Black Death (A Sam Rader Thriller Book 4) Page 2

  “Look, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but I’m a cop. I protect people,” he whispered, now sounding more fearful as he realized the woman’s purpose.

  “Protect? You think you protect people?” He felt as the tip began to run along the length of his leg, over his knee and up towards his groin. The pain, although bearable, increased ten-fold from threat alone.

  Just as he thought she would run the blade across his balls, she stopped and held the knife in place, the tip a mere inch from his prized possession.

  “The only thing you know how to do, you piece of shit, is hurt people. How many women have you beaten in your time? And how many have died because of what you inflicted on them?” He looked up at her with a shocked expression, although the fear itself remained clearly evident.

  “I never killed anyone.”

  “Maybe not directly, but the girls you raped, manipulated and turned away when they came to you for help? Their blood is on your hands.”

  “Raped?”

  Before he had a chance to blink, the woman shot the knife from where it was resting beside his scrotum, to the point just beneath the head of his penis. He felt the blade move the smallest bit, followed by a warm trickle of blood as it ran down between his butt cheeks.

  “OH GOD NO, NO, NO,” he began. The woman’s expression never changed, her eyes locked on to his. “Please, I swear. I swear to you, I’ll never hurt anyone again.” She pushed the blade down with the barest pressure and Dwight’s face exploded in panic. “NO, PLEASE, I SWEAR IT.”

  “I know you won’t, Dwight. Do you know how I know?”

  Before he had a chance to answer, the woman lifted the blade, moved the tip across to the middle of his chest and slowly pushed down. His eye’s widened for the briefest moment, a split second of disbelief and terror as he felt the steel force its way into his body. The woman reached across with her other hand, pushed harder and forced the entire length of metal into the dying man’s chest.

  Urine began to flow almost the same moment the blood trickled down the side of his body. His eyes were still staring at her, but the glazed expression told her that Dwight Brooks was gone. He’d paid his dues and left his mortal body behind.

  Once she was sure he was dead, the woman briefly went to the bathroom and returned a moment later with a backpack. She placed the bag on the bed, opened it and reached inside. After removing a long rectangular box, the woman opened it and lifted a rose from it, the petals of the flower as black as the depth of night. This, she placed across the chest of the dead man and in his hand, a card, one she had printed herself long ago.

  She scanned the words a final time before closing the bag once more. They were the words she knew were needed to remind those who chose to do wrong. That there would always be a price to pay, a price that she would make sure was paid in full.

  “A Pound of Flesh.

  Black Death”

  3

  “Stephanie lives inside you just as much as Lightman,” Jim Lawson said, the pipe held tight between his teeth as he spoke. Despite Sam knowing this to be a dream, the words rang as true as the day he had really spoken them to her.

  “I understand,” she replied, gazing across the paddock towards the hint of ocean that peeked out between the trees in the distance. During her brief stay at his home, it was Jim’s front porch that had been one of her favorite places, a place the pair now sat, watching the day go by.

  There was a can of beer wedged between Jim’s legs, the man swaying back and forth ever so sightly in his rocking chair as he spoke.

  “If nothing else, remember that the monster inside you is as real as he once was. He can still kill. All it will take is for you to drop your guard at the wrong time.” Sam nodded, gripped her own can of beer and took a sip. Despite being a dream, she marveled at how real the beer tasted, the cool liquid leaving the bitter after-taste.

  “I read the book,” she offered. Jim paused and looked at her.

  “And? Any surprises?”

  “Plenty. I especially love the kid who’s ear he chewed off.” Jim nodded.

  “Ah, yes. Reedy Thompson. The kid that may have single-handedly triggered one of the worst serial killers in living memory. He certainly paid for his mistake.”

  “Indeed he did.”

  The sky began to slowly turn the color of fire, with long streaks of clouds highlighting the blazing embers, as Sam drank again.

  “Whilst you may have Lightman inside your mind, that book is how you get into his. You will need all the help you can get when the time comes to finally confront him.”

  “Will it come to that?”Sam asked, but she already knew the answer to that. Oc course it would. “It feels like some sort of Freddy Krueger movie.”

  “Freddy who?” Jim asked. Sam smiled apologetically.

  “Sorry. Just a horror movie character.”

  “I never watched horror movies.” He sipped. “Didn’t need to. Too many in my life already.” Sam giggled a little at that.

  “Do you think it will ever end?” The question surprised Jim, as if catching him off guard.

  “Which bit?” he finally asked in reply.

  “The killing. All of it.”

  He considered the question for a long time, but seemed to know the answer the entire time, as if not wanting to share it. When he finally did, it sent a surprising shudder down Sam’s spine.

  “Not as long as there are people around,” he said before taking a long drink from his can.

  “I was afraid you’d say that,” Sam answered, almost whispering.

  She didn’t feel like the beer anymore, now wishing she could wake up and escape the dream. But it was Jim himself that made her stay, the old man sitting a few feet away and staring at a view he’d been using for his own tranquility for decades.

  “There’s a new one you’re chasing, isn’t there?” Sam nodded, thinking of Black Death.

