Leaning back in my chair, I covered my mouth with my hand. There was a picture of the crime scene. Rose’s body had been taken away, but I was left looking at a room covered in grotesque splatters of dark blood. There was a huge dark puddle on the floor and some bloody handprints on a fallen chair and the walls. I stared at the photograph and tried to make out the interior of the house. It looked to be a well-decorated but somewhat shabby room, with an oak table and four chairs. The wallpaper in one corner was peeling. I wondered if Chase had always grown up in poverty; from his backstory, I was guessing probably. That made Rose’s death seem even sadder to me because she’d worked to rise above it. I thought sadly of the scholarship that she never got to use. She’d be in her early thirties now; I wondered if she’d be married and have children. She was so beautiful, and she seemed so gentle and sweet. I bet she would have made a good mother.
Part of me wondered what Rose would think of her brother now. As tempting as it was to dismiss the idea, I somehow had the feeling that Rose would forgive her brother anything. It was easy to imagine her taking him in her small arms and trying to provide some measure of comfort. I had a feeling she was always the kind of person who would turn the other cheek.
There was another article in the same newspaper a week later. The headline was Slasher Strikes Again and with a grim feeling, I read on.
In what could have been deemed another brutal murder, the same attacker who killed Rose McIntyre, formerly of Detroit, has struck again. This time, however, the victim lived to tell the tale. Brenn Hobbs, 21, was attacked when she was crossing a mall parking lot last night. Hobbs works at a kiosk in the mall and was heading to her car around 11 p.m. She said that she noticed a large man following her, so she quickly ran to her car. However, when she got there, she was able to get inside and drive away with no problem. Once at home, another man jumped out of Hobbs’ backseat and attacked her, leaving her in the driveway. Luckily, one of Hobbs’ neighbors was arriving home and saw her. Hobbs survived, but she is in critical condition at the Lincoln County Memorial Hospital. Her family requests privacy.
If her family wants her to be private, why did the article give away her location? I thought to myself, rolling my eyes. Leaning back in my chair, I wondered if it would be possible for me to talk to her. Brenn Hobbs couldn’t be that common of a name. Heading to Google, I typed her name in and hit enter. The first result was a Facebook page of a business called Brenn’s Hens. It was a gourmet butcher shop in downtown Detroit. And the owner’s last name was Hobbs…
Grabbing my coat and car keys, I hurried through the library and got into my car. I had no idea if she’d be there, but I had to find out. I had to ask what she’d seen that night. It only took me fifteen minutes to drive across town, but it felt like an hour. I seemed to catch every red light and every slow driver. Finally, I pulled to a stop in front of the store. The lights were on, but no one was inside.
“Hello?” I called out. “Ms. Hobbs?”
A plump brunette came out of the back, wiping her hands on her apron. “Hi,” she called out cautiously. “Can I help you?”
I tried to smile as genuinely as I could. “Hi, Ms. Hobbs,” I said in a shaky voice. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Her face instantly turned ashen and I knew I probably wasn’t the first person who’d come looking for her. “Get out of here,” she said quietly. “I can’t tell you anything that you’ll want to know.”
I shook my head. “Brenn, I’m sorry, it’s personal. My friend’s life is at stake, my life is at stake!”
Her eyes blazed and she squared her shoulders. I saw the traces of a long, pink scar starting on one shoulder and sloping downwards. I cringed as I wondered how much it must have hurt.
“That makes no difference to me,” she said in a curt voice. “I can’t risk getting involved with anything dangerous again. That time in my life has passed.”
I frowned. “Wait, were you involved in something bad? I thought it was random. Just like what happened to Rose.”
Brenn laughed, showing a mouthful of yellowing teeth. “Oh, honey,” she said. “No one is innocent when The Manticore is involved.”
A shiver ran down my spine. “What?” I repeated dumbly. “The Manticore?”
“With his big machete,” Brenn said. She raised her eyebrows. “Didn’t I say to get out of here? Do I have to call the cops on you, too?”
“No, no,” I said in a shaky voice. “I’m leaving now. Thank you.”
“Bye now,” Brenn said in a calm voice as I backed out of the store. She reached for a cleaver and I turned around before I could see where the blade would fall.
With my heart pounding, I slowly walked back to my car. Brenn had said The Manticore had attacked her, not the boss of The Machetes. And something about a big machete…
I knew I had to call Chase. He’d have to listen to me now.
Chapter Twenty Six
Chase
I was speeding back to Lacey’s when my cell phone rang. It was from a number I didn’t recognize, but I flipped it open anyway.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mr. McIntyre.” I recognized the old man barkeep’s voice. “I’m calling to inform you about a sighting.”
My heart started to thud in my chest. “When? Now? Is he still there?”
“He’s gone, unfortunately,” the old man said. His voice sounded shakier than it had before. A chill of fear ran down my spine when I realized the old man was probably more afraid of The Manticore than he was of me.
“What did he do?” I demanded. “Tell me everything.”
