The Cat Hunter

by Krishna Ahir

  Osborne turned his eyes upwards and watched the black clouds fight for position. The devil was chasing them from over the horizon, whipping at them with lightning, and screaming with the deafening boom of thunder. The clouds trembled in fear, as if afraid to release what they carried down on the landscape, and he knew that when the rain did come, it would be thick and fast.

  In anticipation, he dipped his head down and lifted his shoulders up, as if he were shielding his neck. An expression of distaste etched itself onto his face. He hated the rain, and there had been far too much of it recently. It left him cold and wet, and the sensation of peeling off wet clothes was one of the worst feelings he could think of.

  The very thought of standing in the rain, giving a crime scene the once over, was only made more tolerable by the prospect of finally getting somewhere with the case. The investigation had been a pain in the arse, only made worse by the people he was expected to work with. While Drake was at least tolerable and (despite the fact he would never admit it) he got on well with him, Osborne couldn't stand the other two Rosefield uniforms. They rubbed him the wrong way, sniffing around where they didn't belong. James Harold be damned, he didn't trust Caroline and Byron further than he could throw them. If he were in a bind, he knew that they wouldn't have his back. He doubted that they would even know what to do. They'd probably never faced down more than a speeding motorist.

  What would they know about staring down a murderer? he thought. How would they react to being stabbed? Not well I'd wager.

  Osborne had been stabbed before. A number of times.

  The first was when he was twenty five. A coked out thug had taken a screwdriver to him, when he was trying to squeeze information out about his dealer. Had he not lifted his hand in time, Osborne would have lost an eye. He still had a scar on his right hand, between his second and third metacarpals, from where the tool had pierced him.

  Osborne had also been stabbed with a kitchen knife. Again chasing a lead on a drug ring, he had barged into an apartment on the upper east side of Grand Stone Bay, and interrupted a heroin deal. He could still remember the girl sat in the corner, her eyes grey and vacant and her skin waxy pale. Even across the room he could see the single bead of blood, swelling from the crook of her arm. It was the sight of her that had distracted him and let the fucker in the overalls get the drop on him. The knife had entered through the side of his abdomen and sheared a gash across his right kidney. Despite the searing pain, he had managed to floor the kid and wrestle the blade out of his hand. His partner later told him that he broke the boy's jaw, and dislocated his left arm.

  The third time was again with a knife. That one wasn't as bad as the other two. A teenage prostitute hadn't taken kindly to his attempts to get her off of the street. She took exception to him grabbing her by the arm, and had stabbed him through the forearm with a pocket knife; no doubt carried for protection from her more pushy and dangerous customers.

  He still considered the wound from the screwdriver the worst. The main reason was because it was blunt, and it takes a lot of force to stab with a dull instrument. The second reason was because, as it penetrated his hand, the makeshift weapon had been turned off course. Levered by the angle of the screwdriver, the bones in his hand had been broken. It felt like a red hot poker burning through his flesh.

  Osborne admired the smooth skin left by the scarring as he gripped the handle of his car door. He felt like it added character to his large, strong hands.

  Settling in behind his steering wheel, he slammed the car door and cranked up the heating to full-whack. His engine roaring to life, Osborne pulled out of the space that bordered the footpath and began to make his way out of Rosefield.

  Lifting his left hand, he tapped away on the illuminated screen of his SatNav, periodically checking the postcode against the digits scrawled onto his hand. Osborne was notoriously poor with directions, even requiring the satellite device to make his way to work in the mornings, the twenty years he spent driving almost exactly the same route having done nothing. The tiny screen fixed to his windshield was a godsend.

  Taking the country lanes with small, compact turns of his steering wheel, Osborne made for the western edge of Grand Stone Bay. From his position, driving into the valley in which the city dwelled, from the north, he could see the lights of the new housing estate.

  As he drove, he thought of Drake. Of how his new partner would greet him, upon his arrival at the house.