  “There is. And it’s a woman, isn’t it? At least, that’s what everyone’s saying.”

  “It is a woman. Rare, you know, although not as rare as you might think. There have been plenty of female serial killers. If you get right down to it, you yourself could have been one.” Sam shuddered, knowing the truth behind the old man’s words. She didn’t need to answer, Jim continuing on as if caught on a track. “This one is different, though. I have seen a lot of killers in my time and this one is different.”

  “How so?” Sam asked.

  “This one isn’t doing it for fun, or hate, or any of the normal reasons people tend to snap. This one is on a mission, a real mission.”

  “Like a mission from God?” Jim eyed her for a moment.

  “No, not from God. Son of Sam thought he was on a mission from Satan. I guess you know the name?” Sam nodded.

  “ David Berkowitz, yes.”

  “Sometimes, people will claim a lot of things to pin their excuses on, even being on a mission from Satan himself. But this girl is on a real mission, one that goes a lot deeper. If you want my advice, young lady, don’t spend all of your time investigating the killer. Also spend some time looking at the victims.”

  “You really think she has a greater cause?”

  “Hmm, maybe not a greater cause, but something is definitely driving her.”

  There was a sudden crash from somewhere behind the house, but Jim didn’t move, simply waving it away as Sam looked towards the noise.

  “Someone wanting to shoot clay pigeons again.” He suddenly turned to face Sam, his face losing its usual friendly appeal.

  “Listen, there’s something important I need to share with you.” He stood, Sam sure he would fall as she heard his joints crack like an old tree branch. “Follow me, this is important.”

  He led her back into the house and towards the sitting room where he had given her the diary and other things. She paused as he reached the desk, pulled out one of the drawers and then removed it completely.

  “I need you to come and find this.” He removed what appeared to b
e a manilla folder, loose pages sticking out from each side.

  “What’s in it?”

  “You’ll see when you open it. Whatever happens, keep this safe. There’s a lot riding on it.”

  “OK, I promise,” Sam said, watched Jim nod and return the drawer back to its previous spot.

  Once he was finished, he slowly shuffled back through the door and returned to the rocker, the sky almost completely dark. Sam joined him, picked up her beer and took another sip. She looked back across at Jim as he drank, the years now clearly visible on his face as the light faded from the world.

  He turned to her a final time, offered her a warm smile and slowly nodded his head. Sam waited for him to say the words she would come to remember him by, the final ones he would ever speak to her.

  “The world will never be dark, as long as there are those prepared to fight for the light.”

  Sam slowly opened her eyes and for the briefest moment, forgot where she was. It took her a minute for reality to come clear again, the fog of sleep keeping her temporarily under the veil.

  The hum of the aircraft surrounded her and as she looked across the aisle, saw Tim fast asleep, the laptop precariously balanced on his chest. They were still airborne, heading to Chicago to begin the hunt for the killer dubbed Black Death. Sam mouthed the name to herself, as if needing convincing of the fact.

  “What time is it?” Tim whispered.

  “A little after three,” Sam replied, looking past her partner and out through the window, the darkness hiding any evidence of the world beyond.

  “Damn, I’m stuffed.” He stood, stretched and as Sam heard his spine creak in rapid succession, thought back to the dream she just had and the words Jim had said to her.

  “Can I grab the laptop?” she asked and Tim handed it to her before heading off to take care of bathroom business.

  Sam popped the lid, hit the power button and waited for the screen to come to life. Once the computer had fully awakened, Sam began searching through the archives of the Black Death files, opening each of the victim’s folders and scattering them across the laptop’s screen.

  First, there was Trent Houghton, a supermarket manager who was found murdered in one of the upstair’s rooms at Basil’s, a less than attractive strip bar/brothel. He had been tied to a bed, stabbed to death with a single wound to the chest and then left with a black rose and a calling card. Sam read the words on the card, wondering if there was something poetic about the short message.

  “Watcha doing?” Tim asked as he dropped back into his seat.

  “Checking the victims for any similarities. Hey, do you know what pound of flesh references?”

  “Pound of flesh? That’s Shakespeare. You craving literature?”

  “Shakespeare? It’s what was quoted on the calling card the killer left at each of the bodies.”

  She turned the laptop to face Tim and watched as he leaned in to check out the photo.

  “Printed cards, wow. This killer really takes her job serious.” As she spun the screen towards herself, Sam opened the next folder, this one belonging to the crime scene of Brock Lewiston. He was an off-duty cab driver, single and no children. His body was found at Roxy’s, a kind of hotel-cross-halfway house that rented rooms out by the hour. The layout of the rooms were similar and the items left by the killer identical.

  The third victim was the defense attorney, Mitchell McDutton, his body found in the appropriately named The Studded Crevice.

  “Ugh,” Sam whispered to herself. “Who comes up with these names?”

  “Huh?” Tim called out.

  “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

  “Just don’t answer yourself,” Tim quipped, before returning to his cellphone.

  The fourth victim, Neil Porter, had been discovered in his own car, tied down to the passenger seat, then stabbed a single time. The blade’s handle protruded straight out and was what caught the attention of a passer-by.

