CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

 

 

Ilse blinked, the pain in her head immense. But the splitting headache was the least of her concerns. As her consciousness returned, she felt the bindings around her wrists chaffing against her skin. Her arms were pulled behind her back.

She felt the sticky stain of blood along her temple, down her forehead, holding her hair against her skin. She groaned, her eyes blinking, and she looked desperately around the room.

As she came to, and her vision returned, she bit her tongue again, tasting stale blood. The pain in her head and mouth faded to horror.

Two figures were tied onto chairs against the wall. All three of them were in a basement, or a cellar, by the looks of things, beneath the shed. Dusty tools and old pickling jars rested on cobweb covered shelves. A low, flickering glow filled the pace. A couple of old bags of flour sat on the lower shelves. One of the bags had ripped, leaving a dusty powder across portions of the ground.

Ilse twisted, to try and take in more of her surroundings, but as she did, she felt something tap her cheek. One of the twins, the curly-haired girl, let out a faint whimper. Her eyes bugged as she stared over Ilse's shoulder towards someone behind her.

The faint tap on her cheek moved to her ear, and Ilse felt her hair pushed back. “Now, now,” a voice whispered, “what did this to such a pretty ear? You didn't do it to yourself, did you?”

Ilse felt shivers of terror along her spine. The killer was standing out of sight, behind her, but so close she could feel the warm prickle of his breath against the nape of her neck, like the whisper of a lover.

But all she felt now was revulsion and terror.

She tested her mouth, the tangy taste of salt and copper swallowed down a dry throat. “You're making a mistake,” she said, her voice rasping.

“Hmm? No, no, that's you, lady. I've been a step ahead of you this entire time.” The killer stayed out of sight, still tracing something sharp against the side of her face. Judging by the look of horror in Penny's eyes, it wasn't anything nice. Clyde refused to look, staring at his legs. The boy's jeans were scuffed and torn as if he'd been dragged through dirt. He also had blood caking the side of his face. Penny looked similarly bruised and battered. But, at least, for the moment they were both still alive.

Ilse had to focus—she knew that much. They, all three, would be the next victims if she didn't find some way to stall. The terror was immense, the horror at what was about to come so crippling she could barely breathe. She'd seen the tortures he'd exacted on his other victims. She could only hope he'd kill the twins quicker if it came to that.

What she assumed was the tip of a knife circled her ear continually, and the voice whispered, “Who should I start with, Ilse Beck? Which of them?”

He knew her name. She frowned, but then realized he must have found her ID in her wallet.

This line of questioning would only lead to violence. So instead, Ilse muttered, “You're not as far ahead as you think. I found you, didn't I?”

He snorted now. Another puff of air against her neck. Ilse closed her own eyes against her pounding headache, trying to focus.

“You found nothing,” he snapped. “Luck—luck and nothing more. I led you here. I left the hair. I left the cloth fabric. It was me! You walked right into it.”

Ilse paused then shook her head. “You kidnapped adults. This isn't Hansel and Gretel. That's Clyde and Penny. You're a phony.”

She wasn't sure this tactic would work. Going on the aggressive would bring pain—she knew that. It came with a sudden slice across her cheek. She yelped, putting her breath into it to give the killer the satisfaction. He wanted to see pain, like any usual sadist, so she gave it to him, acting it up.

Her cheek stung.

But her words also yielded fruit.

“I'm not about to go after kids,” he sneered. Now, finally, he stepped into view, like a shadow falling across a visor. He stared down at her, gripping a wickedly curved knife, only slightly less curved than the smile now twisting his features. “You'd like that, wouldn't you? Sicko! I was a kid when I got messed up by ol' mommy. The witch. I leave kids out of it.” 

Ilse snorted. She knew if she spoke more, it would cause more pain. But this way he wasn't killing anyone. Especially not the twins. So she kept up the aggression, hoping he didn't start cutting rather than slicing. “You failed,” she said simply. “You don't know your own stories. Hansel and Gretel were kids. They left the breadcrumb trail. None of this makes sense. You're just insane. I've seen so many like you it's actually boring at—Agh!”

Her monologue cut off as she felt another sharp slice across her cheek. The knife twisted over her head, and he stood in front of her, panting and staring down at her menacingly. “I'll take your other ear, lady. Don't think I won't. I beat you. I won. You little witch!” he hissed. “I have something special for you. Not a knife. Not this time. You think I don't stick to the story? You'll wish I hadn't, witch lady!”

