He stepped inside, feeling like he’d cracked open a museum vault. When he shone his mini-flashlight on the possessions inside, he realized it was basically as he thought. This was the room where the old man’s relics came to die. It had all the makings of a typical basement: old furniture, rusty power tools, bags of cement gone hard. But between these distinct pieces were sacks of what the old man would have once called collectibles. They spilled out onto the floor in graceless heaps, and he couldn’t help but bend down and inspect them. Some of them looked familiar, maybe ones he’d seen in his own collection, but he left them be. He had no care for them. There were more pressing matters to attend to.
The wooden staircase was his next point of call. Just by the sight alone he could tell they were prone to creakiness, so he stepped lightly and kept himself away from their center. At the top, he unbolted the door and found himself in a dark hallway. He hadn’t seen this place in a long time, but the layout was exactly the same as he remembered. His flashlight exposed the same clock, the same wallpaper and the same gothic mirror as back in the day. It looked like old man Barry’s tastes hadn’t changed after all these decades.
The carpeted floor muted his journey from the hallway to the lounge, and there he saw the object of his desire, lying inertly on the couch with a remote control in his hand. What a sad sight. This is how he’d die, in front of an old black and white film that he’d probably seen a thousand times already. Even sadder was that this man probably wouldn’t be missed by anyone. A cheap funeral and a small gravestone, and in the next few years, someone would say his name for the last time.
Just in time for his final breath, the end credits of the film began to roll. Old Barry lay with his mouth half-open and one arm hanging off the side of the couch. The man gripped his blade again and prepared himself. This part wasn’t easy. It needed to be precise to create minimal mess. If he was off by an inch, things could go very differently than he planned, and the old man wasn’t exactly in an optimal position. The couch was right up against the wall too, so he couldn’t maneuver behind to get the finest angle.
He lowered his glimmering blade down to the man’s fat neck, expanding and retracting in time to the symphonic music on the film score. He wanted to hear his voice again, maybe look him in the eye before he ended his life. But doing so was a risk that wasn’t worth taking. Dead was more than enough.
But then, his hand suddenly spasmed, pushing the blade against the man’s flesh but not with enough force to do anything. The room flashed new colors, and a resounding voice bellowed from behind him.
The film had ended and moved onto commercials, causing a sudden change in volume dynamic. Panic tempered his calm detachment until his whole core shook with dread. It all happened in a split second, and when he looked back at his would-be victim, his eyes were now wide open.
“Argh!” the old man screamed in his face, kicking his arms and legs out in a series of clumsy but effective movements. He jerked up to a sitting position and hammered on his assailant’s skull with wild fists. The man cowered backward, collapsing against the wall and thrashing his blade around with reckless abandon. He felt it connect with flesh, but in the sudden change of dynamic, couldn’t tell exactly where.
The old man toppled backward, hitting the couch arm and briefly losing his balance. The attacker flung towards him blade-first, sinking his weapon deep into the old man’s stomach. Jets of liquid gushed from the wound, dousing them both and the yellow carpet below in warm blood. Penetrating the fleshy tissue of the stomach was a new sensation to him, much softer, like chopping up raw pig’s belly. Retracting the knife brought fresh streams of blood out into the open, and the old man clutched his wound with both hands as he succumbed to the scathing pain.
His target lay on the couch again, kicking his legs in a vain attempt of protection. By now, the man’s DNA must be all over this house. The revelation brought an airtight grip around the handle of his knife, which he pushed with full force into the man’s throat. He felt stale breath against his face, but he didn’t let go until the old man became completely motionless.
What a mess, he thought. This frail old soul had caused him more difficulty than the others combined. Had he been sloppy? Did he make mistakes? The end goal had been achieved but not the way he wanted, and that awareness induced a bout of anger that burned his temples.
He growled in rage, then release the fury in the form of a gutting stab wound to the man’s heart. “Goddammit,” he screamed. “You deserve this. For everything you ever did. I always hated you. I wanted you dead years ago.”
He yanked out the blade like he was pulling Excalibur from the stone. He took a step back and analyzed his handiwork, not happy with any of it. He reached into his bloody jacket, grabbed what was supposed to be the jewels in the crown and held them before the old man’s eyes. At least they were a perfect fit. He pushed them in until he felt the eyeballs squelch, then repositioned his eyelids to keep them in place.
Seconds later, he was back out in the night.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ella lay down and in her mind’s eye, saw a carousel of men’s faces go round and round. First there was Jimmy Loveridge and Alan Yates, then Mark joined the ride, then Byford and Daniel Garcia. The last one, the one that seemed to switch positions each rotation, was Tobias Campbell.
She sat up and looked at the note on her nightstand, filled with some irrational fear that the note might have some ominous secrets it hadn’t yet revealed. The clock told her it was six am and she’d been sitting here for hours now. That meant someone had come to her room in the middle of the night to deliver this to her.
Would there be CCTV? Could she ask the desk clerk if he saw anyone? Or would that just make the whole thing more real? Right now, this could be a hoax, or maybe Mark toying with her? The stress combined into a wave of burning dread that clogged her head with unneeded worries. For the past two weeks, she’d done everything she could to forget about Campbell. Since he’d sent the letter to Mia explaining their deceit, she prayed that her ordeal with him had come to an end. Maybe doing that was enough to quench his thirst for manipulation. She couldn’t remember the handwriting from the other letter so she couldn’t compare it, but she had a sinking feeling in her gut that he was behind this.
She looked at the facts. Tobias Campbell was in an underground prison cell, and he would never see the light of day again. He’d been awarded five life sentences, so the chances of parole were practically zero. Not to mention the fact that the courts would never release such a notorious serial killer back out into the wild. The backlash they’d get would be too severe to be worth it.
But Campbell had followers, disciples. A spider at the center of a web was how Mia described him, so he could no doubt get to her if he so desired. She’d already discovered that firsthand when he’d left a dead animal on her doorstep last month.
But why her? What did he want with her? There were billions of people he could toy with, much easier targets than her too. Was this all because she invited him into her life? Because she wanted to learn from him, so this was his twisted way of making it happen?
Ella got off the bed and went over to the nightstand table. She caught her reflection and hated the sight staring back at her: bags beneath her eyes, blotchy skin, even a stray gray hair nestled among the black. It wasn’t the look of an average 29-year-old woman; it was the look of a woman in the middle of a crisis.