“He came in with a young Asian girl,” the man stuttered. “And he was laughing and joking around, he was in a real good mood.”
“And then?” I growled in exasperation. “Tell me the good stuff, old man!”
“I’m getting there,” he said calmly. “He’s wooing the girl and then another young man comes in, oh, I don’t know, early twenties. The young guy makes the mistake of sitting down on the other side of the girl. He got up and slashed him right across the chest, with an odd sort of knife. The girl screamed and then before I knew what was going on, she was on the floor, covered in blood. He cut up both of them like pieces of fruit and then left.”
My jaw hung open. “Holy shit,” I breathed. “How long did this take?”
“About five minutes,” the old man said. “And then he sent the junkies in here to clean, as usual.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said. “Keep me informed every time he comes in. Not just this one, do you understand?”
“I get it,” the man said drily. “I have to go now.”
I hung up without saying goodbye. My heart was racing. I couldn’t believe someone was impersonating The Manticore to this level of verisimilitude. It was frightening; it was almost like the real Manticore had come back from the grave to haunt me. I shivered as I hunkered down in the driver’s seat and pushed my foot to the floor.
Lacey’s apartment was empty when I got there and another stab of fear pierced my heart. I dialed her cell phone but she didn’t answer, and a wave of anxiety passed through me.
“Lacey, call me back as soon as you hear this,” I growled into her voicemail. “This isn’t a fuckin’ joke, princess, call me right the fuck back.” Angrily, I threw my phone across the room. It hit a mirror and broke the glass, sending shards everywhere. I knew I should clean it up, but I couldn’t even focus at the moment.
Lacey’s laptop was open to a search page. When I realized she’d been researching The Manticore and the slashing murders, I was angry, but not before a headline caught my eyes. Manticore On the Loose: Citizens Terrified.
Some say The Manticore disappeared, but authorities are convinced he’s back after an attack on a group of young girls at the Rockwood subway station. Four 15- and 16-year-old girls were attacked by a single man after taking the last train of the evening. All four of them were killed with a single slash to the chest. Police are on the hunt for anyone who resem
bles this profile: dark skin, long dark hair, bright eyes possibly colored with contacts. It is thought that the perpetrator is carrying a long machete. He is considered armed and dangerous. If you encounter this suspect, do not try to fend him off. Instead, you should hide and call the police as soon as possible.
A chill ran through me. Was this what Lacey was trying to tell me? I rolled my eyes; sometimes she made absolutely no sense. Yeah, this was creepy, but it wasn’t like what happened to Rose.
Something struck me and I looked at the picture again. The bodies had been removed but the photo showed a subway station covered in blood spatters and smears. There was a set of bloody handprints, leading over to a giant pool of blood. Although at first it looked like the person who was stabbed had lain there dying, on closer inspection I realized they had been crawling away; the handprints pointed in a different direction. My heart sank when I realized it was exactly like another crime scene photo that I’d studied too many times before.
Rose’s.
The image would forever be burned into my brain. Our old living room, with that shitty oak table. The chairs turned over and covered in bloody handprints. Handprints all over that peeling wallpaper and some of the carpet. In the official photo, Rose’s body had been removed, but I’d seen it while she was still there. She’d died a few feet away from where she’d been slashed. She’d somehow managed to crawl away from the puddle of blood and into the kitchen.
It was exactly similar to the photo from the subway station, from only a few days ago. The bad feeling in my stomach turned to lead as I studied the photo even more closely. Aside from the difference of scene, everything matched.
There was a sinking feeling in my chest and I closed my eyes, leaning against the back of the couch and covering my eyes with my hands. How was it possible that I’d spent so much time looking for the wrong guy? And if The Manticore was really alive, he must have known that I was searching for the boss of The Machetes, not The Manticore himself. It was even more unsettling to realize that I’d been the pawn of a cat and mouse game the whole time. I’d been protecting Lacey from the wrong people, and going after the wrong people for Rose’s death.
I hadn’t wanted to believe that The Manticore was back. Maybe it was the idea of confronting an almost superhuman villain, or maybe it was the idea of failing. And I almost certainly would fail; he was capable of killing a human being with a single flick of the wrist. No amount of training would ever be able to save me now. The only way I’d be able to win was through speed. I knew I wasn’t stronger or more dangerous than The Manticore, but I could be quicker. With a deep breath, I checked the gun in my waistband. It was a powerful little Smith & Wesson, but it felt like a toy in my hands. I knew I was going to need something a lot stronger in order to fell The Manticore.
Suddenly, little things started to make sense. How those junkies in the alley were convinced the killer was The Manticore. And the guy with the machete in the bar who killed the younger kid and that Asian girl. And the schoolgirls, murdered at the subway station. And the junkie henchmen he would deploy to clean up the bar after he was done. I suddenly knew he was supplying them with heroin from The Machetes; probably the same heroin that I’d sold myself.
The Manticore was still alive. And now I knew it was only a matter of time before he came for me.
