Silent Kills (32 page)

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Authors: C.E. Lawrence

BOOK: Silent Kills
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CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
When he reached the building he bounded up the stone stairs two at a time, panting hard. The tall tower to the left of the stone archway was probably the chapel. The shorter, multi-turreted structure to the right must be the crematorium. The lights he had seen were coming from there, so he turned right and dashed down the stone corridor. The heavy wooden door was closed, but when he gave the brass handle a sharp turn, it opened. The foyer in front of him was dark, but he could see light spilling out from an open door down the hall. Outside, the rain gathered in intensity, rapping sharply on the copper roof of the building.
He remembered that the killer had a knife, and wished Detective Butts was with him. He instinctively reached into his right pocket for his cell phone—and realized he had left it on the floor of the car.
Idiot
, he thought, and briefly considered going back for it. But the car was at least two football fields away, and his strength was ebbing. The killer didn’t know he had survived the crash. If Lee could take him by surprise, he might be able to free Francois. But if he waited he shuddered to think what might happen. Of course, for all he knew, Francois might already be dead. But he had to try to save him.
He tiptoed down the hall toward the open door as the rain gathered in strength, hammering the windowpanes as gusts of wind blew the storm in from the west. Lee was grateful for the downpour. You couldn’t hear much of anything except the pounding rain, which might help him sneak up on his quarry.
Almost at the doorway now, he could see a set of stairs leading down to a basement of some kind. A shiver slid up his back as he realized it was probably the crematorium. He crept down the stairs, and was struck by the sensation of heat coming from below. He stumbled, overcome by a wave of dizziness. Gripping the wooden railing, he steadied himself and continued down the stairs. As he reached the bottom he heard another sound underneath the patter of raindrops. It was the roar of flames. Then he smelled something burning. Panic gripped him—he forgot all caution and took the last two steps in a single leap.
The room before him was huge and cavernous, with vaulted stone ceilings and smooth tiled floors. But what drew his attention was the brick oven at the far end of the room. The fire in it was blazing, and a tall figure bent over a single sinister metal sliding tray attached to the oven, the steel blackened and stained with soot. Lee didn’t pause to consider the risk. He covered the yards between them in a dead run and launched himself at the figure, bringing him to the ground in a rugby tackle.
The killer hit the floor hard, but wrenched from Lee’s grasp, slippery as an eel, and was on his feet in a flash. Lee grabbed for his ankles, catching his pant leg, but his opponent brought a knife down on his arm, slashing through his sleeve and into his wrist. Lee cried out and pulled away, rolling out of range of the knife. He was grateful for the heavy tweed jacket; the wound was not deep.
He staggered to his feet and looked his foe dead in the face. Lee was struck by how pale his skin was. Tall and thin, almost cadaverous, he really did resemble a vampire. The only splash of color on his face was the bloodred lips, which were full and sensual. He was dressed like a nineteenth-century undertaker, in a black morning coat and stark white vest. He was younger than Lee had expected—judging by his unlined face, he wasn’t much older than Francois.
To his surprise, the man smiled. “You’re too late, you know.” His voice was oddly stilted, as if he were trying to imitate an old-fashioned English accent.
Looking past him, Lee saw that, lying on the metal tray, was Francois. His eyes were open but he appeared dazed. It was obvious he had been drugged.
“Let him go,” Lee said.
“Oh, and what—you’ll convince the prosecutor to go easy on me?” The tall young man laughed, his voice dry as sandpaper. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Think about what you’re doing,” Lee said, taking a step toward him.
“As if I haven’t already!” the killer replied, brandishing the knife with both hands. “Come, now—you’ve been profiling me for weeks now, haven’t you?”
“What do you mean?” Lee said, figuring if he could keep him talking, maybe he could stall for time until help arrived—if it ever did. Behind him, Francois stirred and lifted one hand weakly, but didn’t speak.
“I know who you are,” the killer said. “You’re the profiler.”
“How do you know that?”
“Oh, that shouldn’t surprise you. My type of offender likes to keep abreast of developments in his case, right?”
“If you say so.”
“I also know that you lost your sister too—just like me. Well, not exactly like me, but close enough.”
“So that’s what started it,” Lee murmured. “I thought it might be a brother.”
“Well, now you know,” the killer sneered. “And don’t try that ‘I-know-just-how-you-feel’ crap on me. It won’t work.”
“Okay,” Lee said, his eyes on the knife. It was long, a good eight inches, and sturdy looking, with a nasty jagged edge at the tip. He clutched his arm where the blade had sunk in; his jacket was wet with blood.
“Only one of us will leave this room alive,” his opponent stated calmly. “And I wouldn’t put odds on it being you.”
“Why did you do it—why drain their blood?”
The young man smiled. “You’re the profiler. Why don’t you tell me?”
“I think you’re afraid to die, like your sister.”
The killer snorted. “And they
pay
you for that? That’s pathetic!”
“So tell me what I’m missing.”
“I have a better idea—I’ll show you!”
With that, he turned around, swooped toward the oven, and pressed a switch. The tray slid on its metal wheels toward the open flame.
“No!” Lee cried, and dove for the switch. The killer threw himself on top of him, and he felt the blade sink into his back. He managed to press the switch before sliding to the ground. He looked up to see the killer hovering over him, that strange smile still on his face. He saw the upraised knife and kicked toward the hand holding it, but missed. He was having trouble focusing; the dizziness he had felt earlier was returning and his vision was rapidly dimming. He saw the blade descend, and rolled to the side.
