The Appointment Killer

by Remington Kane

  THE APPOINTMENT KILLER

  A Revenge Series Novel - Book 2

  Remington Kane

  Contents

  Introduction

  Join My Inner Circle

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Epilogue

  ERICA & OWENS RETURN!

  Afterword

  Join My Inner Circle

  Bibliography

  Make Contact

  Coming Soon

  Introduction

  THE APPOINTMENT KILLER

  Erica and Owens return, as they hunt down a serial killer who lets the victims know the date they’re going to die.

  Someone is killing men who seemingly have no connection to each other, and they’re being told the date of their deaths before they die. The murders are bizarre and the means to accomplish them are diverse.

  When the killer isn’t getting enough attention, internet personality Ted Marx gets involved, when the name of the next intended victim is revealed to Marx.

  Marx is hungry to regain the fame he once enjoyed as a teenage actor in a sitcom, while also profiting from his involvement in the case.

  In time, Marx becomes a suspect himself, along with three other people. Erica and Owens must traverse the twists and turns of the case to uncover the hidden truth that will reveal the killer. But first, they have to survive, as the investigation turns deadly.

  Join My Inner Circle

  REMINGTON KANE’S INNER CIRCLE

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  Acknowledgments

  I write for you.

  —REMINGTON KANE

  Chapter One

  HOPEWELL, NEW JERSEY, JUNE 27th

  Craig Rubio loved summer.

  The sixty-six-year-old former high school art teacher was settled in front of a window in his attic. He had a camera attached to a tripod and was taking pictures of children at a playground, in particular, young blonde girls between the ages of five and nine.

  Although Rubio looked grandfatherly, with his fringe of white hair, crinkly blue eyes, and habit of wearing sweaters, he was not what anyone would consider a family man.

  Rubio spent many hours watching the park and its playground. He was not allowed there, given that he was a registered sex offender. This didn’t stop him from visiting the location in a less direct way. Thanks to the miracle of modern photography and the immense zoom capabilities of digital cameras, Rubio could take pictures of children from the comfort of his home. Rubio lived alone but still owned a house. He never liked apartments and loved having lots of room.

  After taking several shots of a little girl whose dress had ridden up on her as she went down the sliding board, Rubio paused to put a fresh battery pack in his camera.

  He sighed. The pictures were nice, and certainly better than nothing, but he missed the old days when he could be close enough to touch the children.

  He had gone beyond touching, and on more than one occasion, the last of which had sent him to prison for twelve years.

  When it started to get dark out and the little ones were being led home by their parents, Rubio left the attic and went downstairs. It was time for dinner, and he was looking forward to eating the leftover chili he had in the fridge.

  As he was walking down the hallway toward the kitchen, Rubio happened to glance into the small room that was his home office. The letter caught his eye.

  It was laying with the day’s other mail on the roll-top desk. It didn’t look like the other correspondence. For one thing, there was no stamp on it, which meant that whoever wrote it had placed it inside his mailbox. They had been to his home.

  The envelope was as black as midnight. Written on it in white lettering was Rubio’s name and a large #1. The single piece of stationary inside it was as black as the envelope. The printing was white again, centered in the middle of the page, and appeared stark when contrasted against its dark background. It was more like the negative of a normal letter, but there was nothing normal about what was written on it.

  YOU WILL DIE ON FRIDAY, JUNE 28th

  Tomorrow was June 28th. The letter was telling him that he had only one day left to live. Rubio wondered if it had been sent by the father of the little girl who had been his last, the one that caused him to be sent away twenty-one years ago.

  Is tomorrow the anniversary of the day I grabbed her? Rubio pondered. But no, that was in August, early August.

  He stuffed the letter back in its envelope and shoved it into a slot in the desk. It was probably a prank sent by some twit who figured out he was listed on the registry of sexual predators. Usually, they called and made threats. Maybe they were getting more creative.

  Rubio put the letter out of his mind and went into the kitchen to heat up his chili. Later, he would settle in front of the television and watch the Little Miss Beautiful Pageant. It was something he never missed.

  Rubio woke the next morning at his customary hour and in his usual way, as he was roused from sleep by the sound of his younger neighbors heading off to work.

