive on my back. Using my uninjured arm as leverage, I teeter to a standing position. Cradling my right arm, I turn to confront him. Raging hate fuels a rush of adrenaline. My heart gallops in my chest. The pain fades as my respiration accelerates.

  I charge.

  The crown of my head barrels into his stomach. A warm puff of air billows against my neck as his breath whooshes out in a groan. I ram my knee into his crotch and drive the thumb of my uninjured hand into his eye. He grabs my wrist with both hands and wrenches my claw from his face. My teeth clamp onto his forearm and his vile blood drools down my chin.

  With a howl, he releases my arm and shoves me. Adjusting my balance, I swing my leg in a semicircle and strike the side of his head with the front of my foot.

  Panting, my eyes search for the crowbar but a dark mist blurs my vision. I shake my head, focusing, and see Jerry on his hands and knees, crawling toward the crowbar. With a banshee wail, I stomp my foot into his kidney. He grunts and falls flat on the floor. I stomp on his back once more and kick him in the head. Jerry lies motionless on his stomach with his arms and legs splayed.

  Sirens scream outside. I stagger toward the exit. Every jarring step sends torrential waves of agony through my beaten body.

  A blast reverberates behind me.

  Scorching air hurls me airborne. As I crash to the cement, my breath rushes from my lungs. I lie wheezing and disoriented. My ears ring and pressure builds, as if I’m underwater. The stench of burning hair and flesh fills my nostrils. I roll onto my back, stunned and confused.

  The back wall of the warehouse is in flames. As I watch in horror, an apparition emerges from the oily black smoke. The fiery spectre jigs and a glowing phoenix wing reaches for me. Strands of charred hair droop across one wide blue eye that stares sightless from bubbling flesh. His lips twist in a horrific grimace as his melting skin constricts. The demon collapses on top of me.

  Screaming, I shove him off. Blisters bubble across the crimson skin on my hands but there is nothing but pressure. Crawling, dragging my useless arm at my side, I cover a few feet before collapsing.

  Someone grabs my left wrist and turns me onto my side. A man’s mouth moves but I’m deaf. Detective Bryce Mansfield picks me up and throws me across his shoulder. Cold air blows against my face. I’m lowered onto a flat board. The bright yellow and black jacket of an EMS moves into my range of vision.

  From the corner of my eye, I see three paramedics holding IV bags over another gurney. As they run with it toward one of the ambulances, I catch a glimpse of Jerry Lutz. One side of his face is sooty but intact. The other half is a mass of charred flesh.

  I clutch Bryce’s hand. “Is he dead?”

  “Give us a minute,” he says to the paramedics who surround my gurney.

  After they step away, I say, “He’s Incubus.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Cabin,” I croak. “Primary crime scene. Saw it. Location on my GPS.”

  “When?”

  “Three days. Followed him.”

  Bryce hunches so his face is level with mine. He glances behind him. Around us is chaos but he is the only one in earshot.

  “Sam, did you go inside that cabin?” His voice is urgent. “You used to be a cop. You know why I’m asking. Did you go inside?” he repeats.

  The tinnitus is fading from my ears, and I’m suddenly acutely aware of the searing pain in my shoulder and lower hip as the world surges back into sharp focus.

  The GPS proves I found the cabin days ago. If circumstances around the discovery imply tampering, a judge could rule all evidence collected inadmissible. By obstructing justice, I’m not a credible witness. I need plausible deniability that I suspected Jerry Lutz was Incubus. Without that knowledge, there is no motive to withhold evidence with the intent of engaging in vigilante justice.

  “Never went inside,” I whisper with conviction. “Camera over door will prove I left.”

  Bryce waves away an approaching paramedic. “Why do you think Lutz is Incubus?”

  “Told me,” I whisper. “Was going to kill me and take Lorna.”

  The tension in Bryce’s face relaxes. He hollers at a woman, who runs over.

  “Repeat it,” Bryce orders.

  His partner leans over the gurney. A detective shield hanging from a metal chain dangles an inch above my nose.

  “Lutz is Incubus. Bragged he killed Joyce at a cabin.”

  The detective whistles low and grins at Bryce. “Christmas is early.”

  “Get the techs to pull the GPS from her car,” he tells his partner. “What I’ve got so far is that Lutz stalked Ms. Maracle. Officers picked him up so we have confirmation. Concerned for her client, Sam tailed Lutz to a cabin. He told her today that he’s Incubus. Find that cabin and get a warrant. It could be the kill site. Get a forensic team on that Chrysler minivan. It matches the make and model of the vehicle used to abduct Joyce Russo. McNamara’s statement provides probable cause.”

  A paramedic shoves Bryce aside and hooks me up to an IV. A sensation of warmth swaddles my aching body. Bryce’s voice fades to an insect buzz. Behind my closed lids, I envision Jerry’s deformed face. I was wrong. Death was not the answer. This is the perfect act of revenge.

  My sister has justice, but Joyce’s legacy to me is eternal guilt. She died because of me. I will forever stand beside her in that dank, mouldy cellar where her life drained from her body. Her eyes will forever stare accusingly at me from that fetid riverbank.

  This is all that’s left of my life. It’s all I deserve.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Reece

  AFTER SAM FINISHED her story, Reece told her about her car. She cried, but her reaction was not just because of the damage to her father’s vintage Grand Am. It was an aftereffect of Brandy’s death. Holding her, he promised they’d get through it together. He didn’t tell her that Aleksia was blackmailing Jim or that they knew about the forged letter. He didn’t confront her about her visit to Incubus. He just held her as she cried and squashed
his renewed desire to hire an inmate to shank the psychopath. Reece knew he would never act on the impulse, but his homicidal rage scared him.

  Rather than taking her to the office, he insisted she go home and rest. The last two days had broken her and she didn’t argue. Her passivity worried him because it was out of character. Sam was a fighter.

  He dropped her at the loft and continued to their office. If Eli and his sister were Incubus’s minions, they’d be in jail by nightfall, even if Reece had to beat a confession out of the lying little worm. He parked in the cramped space behind the building, marched to the back entrance, and took the stairs two at a time. He flung open the door and stood with his hands on his hips.

  “What do you want from us?” His voice was a low growl.

  Eli placed his cellphone on the desk. “You talked to my foster father.” His voice was heavy with resignation. “He called. I can explain.”

  “Your sister’s alias is Hybrid. She’s a hacker on the deep web. Start there.”

  “You need to know about the money.” Eli’s eyes flickered around the room.

  Reece removed his coat and sat deliberately in the chair across from Eli, never taking his eyes off him. “What money?”

  “The condo does not belong to my foster parents. It is mine. I bought it for Danny,” Eli stated.

  “You bought a multimillion-dollar waterfront penthouse.” Reece laughed. “And how did you manage that?”

  “When I was in university, I developed a video game and put a short, playable portion of the multi-player strategy game on Kickstarter. It is a—”

  “I know what it is,” Reece retorted.

  “People played it, loved it, and donated money. With the funds, Danny developed enhanced graphics,” Eli said. “We put it on Steam and it became a top-selling game. Microsoft came knocking.”

  “How much did they pay?” Reece smirked, not believing a word of the story.

  “Twenty-three million dollars,” Eli mumbled. “In exchange for all the rights, including the graphic code.” He shoved a file across the desk to Reece.

  Reece read the purchase agreement, his astonishment growing with every legal word. Eli was violating a non-disclosure agreement by revealing the amount of the sale, but everything he claimed was true.