The Cage (15 page)

He exited the back of the house and ran headlong into the awaiting arms of the dark forest.

~~*~~

Behind Jim, in the kitchen of the trooper’s once-peaceful home, Francis Ackerman Jr. picked up the phone and dialed. The man on the other end of the line answered on the fifth ring.

“Hello, this is Father Joseph. How may I help you?”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Silence answered.

“Are you there, Padre?”

The man on the end of the line exhaled slowly. “I’m here, Francis.”

“I’ve killed three tonight, and I’m about to do another . . . a cop.”

“Why do you call me? Is it just another of your games?”

“No. I just . . . I just needed someone to talk to. And you’re all I’ve got.” He clenched his eyes shut and fought back the tears. “I’m so tired, Father.”

“Through the Lord, you can find peace, but you have to want it.”

“I don’t believe in your God. I don’t want your heaven or your hell. I just want to sleep. I want darkness. Oblivion. I want it to be as if I never was.”

“It doesn’t work that way. One day, you will face judgment, whether you believe in God or not. But it’s not too late, Francis. Turn yourself in. I can help you. I can—”

“No one can help me. I’m far beyond your redemption.”

“No one is beyond redemption.” After a hesitation, Father Joseph said, “You can’t blame your father for all that you’ve become.”

Ackerman unconsciously rubbed at the scars on his hands and forearms as he thought about his father. He could still hear the man’s voice in his head; whispers in the dark.
We’re going to play a game
,
Francis . . . Kill her . . . Kill her and the pain will stop
. . .

“At some point, you have to take responsibility for your own actions,” the priest said. “He might have set you on this path, but you’ve chosen to walk down it. You have to want to stop.”

“I can’t stop. It’s all that I am. I’m a monster.”

“I don’t believe that. You wouldn’t keep reaching out to me if there wasn’t a part of you that wanted to be better than this.”

“Don’t presume to understand me, Padre. It doesn’t matter what I want. I wish that I was a real person, but I’m not. And I never will be. I’m broken, and no one can put me back together again. Besides, I’m just giving the people what they want.”

“No one wants this.”

“Sure they do. Do you know how many letters I received when I was in the institution? They want a villain. They’re fascinated by me. I’m their god. To some, anyway. Others just need to see people like me out there to make them feel better about the darkness inside themselves. To make them feel normal. And if some cop gets lucky and kills me, it doesn’t even matter. I’ll live on forever. They’ll study me in psychology classes. Others will duplicate my work. They’ll write books and produce documentaries. The longer I evade capture, the more victims I take, the more shocking my crimes . . . the more my legend grows.”

“You know what would really make you a legend? Turning your life around. Think about it. People would be truly fascinated by a man who could do the things that you’ve done and still find his way to the light. You could be the villain and the hero. The Bible says, ‘Joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance.’ There is a way to have everlasting life, Frank. I can show you. I can help you. You just need to turn yourself in.”

“Good night, Padre.”

“Wait. Don’t—”

Ackerman hung up the phone. He dried the tears from his eyes and checked the time. He knew the possibility existed that the officer might escape from his grasp, but they never did. He was too skilled at his job.

He would find his new friend, and he would make good on his promise. Jim would die a slow death. The cop would scream until his lungs filled with blood and he drowned on the same liquid that once pumped the life through his veins. In the end, however, the taking of Jim’s life paled in comparison to devouring his spirit, and he knew that he had broken the man. He had made Jim realize and appreciate all that he had taken for granted, and then, he had stripped it all away.

He placed the shotgun on the counter and removed a hunting knife from a sheath at his back. He slowly turned it in his hand, admiring the blade. He pondered the glorious suffering that he would soon administer. He would savor and prolong every moment of Jim’s agony and of his own ecstasy. Then, in the end, when every exquisite scream had been extracted and every avenue of torture had been exhausted, he would take Jim’s life.

~~*~~

Francis Ackerman strolled into the diner and took a seat at the counter.

After a moment, the waitress said, “What’ll it be, mister?”

He looked deep into her eyes. “Coffee and steak.”

She scribbled on her notepad. “How would you like that cooked?”

“Bloody.”

“Baked potato, salad?”

“Just steak and caffeine, thanks.”

He turned his attention toward the television set mounted on the wall. Something caught his eye, and he asked the waitress to turn up the volume.

“In an incident that has shocked the entire state of Colorado, three men, including two State Troopers, were brutally slain last night. A fourth victim is currently being treated for a gunshot wound to the head but is expected to make a full recovery.”

He leaned forward in his seat.
Full recovery?

An image of a State Trooper at a podium replaced that of the anchorman. The subtitle read,
Major Christian Steinhoff, Colorado State Patrol
. He committed the name to memory. The perspiring policeman said, “Emily Morgan is expected to make a full recovery and has now regained consciousness. We will issue more details later, but according to Mrs. Morgan, an assailant matching the description of Francis Ackerman Jr. forced her husband to choose between her life and that of their daughter. Based on the findings of the preliminary investigation, we believe that the quick thinking of Trooper Jim Morgan saved his wife.”

The cop on the screen drank from a glass of water and continued. “Trooper Morgan and his partner, Trooper Tom Delaine, responded to a call a few weeks ago in which a young woman had been shot in the head. They had entered the residence in response to a domestic disturbance and found the woman lying in a pool of her own blood. They had thought she was dead, but upon further examination, she was found to be alive. The young woman had been shot in the head at an angle with a .22-caliber pistol, and the bullet had deflected off her skull. The impact knocked her unconscious but left her with a survivable wound.