So that was it. He was bringing her in as another member of the cast in his mind. She wasn't Ilse Beck. She was a stand-in for the witch in the woods.

But how had the witch died...

Ilse paused, and then her eyes widened in horror, flicking to the candlelight sputtering on one of the dusty shelves. Fire. The witch had died of fire.

Shit. Ilse couldn't think of a less desirable way to perish than by flames. Fear came back, trying to burrow into her skull along with the pain. Exhausted, bloody, broken, tired, tied-up, she had every excuse to give in. Every excuse to try and survive, herself.

But Ilse saw that fruit of that choice. She knew the end of that story.

Right now, her life's prospects were grim. But the twins? If she could keep them alive longer, maybe there was a chance someone would find them. She'd tried to call Sawyer twice. The first call had almost connected. The second hadn't gone through at all. She wasn't sure how smartphones worked. Maybe there was a chance he'd see she'd tried to contact him.

Then again, all of this was wishful thinking. Hope buried in hope. But mostly just buried.

She could feel her anger now, too. Not just fear, but rage. She stared at the killer, indifferent to the knife in his hand. “Want to hear a sad truth?” she murmured, her voice hoarse.

He scowled.

She continued, “There are no happy endings. Not for you. Not for people like you. You took the easy road. The only ending you get is disaster. You're not the hero of the story. You're not a storyteller. You're a hack. A monster pretending to be more. You're a sidekick, a secondary character at best. A throwaway redshirt. You're a nothing. You just kill people. It's the easiest thing to do. It makes you nothing!”

He stared at her stunned as if she'd slapped him. After she'd finished, her head still pounding, Ilse felt her mouth go suddenly dry. She just stared at him and realized perhaps she'd pushed a bit too hard. Both the twins were looking at her now, panic in their eyes.

She refused to look away, though. Refused to apologize. She gritted her teeth, and through spittle and blood snapped, “You're just like your mother.”

This seemed to do it. He howled in rage, eyes blazing. He raised his knife. And so Ilse flung herself forward. Still bound, in the chair, she put her full weight behind the motion. Hitting the ground would hurt. But not before she sent him tumbling.

The killer yelped, reeling back. The twins screamed. Ilse's face hit the dirt painfully, her jaw catching the majority of the impact as her hands were still tied behind her back. The chair pressed uncomfortably against her spine.

A second later, though, as she desperately, breathing dust, tried to twist and see better, she heard a crash.

She tilted her head just enough to glimpse the metal shelf collapse suddenly. The two blazing candles sitting there fell to the wooden floor. The bag of flour, ripped as it was, had caked the lower shelf and part of the floor in a white dust. One of the candles extinguished. But the other, suddenly, hit the flour, which had been disturbed in a puff from the jostled shelves.

The dry, dusty flower suddenly erupted in a fire ball.

The killer howled, stumbling back, batting at his arms which were burning. Ilse desperately tried to rock her hips, to twist her chair over again.

The wooden floors were burning now, too. The dusty bloom of burning flour had quickly caught dried shavings of wood and splinters and old, worn portions of the floor. The flames were spreading. Ilse had hoped to knock the killer into the shelf. Had hoped, even, to knock the candles out.

She hadn't meant to set them all on fire.

Her eyes were so wide they hurt. The killer had doused his sleeve now, smoke rising around him, and he yelped, quickly stepping away from a burning portion of floor.

Just then, above, Ilse heard the sound of rapid footsteps. And a loud voice. “Beck! Doc, you here? Hey! Hey you, down there! Stop!”

Sawyer's voice. Ilse's eyes widened. She screamed, “Here! Tom—it's on fire! He's got a knife!”

The killer howled, lunging towards her. She heard a gunshot above. And the killer jolted, cursing and stumbling back. He clutched at his arm but retreated out of the sight of the trapdoor in the ceiling. Smoke was rising up now. Flames spread. The twins were mewling desperately, bucking their hips trying to escape the spreading blaze.

The killer clutched a bleeding, gunshot arm, desperate. He stared in horror at the spreading flames. He looked up again towards the trapdoor in the ceiling, a flap of wood dangling within. A figure was moving about above, shouting something into the cellar.