  They all had the calling card left in their hands, as well as a black rose left balanced on the knife handle. All had been stabbed a single time by a knife left embedded in their chests.

  Sam opened up a blank page in her writing pad and began to make random notes, trying to find anything that could link the victims to each other. Whether they were married, had children, divorced, hobbies, played sports; anything that could give her a direction in which to start with.

  But after another hour of sorting through statements and other bits of information Mumma had collated, there was virtually nothing she could add. It was as if the victims had been selected as randomly as lottery numbers.

  “It can’t be like that,” she whispered to herself.

  “You know, repeatedly whispering to yourself is the first sign of old age. You know that, right?”

  Sam looked across the aisle and saw Tim staring at her, his cell resting in his lap. He wore a grin, although his eyes still appeared tired.

  “None of it makes sense. On the one hand, this has all the hallmarks of every victim being pre-planned. The flowers, the calling cards, the knife. But then on the other hand, there’s nothing linking any of them, making it-“

  “As if they were randomly selected,” Tim finished.

  “Yes.”

  “While I understand what you’re saying, there’s one thing that tips the scales in the direction of where we should be looking.” Sam looked at him curiously.

  “What?”

  “The way a random works, is much more disorganized. The killers usually choose someone and then incorporate them into a game, like killing the same way and leaving clues for the cops to find so they know they came from the same killer.”

  “Isn’t that what we have here?” Sam asked.

  “Yes. And no.”

  “What do you mean no?”

  “I think this killer isn’t doing this for the police, or attention for that matter. I think the killer is doing this to get back at the victims themselves.”

  He turned the cell to face him, typed a coupled of things into it, then began to read out loud.

  “Pound of flesh: the act of exacting payment or penalty to fulfill a deal or punishment.”

  Sam pondered the words for a moment, giving them time to sink in before trying to answer.

  “We have the calling card itself. That’s the difference, isn’t it?” Tim nodded.

  “Bingo.”

  Their plane landed at O’Hare’s a little after eight that morning and both Tim and Sam bounded from the plane. Each had managed to get a little extra sleep after their brief mid-air exchange and had been woken an hour out from landing for a breakfast neither could resist.

  A car was already waiting for them by the hangar and within a few short minutes of landing, headed out into the morning’s rush hour and closer to their new case. Sam sent Mumma a fresh text once Tim had taken the wheel and the woman had replied almost instantly with the location of their accommodation whilst in town.

  “So, Mr Detective, where to first?” Sam asked as she pocketed her cell.

  “Same as always, Ma’am. Site of the first murder.”

  “That would be-“ Sam began, but her cell started to ring and when she pulled it back out, held the screen up for Tim to see. It was Mumma and if she was calling this soon after the previous message, it could only mean one thing: a fresh development.

  “Hey, Mumma,” Sam said, answering the call.

  “There’s been another one, child. I’ll send you the details now. Police are still at the scene, but they may be a bit stand-offish with this one. Make sure you flash the ID I slipped into your packs.”

  “Stand-offish?” Tim asked.

  “The victim is Chicago PD.”

  The Treetop Hotel was a rundown building with barely a patch of paint to call fresh. From the outside, it appeared as if it could have been completely abandoned, with several broken windows scattered amongst the few facing the road. On the inside, Sam and Tim found the first thing to hit them being the smell, one that re
minded them of a certain jail they had both only recently experienced.

  They headed for the desk, asked on which floor the cops were situated, then climbed up the narrow staircase in single file, listening to the sounds of a building where most rooms were occupied by those paying by the hour.

  Once they reached the fourth floor, they scanned both ways, then headed to where they could see the back of one officer, leaning against the open doorway. As said cop heard their approach, he turned and stared at them steely eyed.

  “What do you two want?” His voice sounded as gravelly as his demeanor, but neither Sam, nor Tim, let it affect them. Sam held up her ID and the cop simply nodded, stepped aside and waved them through.

  She made a mental note to ask Tim how Mumma had managed to get them government identification, but then lost the thought as she stepped into the room and saw the body still cuffed to the bed.

  “Who are you two?” another officer asked and before either could answer, the first cop answered for them.

  “Washington? You people don’t waste time,” cop number two said.

  “Not like he’s the first,” Tim offered, then leaned down and checked the body for signs of injuries. Of course there were none, except for the faint nick on his penis and the obvious murder weapon sticking from his chest.

  “Got that right. Whoever did this is doing one hell of a job. Quick, clean and no clues except those she wants us to find.”

  “So you agree it’s definitely a woman?” Tim asked.

  “First couple I wasn’t so sure, but the last two made me question it. With the Captain here? I know for sure. He wasn’t into any fag shit. He loved the women and there’s no way he’d get his gear off for anything but pussy.” He noted Sam, swallowed and added, “sorry.”

  “It’s all good, Detective. Not my first crime scene,” Sam offered as she made her way around the side of the bed.

  “Listen, I’ve got the meat wagon waiting downstairs. I was about to finish up and get them in here. Was there anything else you needed?”

  Tim looked at Sam and she shook her head in reply. Tim conveyed his own head shake and the cop threw his things into a bag, zipped it up and called out to the cop by the door.