“The wound to Emily Morgan’s head is almost identical to the wound sustained by the woman in the previous case. Although the previous incident involved a lower-caliber weapon, Trooper Morgan had gone to the shooting range on the day of the incident and still had his weapon loaded with a cheaper brand of ammo containing a lower grade of gunpowder. Although we can’t know for sure, we believe that Trooper Morgan successfully attempted to recreate the previous incident in order to save both his wife and daughter. Although Mrs. Morgan did lose pieces of her skull and ear and is being treated for swelling around the brain, she is expected to make a full recovery and is currently under our protection.”

He reclined back.
I’ll be damned
.

“Congratulations, Jim,” he said aloud. “Guess we’ll have to call that one a tie.”

He noticed that the older man sitting next to him at the counter held a spoonful of mashed potatoes halfway between his mouth and plate. He turned to find the man staring at him. A half-read newspaper rested on the counter in front of the older man, which undoubtedly contained a picture of the killer named Francis Ackerman Jr. The man trembled, and small chunks of mashed potatoes fell into his lap. The man didn’t seem to notice.

Ackerman sighed and shook his head.
My work is never done
. “Do you want to play a game?” he said.

Marcus Williams cocked his head to the side, cracking his neck and getting into fight mode. “Listen,” he said. “I’m sorry if she prefers the company of someone who can speak to her with actual words instead of a series of grunts.”

“Don’t get smart with me, boy,” the cowboy said, nostrils flaring like a bull about to charge.

“You’re right. I should get dumb with you. That way, we’re on the same wavelength.”

He watched two men join the cowboy, Glenn, at one end of the alley, and he heard footsteps approaching from behind. He reached out and pulled Maggie behind him.
Morons always travel in packs
. The alley was long and narrow with no windows or doors to provide a means of escape.

He heard one of the men behind them rhythmically slapping what sounded like a baseball bat into an open hand. Another man standing to the right of Glenn held a tire iron at his side. He counted two others with Glenn, for a total of five. He knew that at least two of the group carried weapons, and the others could possess knives, fist-packs, brass knuckles, or worse.

“You big-city boys think you’re so damn smart. I’m sick to death of people like you comin’ here and thinking that we’re all just a bunch of stupid hicks who can’t read or write or tie our damn shoes. Well, I’ve got some news for ya. We’ve got a few things we’d like to teach you, and class is now in session.”

Marcus had to think fast. He only had a few seconds before the men were upon him. He knew that, even if their intention was only to rough him up, the confrontation could easily escalate from assault to manslaughter. He also realized that, once they were finished with him, they wouldn’t just let Maggie walk away unscathed. The angry mob mentality could be a powerful force.

Adrenaline surged through his veins, the same kind of adrenaline that allowed a mother to lift a car off her trapped child. He grabbed a corner of a nearby dumpster and threw all of his weight into it. The dumpster was almost empty, and the wheels were unobstructed. This allowed him to spin it into the path of the two men coming at him from one end of the alley, blocking their approach.

He gently pushed Maggie toward one wall and moved to the opposite side. He wanted to draw the attackers away and shield her from the fight as much as possible.

He turned back to face the two men coming from the other direction. He figured Glenn for a coward and had theorized that the big talker would let his friends do his dirty work. He saw that he had been right.

The first man landed flat on the pavement as Marcus’s foot struck him in the chest, knocking him off his feet and sending him plummeting toward the earth, dazed but not unconscious. The second man attacked and landed a hard blow with the tire iron into Marcus’s side.

He stumbled and almost fell to his knees. The pain shot up his spine, but he willed it away. He didn’t have time to feel pain.

He swung back around on the second attacker and threw the entire weight of his body into a massive, locomotive punch aimed dead center of the man’s pudgy face. The heavyset man also landed on his back, but he wouldn’t be getting up without the aid of smelling salts.

The first man attempted to pull himself off the ground, but hopes of rejoining the battle crumbled away as a foot hammered into the side of his head.

Glenn hung back, shuffling from one side of the alleyway to the other. Marcus wondered whether the big talker was waiting for him to lie down on the ground and take his beating with quiet dignity.

By now, the thugs from the other side of the alley had bypassed their obstacle. He grabbed the tire iron lying beside the unconscious attacker. Knowing that its reach wouldn’t compare to that of the baseball bat, he hurled it at the man holding the wooden weapon.

The iron found its mark but didn’t deal a crushing blow. The momentary distraction served its purpose, however, and allowed him to overtake the bat-wielding aggressor before the man could swing. He grabbed the fat end of the bat with his left hand and sent his right cutting through the air and into the man’s face.

The dazed attacker released the bat but still landed a blow into Marcus’s side.

He tensed, and the man quickly landed another punch into the side of his head. He stumbled back but retaliated with a hard jab of his newly acquired Kirby Puckett-signed Louisville Slugger.

The blow knocked the man cold.

In his mind, since Glenn seemed to be more of a spectator than an attacker, only one opponent remained. The last man eyed him warily, looking for an opening.

He tightened his grip on the bat. “Better be sure.”

The man hesitated for a moment. Then, the final aggressor ran toward the end of the alley with a speed that he wouldn’t have thought possible for a man of that size. But then again, he had learned that a person never knew how fast they could run until they were being chased.

He, however, had no intentions of chasing the man. Instead, he decided that it was time to deal with the instigator of the brawl, a certain beer-gutted gorilla. He turned and walked to where Glenn shuffled. He threw down the bat, knowing that he wouldn’t need it.

Glenn stared at him for a few long seconds. He wondered if Glenn was psyching himself up for an attack, or if the tough-looking cowboy was about to piss his pants and run away. With a trembling voice, Glenn said, “I guess I’m going to have to teach you a lesson myself.”