  Probably playing up to what's going on, Osborne thought. He's so green he might as well piss grass. Probably will try and get up close to all of the gory bits. Suits me fine... Less for me to see then.

  Fishing a packet of Marlboro from the glove compartment, he shook loose a cigarette and lit it with a cheap plastic lighter. Not daring to open his window, through fear of a sudden downpour, he was soon swamped in a dense veil of grey smoke. Flicking ash into the tray he had glued to his dashboard, the large man slipped the cigarette back into his mouth and turned up the volume on the SatNav.

  As the synthetic female voice recited the directions to him, Osborne wondered if the trip out to the house would be worth it.

  Chapter 22

  Barbara was lingering in the entryway of Christopher's house when she saw the headlights of the car pull up. The white beams of illumination rounded the corner so fast that the shock of the light caused her heart to momentarily seize in her chest.

  After calling Drake Gregory, from the number on the card she had found, Barbara had waited in the porch of the house for the Officer to arrive. Having seen one too many crime dramas, she was overly careful to avoid touching anything, conscious of preserving fingerprints. She hadn't even shut the front door.

  To a certain extent, a part of her still couldn't believe that what was happening was real. The events carried a strange detachment to them, as if she were watching it all unfold through a television screen.

  The distance she was placing on it helped Barbara to remove herself from the situation. In the crime shows the culprit was always caught, and as long as she believed that was how the events were unfolding, then Christopher would return safe.

  A broad man in his thirties stepped out of the car and hurried up the path towards the house. His face bore a look of concern, tinged with fierce determination.

  "I'm Officer Gregory," he said, slowing his pace as he moved within arm's reach of the doorway. "Barbara, right? Are you okay?"

  Somewhat coming out of her daze, she regained enough sense to nod her head. The man offered her a reassuring smile that reminded her vaguely of her father.

  He looked different to how she imagined he would, when they spoke on the phone. The Officer was taller and broader than she expected, with an older looking face that didn't match his youthful voice. His large frame was filled out, though not in a doughy way, and his arms and chest had a strength to them. Wind beat at his Jacket and shirt, but he resisted it easily, stood like a pillar in a storm.

  "Do you want to sit in my car?" Drake asked, hesitantly taking a step forwards. It seemed like he wanted to pat her on the shoulder, but restrained himself from coming into contact with her.

  Barbara shook her head quickly. Some kind of powerful force kept her in the house, willing her to stay. She felt as if leaving to sit in the car would be like betraying Christopher. An overwhelming urge to quickly explain everything overtook her. The faster the Officer got the information, the sooner he would be able to find Christopher.

  "I need to show you," she said, turning to delve deeper into the darkness of the house.

  "Wait," Drake called out, with an urgency that made her freeze in place. "I think it's for the best if you at least stay here by the door. There's more officers on their way to talk to you, and the crime scene guys won't be far behind. You don't need to go back in there."

  Turning and looking into the Officer's eyes, Barbara saw something in them. A comforting concern that put her at ease. He clearly didn't want her seeing the cat again. She realized that he was t
rying to shield her from the horror of her discovery, and that touched her.

  The chilling darkness at her back spurred her forwards, while the comforting warmth Drake seemed to radiate drew her in, and before she knew it Barbara was outside.

  "Is Christopher going to be okay?" she suddenly asked, surprising even herself with the weakness in her voice.

  Drake smiled and cocked his head to one side. "He's going to be fine. Don't worry... We'll find him."

  His tone sounded unsure, but his words were enough to at least somewhat calm her. Barbara felt her shoulders slack, as if a weight had been removed from her. It was only then that she realized that she had been trembling.

  The realization that her emotions were so frail struck her in the chest and stunned her for a second. Barbara had always prided herself on her ability to remain calm, to be the one that always helped everyone else with their problems, and kept a straight face when her own rolled around. She was known, among both her own circle of friends and her associates at large, as someone you could rely on in a crisis. But now the concept seemed laughable, the use of the word "crisis" to describe anything but the current situation both mocking and insulting. Nothing could have prepared her for anything like this.