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chase
“Damnit, pick up!” I growled into the phone as I dialed Peyton for the third time. He still hadn’t gotten back to me, and I had some crucial information that I was dying to tell him. It wasn’t like him to be completely out of touch like this, and I had to ask him about what I’d learned. Turns out I’d been completely wrong the whole time. All this time I thought I’d been searching for the boss of The Machetes. Then I’d talked to some junkies and a bar owner and realized that the killer wasn’t the leader of The Machetes at all. Instead, it was The Manticore, a gang member who had supposedly disappeared a few years ago. My blood boiled as I thought about how stupid I’d been to waste so much energy on the wrong person.
The phone cut to voicemail and I threw it to the wall angrily. I watched with dull eyes as the screen cracked down the middle. Peyton never iced me out like this. In frustration, I clenched my hands into fists and drove them into the wall.
“Damnit, Peyton,” I cursed under my breath in a low growl. I steeled my resolve, putting my shattered phone in my pocket and hiking out to the parking lot. My car was sitting alone, looking eerily out of place. Yanking open the driver’s side door, I slid in and jammed the key in the ignition. I didn’t think he was ignoring on purpose but there was always the chance that he was passed out in some haze of junk-induced stupor.
The drive out to his shitty hideaway seemed to take longer than usual. There was a knot in my stomach forming the whole time. Something didn’t seem right to me. It wasn’t exactly that I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t have my usual sense of security. Even though I’d been on edge for the past few weeks, I’d still felt confident about keeping Lacey—and myself—safe. Now, though, I wasn’t sure; somehow it felt like a completely different ball game.
As usual, the parking lot by the hideaway was empty. The only activity was coming from the shitty Chinese food restaurant on the corner and I could already feel the grease soaking into my pores. I shuddered as I remembered the look on Lacey’s face when I’d first brought her here. I thought she was going to resist and fight me, but she just looked sad and alone. I’d felt bad about hurting her.
Damnit, Chase! This is no time to be thinking about Lacey!
Peyton didn’t answer when I pounded on the door. The rusty hinges bounced against the frame with the effort. Taking a deep breath, I lowered my shoulders and thrust against the door hard. It resisted and I felt my shoulder slam into the cheap wood. Lowering my head, I crouched and butted the door open with all of my strength. It slammed against the back wall of the apartment, sending wood splinters flying across the room.
The place was a sty. It looked even worse than it had when I’d first shown up with Lacey. At least then there had been some semblance of normalcy, even if it was just the normalcy of a man living in stupor. But now it looked like it had been torn apart by multiple people. The mattress was flipped on its side and a jagged cut showed from one corner to the opposite. The stuffing was falling out and some rusty springs were poking through the stained fabric. There had been a cheap plastic nightstand which was now broken into pieces and scattered around the room. There were empty little baggies everywhere and I shook my head. It was hard to believe that of all people, Peyton would choose to lose his mind and go on a junk binge strong enough to tear the room apart. If he needed money or more smack, he could have always come to me. That was our agreement; it was part of him helping me out.
But this was just ridiculous. I rubbed a hand over the stubble growing on my chin and growled. Slowly, I started to realize the lack of personal effects. There wasn’t even a rusty can of shaving cream in the bathroom, much less a wallet. I picked through the piles of shredded paper and trash all over the broken kitchen table; there was nothing at all that could have been used to identify Peyton.
Sniffing the air, I smelled both stale smoke and that faint mildew odor. Oddly, there was no rotten food. Throwing open the fridge, I was surprised to see that it was completely empty. There wasn’t any food, not even empty takeout containers from next door. Frowning, I glanced around behind me. It seemed weird that Peyton would trash the place, then meticulously clean the fridge and decide to bounce. It wasn’t like him, and it definitely didn’t fit the state of the rest of the apartment. I groaned and started digging through the kitchen trash. Again, it was more of the same: shredded and ripped papers, destroyed notes that just looked like gibberish when held up to the light…
A cold shiver of fear ran down my spine for the first time since entering Peyton’s hideaway. My gut felt cold and I shook my head in an attempt to clear the feeling. Suddenly I knew Peyton wouldn’t be coming back
here. It was cleaned and trashed of any attempt possible to identify who the owner had been. My hands started to shake as I looked down and realized that now, my fingerprints were everywhere. Now it was me they were going to be looking for.
“Chase,” Lacey said in her grating, perky voice. “Chase, listen, I think you might want to listen to me! Some of the information I have is important!”
“I’m busy,” I growled. Lacey pouted and reached forward to tug at my sleeve. “Chase, I really think you’ll want to hear this,” she said quietly. “Don’t you want to listen to me? I think I can help you.”
“Sorry, Lacey, I don’t have to get any help from library books,” I said dismissively. I watched as she angrily balled one of her hands into a delicate fist and punched me on the arm. It barely registered as a sensation and I had a hard time trying not to laugh it off.
“Chase,” Lacey squealed. “This is important! I saw Peyton had this kind of creepy-looking knife with a handle that looked like a carved animal!”
Lucky: The Irish MC Page 37