The fire was rising. The shelf with the dusting of flour also erupted into flames. Flames licked at the ceiling now. Covered half the room. Penny's chair was burning. Her fingers were slick and red and she was screaming. “Help! Help! My hand!”

Her brother, spotting this, cursed, ducked his head and slammed his chair into his sister's, sending her toppling away from the flames. But the same motion, brought the large, broad-shouldered youth, crashing to the ground as well, just like Ilse.

The two of them had their faces pressed to the wood, which was quickly going up in smoke. Ash lingered on the air, smoke billowing through the room. Ilse wanted to scream, but now choked on the acrid plumes.

The killer, bleeding, knife in hand, had taken cover against a wall so Sawyer couldn't get an angle on him. And now, in the dark, in the smoke, Ilse lost track of his figure.

“Tom!” she screamed. “To—” but she started hacking and coughing, wheezing. Her face was now warm. Too warm. Sweat didn't come as it dried too quickly. Flames chewed hungrily through the dry floor.

Her face ached. Her shoulder throbbed as she remembered her last experience with fire. That time, a killer had set gasoline off in an apartment. She'd barely escaped then.

But at the time, her hands hadn't been tied.

She spotted a figure suddenly move like a bat through the night, lunging through the smoke towards her. She heard another gunshot. This time, it seemed to miss, but the figure, at the sound of the shot, cursed and lurched back, stumbling. Something fell from his fingers, flashing silver, and hitting the floor.

The knife.

The footsteps above moved now. The killer was cursing, doubled over, searching desperately for his knife. The flames heated Ilse's cheeks, but with a loud groan of effort, she flung herself back. The chair thumped. She kicked and flung again. Another thump. Like a landed trout flopping on land, she desperately tried to reach the knife.

In the smoke, the confusion, the killer couldn't locate the item.

Ilse's fingers scrambled for the blade, desperately. She had to get free.

“Give me that!” a voice suddenly screamed in her ear. Something slammed against her wrist, trying to break it. She fought, unable to scream from the smoke.

But then, another figure suddenly fell from the ceiling, slamming directly into the killer.

Agent Tom Sawyer had flung himself into a burning room. He landed on the killer, knocking him away from Ilse. The momentum from the fall brought both men to the ground. Sawyer hit the floor with a painful grunt, landing on a patch of fire, but still rolling to try and douse his clothing. The killer crashed back into the metal shelves again, screaming bloody murder.

The twins were still in harm's way. “Sawyer! The kids!” Ilse screamed.

Tom, smoking, singed, got to his feet, whirling about. A cloud of smoke engulfed him. But before he could move, the killer tackled him around the waist, bringing the two of them crashing to the floor. Now, both men were singed. Sawyer's sleeve was on fire. The killer's pant leg was similarly catching blaze.

The twins were screaming for help, desperately trying to free their bonds. Ilse cursed, scrambling desperately with bound hands towards the weapon behind her. Her fingertips grazed the hilt of the blade, scrabbling over the surface. She tried to kick free but failed. She gouged her fingers against the sharp knife and winced but kept at it.

Finally, she maneuvered her hands so that the blade slipped between the palms of her fingers, behind her back. She began worrying at the rope, seething as she moved her hands up and down, desperately.

Sawyer grunted as he caught a blow to the stomach. His arm was still blazing. He shouted in pain but returned a punch of his own, sending smoke swirling and catching the killer in the jaw. The man's head snapped back, and he stumbled away.

Penny was screaming. Ilse worked at the ropes. The fire had spread from the far wall, and now was eating at Penny's chair legs.

Sawyer had the killer's hand gripped in his, holding him and trying to dislodge fingers around his throat. But he heard Penny's cry and turned. With a grunt, he kicked, sending her chair backwards, away from the spreading flames. The killer used the distraction to send a blow into Sawyer's midriff doubling him over. The sandy-haired man let out a long whoosh of air. His baseball hat went flying.

Ilse's hands ripped free. She scrambled to her feet. “Sawyer, run!” she yelled.

She reached the twins' side in rapid pace, dropping by them and working desperately at the ropes. She freed Penny first, who lunged from the chair and sprinted towards concrete steps in the back of the room. She cut the bonds free on Clyde next. The large teen struggled to his feet, limping, burned, smoldering but he also had enough strength to hasten towards the steps.