  Gripping her in its current, the wind grew teeth and tested them on her arms, biting at her and prickling up gooseflesh. Barbara's body shuddered, a shiver different from her prior terrified trembling.

  In the distance, the harsh flash of sirens strobed through the gaps between semi-detached buildings, casting beams of blue light down on the street. The glare of the lights contrasted with the darkness, making the shadows seem as black and dense as ink.

  "See," Drake smiled again. "The others are almost here. Everything's going to be okay."

  A deep appreciation caught her, welling up in her chest. Barbara knew that comforting her was Drake's job, but it was still comforting all the same. The reassurance was something she deeply needed, and was so glad that he was there to help her.

  The headlights of cars appeared at the mouth of the street, casting light in beams that intersected the orange glow of the streetlights.

  As the first neon green and white cruiser pulled up, a large dark-skinned man stepped out of the passenger side and made his way quickly into the garden.

  "I'm Sergeant Cliff Horgen," the man said, curtly addressing Drake directly. "Has anyone been inside yet?"

  "No, just her," he replied, looking up at the bulky form of the uniformed Sergeant. "I was waiting for everyone else. Crime Scene Department would go mental if I went in without gloves or shoe protectors."

  "The boy that's missing," Cliff continued. "Did I hear it right when the report said that it's Christopher Douglas?"

  "Yes," Barbara blurted out suddenly. "Christopher's missing!" Her words sounded infantile and pleading, but she didn't care.

  "Jesus..." the big man said, grimacing. His lips pulled back, and light flashed off of the surface of his gold tooth. "I was the one who interviewed him, back when he found the bodies."

  "You didn't notice anything strange back then?" Drake asked.

  "No," Cliff replied. "I was a bit worried when he told me he was at home by himself, but nothing past that. Definitely didn't expect anything like this to happen."

  Drake hummed and nodded slowly. After pausing for a second, he turned towards Barbara and looked down at her. "Barbara... I'm going to need to have a look at the scene. I want you to stay here with the Sergeant's partner, okay?"

  Her hand caught his sleeve before she was even aware of it. Words, pleading and childish, formed in her mouth. "Please don't leave me."

  It killed her pride to say it, but even looking on her words in hindsight Barbara didn't care. Drake's was the first friendly face that she had seen, and just having him nearby calmed her.

  Drake exchanged glances with Cliff. The Sergeant knitted his brows as a frown touched his lips. Whether he didn't notice it or didn't care Barbara was unsure, but within a moment, Drake was smiling again. A warm and comforting curl of the lips, hugging his teeth.

  "Okay," he said, with a nod. "I'll stay here with you for a little while longer. And while I do that, how about you call your parents? Have them come and pick you up. You don't have to give a statement or go to the station until you're ready."

  His kind words again touched her. They made her feel at least somewhat at ease, and filled her with a deep appreciation. In spite of the cold night air, and the looming threat of rain, she felt warm.

  Something wet streaked a line down her cheek, and Barbara knew that she was crying.

  The muscles in Christopher's arms and legs were searing with the swelling burn of lactic acid, as he feebly rocked back and forth, in an attempt to topple the chair that he was bound to. His right hand was turning slightly pink, from the restrictive clasp of the belt, and he had long since lost feeling in his feet. An uncomfortable pressure spread through his stomach as his sitting position put pressure on his bladder. Moving slowly around his mouth, his sandpaper tongue snagged against his moist cheeks.

  He wasn't sure of how long he had sat there, but it felt like an eternity. An insurmountable amount of time, spent pondering his own death. Planning and attempting his own escape.

  If he got the chance to escape.

  Despite how unhinged Veronica seemed, Christopher sensed a dark intelligence in her mind. It was as if something powerful were swimming inside her head; churning and growing, feeding off of her imagination. He heard the sonic boom of thunder from outside the house and imagined lightning sparking through her mind, firing like supercharged neurons inside Veronica's head. Disturbed though she was, the girl was smart enough and careful enough to have taken him in the first place; to have taken both Georgina and Maddie, without anyone realizing.