  One man who lived across the street and three doors down had a pickup truck that needed a new muffler. The hole in the muffler grew larger and louder each week. If Rubio wasn’t awake before that inconsiderate jerk started his engine, he certainly was after.

  It was 8:23 a.m. on Friday, June 28th. When Rubio realized what day it was, he remembered the letter. As a tingle of unease crept up his spine, Rubio caught himself and laughed. It was just a stupid letter, a prank. Still, it didn’t hurt to go downstairs and make sure that everything was all right before taking his shower and shaving.

  He had slept in just his briefs, which were old, gray, and had holes in them. After putting on an equally ratty pair of slippers, Rubio went into the bathroom, where he relieved himself. Afterwards, he headed downstairs to check the locks on the front door. They were as he had left them and looked secured.

  All the windows in the living room were locked, as was the bathroom, and the window in his office. While inside the office, he’d glanced at the desk, at the slot where the malevolent letter had been shoved.

  Leaving the office, he went into the small dini
ng room. Again, every window was locked. The kitchen was a different story, as Rubio saw that the latch on the window above the sink wasn’t engaged. That fact entered his brain an instant before he heard the noise behind him.

  Rubio jumped and spun around, but there was no one there. When he realized what had made the sound, he released a nervous laugh. It was the coffee maker. The machine’s timer was set to begin brewing a pot every morning at eight-thirty. The timer had activated, and the brew cycle had begun. But then, it stopped. Not only did the machine quit brewing, but all its lights had gone out, including the clock.

  Rubio cursed. He had bought the machine less than a year ago. Didn’t they make anything that lasted anymore?

  His anger turned to confusion when he realized that the other appliances had gone dark as well. The lights were off on the microwave and the oven.

  Ah, the power has gone out.

  But if that was true, then why was Rubio seeing the back porch light burning on his neighbor’s house? They kept the switch on night and day. Rubio had pointed out to the woman who lived there that she could save money by installing a fixture that worked from dusk to dawn. The woman had responded that her husband handled such matters. When Rubio later brought it to her husband’s attention, the guy told him to mind his own business.

  Still, if that light was on, then it couldn’t be a power failure. Rubio figured he must have had a circuit breaker trip into the off position. He left the kitchen and headed back down the hall to where the door leading to the basement was.

  Rubio opened the door and gasped at what he saw. There was water about halfway up the basement steps. He stared dumbfounded, momentarily shocked by what he was seeing. Rubio had a finished basement. With the water level being so high, it meant everything down there was ruined. As he was turning to rush toward the phone to call a plumber, he was shoved from behind.

  Rubio made a splash as he hit the water, while thumping his head on a wooden stair. As he sank down to the level of the basement floor, the door behind was closed and locked. Rubio couldn’t swim. He also had a fear of drowning, and he had nearly done so as a child.

  However, he could climb, and he groped his way back up the stairs until he was out of the water, the water that was still rising. Sputtering and coughing, he breathed rapidly as his heart beat in triple time. He also shivered as the water had been cold.

  When he looked up and saw the closed door, Rubio realized he’d been pushed, and what that meant. Someone had broken into his house, and they caused the leak and shoved him into the water.

  A fall like that could have killed me, Rubio thought, and it brought to mind the black letter he had received, the one stating that today was the day he would die.

  He lumbered up the rest of the steps and tried to open the door. It was locked. But that was impossible, Rubio knew, because the door had no lock. Someone was either leaning against it or had wedged something at the bottom to keep it from opening.

  “Hey! What’s going on? Who the hell pushed me down here?”

  There was a moment of silence, then the hammering began as nail after nail secured the door to its frame. One of the nails broke through the spot where Rubio’s left hand was resting. Its tip pricked the skin and caused Rubio to bleed.

  “Ow! Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  There was no answer, only more hammering. After several more seconds of loud banging, the pounding ceased. Rubio tried the door again, then threw his body against it. The door didn’t so much as rattle.

  “This isn’t funny!” Rubio shouted. There was no reply, only silence. Stealing himself, Rubio moved down the stairs and eased into the water. It felt colder than he’d remembered, and as he moved off the last step and stood on the floor, he was alarmed to find the water reached his neck. Rubio wasn’t short at nearly six-feet tall; given that, he guessed the water was at or past the five-foot mark. If he didn’t do something soon the water would seep upstairs and do more damage.