That's when the ceiling caved in. A burning beam slammed into the ground, cutting off Ilse's view of Sawyer. The fire spread, engulfing the room. She heard screaming, painful shouts.

“Sawyer!” she yelled. She felt hands tugging at her from behind, but she tried to rip free. The hand gripped her though, dragging.

“Come on ma'am,” Clyde's voice shouted in her ear. “Come on!”

She tried to fight but he dragged her back, pulling her to safety. Ilse stared in horror at the burning space.

“Tom!” she screamed. “Tom, get out of there!”

She could no longer see movement. Her eyes stung. Her nostrils ached from the sheer odor of ash. Her cheek was grimy and in pain. Her shoulders were singed. Her sweater still smoking. The moment she hit the concrete stairs, dragged back and up them, she began choking and coughing, gasping at the ground.

A strong handed guided her up, up. Another hand held her on the other side, supporting her. “We've got you, ma'am,” Penny's voice trembled in Ilse's ear. “Thank you. Thank you.”

But Ilse tried with all her might to shove away. Her lips were too dry, too parched, her throat too sore to speak loudly. She tried to protest, to move back down the stairs, but the twins kept shepherding up and away, moving back towards the upper room.

They emerged in the small shed through a sliding panel in one of the walls. A mannequin was knocked to the floor, the head tumbling. Ilse stared in horror at flames eating through the cabin floor as well. The whole thing was going to collapse.

The three of them finally managed to stumble out the door, tripping down wooden steps and collapsing in a three-person heap on the pine-needle strewn ground. Ilse couldn't scream, couldn't speak. Couldn't do much of anything.

Behind her, she spotted flashing lights moving through the trees. She heard the chatter of voices over the radios. The backup was on its way.

But too late. Far too late.

She stared numbly at the burning cabin, willing herself to rise. She had to go back in and help him. Her legs were weak though. Her head was still pounding horribly. Her heart pattered so rapidly she felt fit to explode.

“Dear God, Tom!” she rasped.

The twins were laying on the ground next to her, both of them sobbing. Ilse heard a voice from the forest suddenly shout. “There! They're up there! Shit—someone call paramedics!”

She heard rapidly pounding footsteps. A figure hastened towards their forms.

Ilse shoved with one hand, but her elbow wouldn't bend. She tried to push up with her other, and this time made it to her knees, but her head pounded, and she lost her balance, collapsing back onto the pine needles.

She felt strong arms at her side now, holding her. “Agent Beck,” someone was saying in her ear. “Stay still. Don't move. You're injured.”

But Ilse just tried to rise again, rocking on her hips, pushing up. This time she even made it to her feet. She took a wobbly step towards the burning door of the cabin, then collapsed again.

Her head was just spinning too much. Ilse stared towards the doorway, breathing desperately, heart in her throat. Then, she began to drag herself across the detritus-strewn floor. Pulling her body forward once, twice. She heard more radio squawking, more protests from the paramedic next to her.

And then, she went still.

A figure, a shadow was moving inside the smoke, stumbling from the blaze. The figure's shirt was burnt. His left leg was on fire.

The man emerged, blinking wildly, steaming and smoking from every inch. He coughed, gagging and spitting as he stumbled down the steps and hit the ground. For a moment, Ilse didn't recognize him. But then, through a charred, ash-streaked face, two green eyes blinked. A baseball cap, also singed, was gripped tightly in one hand where it had been retrieved from the fire.

She stared. “Tom?” she rasped breathlessly.

The man flashed a thumbs up and then collapsed, gasping at the sky, heaving a long breath that puffed a geyser of smoke towards the stars.

Only then, seeing Sawyer lying there, motionless, did Ilse finally allow her own eyes to close.

“Paramedics!” someone was still screaming. “More—yes, there. All four. Yes, found them. Sir—yes, sir? No. Everyone. They're here. All of them—yes, I'm sure.”

The radio chatter, the shouts and calls, faded slowly in Ilse's mind. She blinked a couple of times but could no longer see. Even the pain in her head, along her arm and shoulders and cheek started to fade.

She smiled as she listened to the twins both trying to speak.

They lived. They'd survived.

Thank God.