“You’re cocky, aren’t you? Let’s see if you can get away from this.”
John fired two more shots. This time toward the floor, in case the killer had gone prone, but again, the killer’s voice kept coming from the pantry. The door, now punctured with holes, with splinters strewn across the ground, creaked open on old hinges. The door stood ajar, just enough to give John a glimpse of the shadows within. But not so much he could make out movement from inside the small compartment.
“You really should be careful. Our friend on that table doesn’t have much time left. We were playing together for nearly an hour before you showed up.”
John shivered at the sound. He felt a prickle meet the shiver along his spine. Fear in different forms, and yet, a fear he recognized. The scar across his chin itched, and the fear increased. But John had been in these situations before. He wasn’t about to let some deranged man get into his mind.
“I’m warning you, come out, now.”
“Do you remember Gerard?” said the voice.
John went stiff. His shoulder blades pressed against the counter, and he could feel his own chest thumping, his chin jutting forward now, his eyes wide, unblinking.
“What did you say?”
“Gerard; he was your copilot, wasn’t he? Six of you in total, wasn’t it? Does it weigh on you? You call me a monster, Agent Renee. But you’ve killed more people than I have. And you enjoy it, too, don’t you? I can always tell. You dirty dog.” The voice was laughing now.
John roared, and surged to his feet now. He wasn’t sure how Maldonado knew the names of his deceased brother copilot. That information about the helicopter crash was classified.
With a bellow like a wounded grizzly, John surged toward the shut door, flung open the frame, and pointed his gun into the dark.
Nobody on the floor. None sidled against the shelves. He stared, breathing heavily for a moment.
He heard a soft, quiet giggle still emanating from within the room, but the closed, shadowed nature of the pantry made it difficult for him to place the source of the sound. The laughter grew louder, and John cursed, gun raised as he stepped into the pantry, his weapon pointing toward a particularly dark portion behind the stack of old cereal boxes.
And then John heard movement before he saw it. His eyes flicked up. Impossible. Too small. The person couldn’t have been much larger than a child to fit into the space on the top shelf to his left. Just over the door, out of sight. Two eyes stared back—one of them strange, reflecting light in an odd way as if dulled somehow. John didn’t have time to take much notice though. In his anger and fury, he’d missed it. The figure dropped fast, moving quick like a snake. John whirled around, squeezing off another shot, but the figure was already darting toward the pantry door, flinging himself through the gap.
With a bellow, John gave chase.
But the figure moved around the side of the pantry, into the distant hall.
John began to run after him, but then heard a particularly loud groan coming from the figure strapped to the kitchen table, still bleeding out, his features slicked with blood, pale. He froze, a prickle of horror spreading down him. He glanced to the table and realized his mistake.
Andrew Maldonado wasn’t the killer.
Andrew was bleeding out on the table. He recognized the bearded, pasty-faced man from his visit to the factory. Except his features were even more pale now, and blood stained the underside of his beard. In a weak, whimpering voice, Andrew tried to speak, but couldn’t seem to manage it. He started gurgling, his eyes fluttering up. His body was covered in cuts and wounds. Blood stained the table, the floor and even, somehow, the ceiling.
Andrew tried to speak again, straining as he did, the ropes around his wrists and ankles, anchoring him to the chairs wedged beneath the table. He only managed to eke out a single syllable. “…Help.”
John heard the flurry of footsteps as the unknown killer beat a retreat toward the door, fleeing the scene. For a moment, John was caught in an impossible choice.
Andrew was still alive, not dead yet. If John pursued the killer, then the factory worker would bleed out. John knew enough field medicine to know he needed direct pressure on Maldonado’s bigger cuts, immediately, followed by a series of desperate prayers the ambulance reached them in time. John snarled, hearing the front door slam open, hearing the sound of scampering feet.
He cursed desperately, and then made up his mind, grabbing dishcloths from the counter next to an old microwave and quickly clamping down on the visibly worst injuries.
“Hang on,” John muttered. “You’re going to be okay. Hang tight.”
Andrew gasped again at the pain of the bandages. John used a utility knife to cut the bonds around Andrew’s wrists. “Hold this in place if you want to live. This one too. As hard as you can. I know it hurts. Look at me, no look. I know it hurts. You’re going to die if you don’t. Hold them. Now!”
The booming commands of John’s voice seemed to jar some consciousness, if only a little, back into Andrew. The factory worker gasped, but with weak fingers did his best to press the cloths to the indicated positions. John kept one hand holding the makeshift bandage against the worst wound and with his other, he fished a phone from his pocket, quickly dialing 112.
“…Help. Please…”
Two words, better than one.
“Trying,” John retorted. Then the operator answered. “Hey,” John snapped. “Vitry-sur-Seine, house number thirty two, east. Man bleeding out. Agent John Renee, DGSI. Send EMTS now!” He then hung up in order to put more pressure on the factory worker’s wounds. John clenched his teeth and glanced again toward the now empty hall. He could practically feel the warm night air moving through the house. The killer was gone. Escaped. And John had let it happen. He’d have a hell of a time explaining that one to Adele.
“Who was that?” John demanded. “Hey, listen, tell me. Who the hell was that?”
Andrew’s eyes fluttered and he tried to stammer out a response, but couldn’t seem to manage.
For a moment, John felt a flash of sympathy. But while he wasn’t the bloodhound Adele was, he wasn’t stupid either. He could smell a pile of shit eventually. Andrew Maldonado was the seventh name on his list. Out of all the names he’d been given, how come Andrew had been targeted? By a copycat? By the murderer from ten years ago, the one they called the Spade Killer?
He’d been targeted specifically before John could interview him properly. Why?
Because she kicked over the hornet’s nest, his subconscious told him. Because Adele was onto something.
“Hey!” John snapped. “Tell me who that was, or I’m leaving you here to bleed out.” Of course, he knew he wouldn’t. But Andrew didn’t. John’s sympathy only went so far. He’d been through worse injuries than this. He’d been through worse pain. Agony wasn’t an excuse. “Tell me who that was!” John demanded.
Andrew stumbled over his words again. But this time, John caught a flicker in the man’s eye. Suggesting perhaps there was a spark beneath the facade. Perhaps he wasn’t as poorly off as he seemed.
“Don’t test me. I’ll let you bleed out. I’ve killed suspects before!” Of course, they’d been shooting at him at the time, but Andrew didn’t need to know that.