  He finally became aware of the odor. It was similar to alcohol. Looking around, Rubio noted that one of the cinder block walls had a sheen to it. As he went to move closer his slipper came off his foot. It felt like it had stuck to the floor’s surface. The other slipper did the same, followed by Rubio’s feet sticking as well. It was like the floor of a movie theater after soda had spilled and dried on it.

  Rubio moved along toward the wall atop the sticky floor and touched the cinder blocks. Again, he felt a gummy surface. Something had been applied to the wall, some sort of sealant. It was helping to keep the water from draining out. The same must be true of the floor, although it had been carpeted.

  Whoever did this must have been down here for hours?

  He looked up at the ceiling as he hoped to spot a busted pipe. He saw none, so Rubio moved to his left, to the alcove where he kept his old refrigerator. Given how deep the water was, it had to have been flowing for hours. To the right of the refrigerator, and halfway up the wall was the valve that would shut off the flow of water to the house. When Rubio felt for it, he touched only a nub. It was difficult to see through the water. After fighting back panic at what he was about to do, Rubio held his breath, then lowered his head beneath the surface to take a look and find the valve handle.

  He spotted it an instant later. It had been sawed away with a hacksaw and was on the basement floor. The water was coming in through the severed main. Whoever was responsible was looking to do as much damage as possible. There was no way to turn off the water.

  However, there was another way out of the basement, a door that lead up to the attached garage. As he rushed toward the other door, one of his feet became stuck fast to the basement floor and he nearly went down. Pulling harder, he freed the foot and continued on. The floor seemed stickier than it had, as if a greater amount of sealant had been applied in that area. Rubio tried not to imagine what it would be like if the soles of his feet became permanently stuck to the floor, with the water rising about him.

  Moving past the circuit breaker box, which was partially submerged, Rubio reached the second set of steps. Unlike the other staircase, the steps here were concrete. Sighing with relief as he climbed out of the water, Rubio was comforted to hear no hammering going on. He had feared the crazy person who shoved him down the stairs had run into the garage to do the same to the other door.

  Here, the door did have a lock, and was made of metal as an aid to prevent anyone who gained access to the garage from breaking into the home proper. Rubio flipped the lock to the off position then turned the knob. The door didn’t budge.

  What the hell?

  Trying again, he pushed against it. While leaning in closer he saw the tip of a machine screw poking out from the door frame, then he saw another, and three more. The door had been sealed by using long screws, and it must have been done at an earlier time.

  Rubio felt a chill go through him that had nothing to do with effects produced by the cold water. It was fear, and it had him breathing hard, and trembling. Steadying himself, he managed to calm down as his mind raced to think of a way out. There were four windows in the basement, but they were solid and made from glass blocks. In the center of each window was a small screen to let in air, but you’d have to be no bigger than a mouse to fit through it. Rubio could have unfastened them to let water flow out, but he’d never gotten more than one of the things to open, and that one allowed a gap of less than an inch.

  My tool room! Rubio thought. He was far from being a skilled carpenter, but he was handy around the house and in the yard. In a small room in the basement he kept a good supply of tools, including an axe. And yet, to reach them he would have to go back into the dreaded water again. It was at that moment that he realized he could drown if the water kept rising.

  No, once I get that axe all I have to do is chop my way out through the wooden door.

  Back into the water he went, with a mixture of hope and fear fueling him. The tool room was in the rear, past the wooden stairs and around a corner. R
ubio moved through the water while walking since he didn’t know how to swim. The water was up to his chin. He had to keep his mouth shut, otherwise the liquid would lap against his lips and enter his mouth.

  Once again, a tug on a doorknob failed to open a door. Scanning the frame, Rubio saw the telltale signs of the tips of screws.

  No! No! When the hell did they have time to do all this?

  But there had been time, hadn’t there? For he rarely entered the basement and spent countless hours in the attic, taking photos of children.

  Looking around, Rubio stared at the duct work connected to his furnace. For a moment he imagined himself shimmering up the aluminum tube and exiting out of one of the air intake vents on the home’s first floor. The thought was insane. Not only would he not fit inside the tube, but it would collapse from his weight. However, thinking about the vents reminded him of something.