He tried to get to his feet, but couldn’t seem to make his legs obey. The flames licked and flickered orange inside their brick prison, mesmerizing him. He could feel his will and consciousness slipping away as the killer put a foot on his chest and smiled down at him.
“I said you were too late.”
Above him, the flash of steel as the blade descended.
Lee closed his eyes and waited for the knife to rip into his flesh. And waited—but nothing happened. He opened his eyes just as Francois heaved himself off his metal bed and staggered toward them. As he did, he pulled one of the stakes from its leather straps on the front of his vest. The killer turned too, in time to see the wooden stake in Francois’s upraised hand. With a roar, Francois lunged forward and thrust the stake into his opponent’s chest. Instead of falling away from him, the killer wrapped his arms around Francois, pulling him close.
“Francois—look out!” Lee cried, but it was too late. The knife was buried to the hilt in his torso. The blood of the two young men burst forth from their bodies, combining as it streamed to the floor. They sank to the ground, face-to-face in a death embrace.
Lee pulled himself to his hands and knees and crawled over to them. He pressed his fingers to Francois’s neck, searching for a pulse. When he found it, his heart leapt with hope, but the throbbing of the boy’s carotid artery was faint.
“Francois!” he said. “Stay with me!”
The boy’s eyes opened and he smiled up at Lee.
“Don’t worry,” he said dreamily. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be fine.” There was no pain in his face, only peace. He tried to speak again, but blood gurgled up into his mouth. His eyes closed again for the last time as the life drained from his body.
“Francois!” Lee cried, but he knew it was too late. He felt for a pulse in the other boy’s neck, but it was clear he too was gone. His eyes were open and staring in the direction of the leaping flames in the open oven of the crematorium.
Lee looked at the two of them, side by side, entwined in each other’s arms like lovers, together forever in death. A gaping emptiness filled his soul as he gazed at them. Sitting on the floor now slippery with the blood of two young men, he wept.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
“Shit,” said Butts. “You probably have a damn concussion.”
They were in the back of an ambulance, the rain still thundering like bullets against the metal roof. Lee lay on a stretcher, an IV attached to his arm, while Butts hovered over him, looking wet and miserable. He had discarded his aviator cap, but the goggles now dangled around his neck, the lenses opaque from condensed moisture.
Butts repeated his concern to the young ambulance attendant, a stern-looking black woman with a thick, tightly fastened bun of dark hair and large, luminous eyes.
“He’s probably got a concussion, you think? That’s a nasty bump on his head.”
The paramedic pulled out a penlight and shined it into Lee’s eyes. “That’s what I’m trying to determine.”
The concentrated beam of light made him squint and blink. His head throbbed, and he pressed a finger to his temple.
“So whaddya think?” Butts said, peering over her shoulder.
“Possibly,” she said, feeling Lee’s pulse. “Does your head hurt?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It does, actually.”
“But that could be from other things, right?” Butts asked. “For instance—”
The paramedic turned to face him. “Detective, I understand you’re concerned about your friend, but it’ll go a lot faster if you let me ask the questions.”
“Sorry,” Butts said. “I didn’t mean to interfere.”
“Do you feel dizzy?” she asked Lee.
“A little, yeah.”
“Nauseous?”
“Somewhat.”
“Any blurred vision?”
“Earlier I had some. It’s better now.”
“Loss of consciousness?”
“Right after the accident, yeah.”
“How long?”
“I don’t really know.”
“Shit,” said Butts, evidently unable to help himself. “Sounds like a damn concussion.”
“We’re going to keep you under observation for a while,” the young paramedic said, and ducked outside to speak with one of the dozen or so police officers now working the crime scene. Butts had arrived within fifteen minutes of the final confrontation, and what looked like half the city of Troy police force had shown up shortly afterwards.
Lee gazed out at the twirling red lights of a second ambulance parked a few yards away. Another paramedic huddled under the archway, sucking at a damp cigarette, his shoulders hunched against the cold.
“How did you manage to find me again?” Lee asked.
“We did a GPS trace on your cell phone.”
“Good idea. Smart thinking on your part.”
Butts sighed. “It was Krieger’s idea, actually.”
Lee smiled. “That sounds like her.”
The ambulance door opened, and Detective Krieger climbed inside.
“Well, how are we feeling?” she asked, peering down at him. She was still wearing her Egyptologist costume, and looked as stunning as ever, still crisp and fresh in her tight khaki outfit.
“I’m okay,” Lee said.
“He’s got a concussion,” Butts said.
“Have you identified the UNSUB yet?” Lee asked, ignoring Butts.
“His name is David Adrastos,” Krieger replied. “Comes from a wealthy family. His father made a fortune in shipping. Lived alone in Riverdale—we have a team over there now searching his house.”
Her cell phone rang. She dug it out of her jacket pocket and answered it.
“Krieger here.” Even in his dazed state, Lee couldn’t help noticing the creamy flesh hiding underneath the jacket. “Really?” she said. “Okay—thanks.”
“What is it?” Butts asked after she hung up.
“They found an older woman in one of the upstairs bedrooms. They think it might be a relative. He didn’t drain her blood, though.”
“Maybe he killed her to keep her from revealing his secret,” Lee suggested.
“Maybe. So far he fits your profile pretty well, in any case,” Krieger said.
“Sorry about the kid—what’s his name?” Butts said.
“Francois,” said Lee.
“Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“Me too.”
“You did everything you could,” said Krieger.
“Yeah. I know.”
That didn’t make it feel any better. Another young life snuffed out—two, in fact. No matter what anyone might think of the so-called Van Cortlandt Vampire, he was a human being, a young man in the prime of life, and it was still a loss.
Too much damn loss lately,
Lee thought.
He looked out at the lone paramedic huddled in the cold stone archway. The man took one final drag on his cigarette and tossed it on the ground. The glowing embers flickered for a moment, then died, drowned in the onslaught of pouring rain.

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