  Christopher's memories of the girls caused a coil of self disgust to wind through his stomach. Constricting like a serpent around his organs, the guilt shot an ache through his heart. If it hadn't been for him, then they wouldn't have died — wouldn't have been killed. Veronica's obsession with him was dangerous, and his closeness to the girls (both perceived or otherwise) was what had driven her over the edge.

  If they had never met him, then the girls would never have been taken, tortured and killed. It was his fault, and he would never forgive himself for that.

  However, it was because of that guilt that he needed to escape.

  He needed to get away, and apologize to their families. To tell them how desperately sorry he was, and to spend every day of the rest of his life making it up to them.

  Continuing to rock feebly in the chair, he tried to regain at least some sensation in his legs. He considered screaming, but soon dismissed the idea. It would do little more that alert Veronica to what he was trying to do. There mere fact that she hadn't gagged him made him realize that there wasn't anyone around to hear him, even if he did cry out.

  Christopher's attempted escape was cut short as Veronica finally returned to the room. So distracted by his own thoughts, Christopher hadn't even heard her walking down the hallway.

  Opening the door quickly, the lithe girl dropped a plastic shopping bag on the floor, and stood staring at him for a moment. As the bag hit the floor the contents rattled with a metallic clink that sent a shiver down Christopher's spine.

  Looking up at the girl, Christopher again took the time to observe her expression. Listless and with an air of vacancy, she stared down at him with an unpracticed smile on her lips. Her striking features stood at odds to her emotionally stunted expression.

  Veronica Hunt was beautiful, and yet not in the way that many would expect. Like shards of crystal that glittered with sparkling light, she was captivating, yet still — ultimately — broken.

  "Sorry I took so long." Her voice had a nervous edge to it as if (and more than likely because) she were speaking to a crush. "I was just getting some things ready. I... I really didn't mean for this to turn out this way so... So it needs to be perfect."

  "It's okay,"
he replied in a steady and practiced voice. "I know."

  Veronica's mouth twitched into the now familiar abused smile. She bashfully flicked her eyes down towards the floor and locked her fingers together in front of her chest.

  As she did so, Christopher remained silent. Too afraid of what the unpredictable girl would do next, he tried his best to remain calm. He needed to make sure that when she did speak he wasn't too riled and strung out that he said the wrong thing. The last thing he wanted was for her to snap. The very concept terrified him, and he was all too aware of where it would lead if he prompted that kind of response from her.

  Seemingly remembering something important, Veronica flustered and crouched down next to the plastic bag she had dropped when she entered the room. "Sorry, sorry... I completely forgot. I... I got a surprise for you."

  The words gripped Christopher's heart like an icy hand, but he managed to force a smile.

  It froze to his lips in paralyzing terror, as Veronica pulled out a knife.

  "I saw the scar on your hand," she said, indicating the shimmering flesh looping Christopher's left ring finger. "And I thought it looked like..." She blushed fiercely. "Like a wedding ring."

  His eyes shooting down to the scar, Christopher remembered almost losing the finger as a child. He remembered the pain he felt as the fingers of his hand slipped between the boards of the fence and jammed in place. He remembered how all of his other fingers had been pulled from their sockets...

  But most importantly he remembered how, ever since, he was able to purposely and easily dislocate them himself.

  It was a sick party trick that he often performed to gross people out. By positioning his fingers in a certain way, and suddenly moving them, he was able to pop them out of place so that his fingers hung limply from his palm.

  A brief flicker of hope fluttered in his chest.

  If he were able to dislocate his fingers, there was the chance that he could pull his left hand loose from his restraints. He knew, from the now purple shading of his right hand, that the belt restraining his left wrist was the looser of the two. It was just a case of popping his fingers out of their sockets and pulling his hand free.