Sawyer hopped the curb, the dark-tinted sedan screeching in front of Trinity Episcopal Church.
“Lights on,” he growled beneath his breath, throwing the car into park and surging out of the door. Ilse was also moving, slipping out of the front passenger seat onto the sidewalk beneath the dark skies.
Sawyer hesitated, frowning at her.
She raised her eyebrows. “This again?” she said.
He scowled, but then reached to his hip, pulling out his taser and jutting it into Ilse's hands. “No time. Point,” he said, “Squeeze,” he added, pointing at the trigger. “Got it?”
She nodded, “Got it.” At least he hadn't demanded she wait in the car. She wasn't a child. And she wasn't about to let Sawyer go in without help.
He was already taking long, loping steps towards the front of the church with Ilse tucked close behind. “Stay behind me,” he murmured, “Backup is on the way. If we can talk, we talk.”
“What if we can't talk?”
He paused, shrugged, “We shoot.”
She winced, glancing towards the stun gun clutched in her now trembling hands. Sawyer took the stone slab steps to the front door, pushing on the pressure-release bar. The door opened, swinging in without so much as a squeak. Ilse followed closely behind, the tattoo around her wrist visible against her pale skin in the light of the church entryway.
Take captive every thought... Also from the Bible. Her name, Ilse, a name she'd taken, meant pledged to God.
But it had been a while since she'd stepped foot in a church. The buildings seemed so large, the traditions so deeply felt. And yet, surrounded by a sea of people, she wasn't sure why, but she often thought of places like this as some of the loneliest.
Now, as she followed Sawyer into the large, expansive church building, her eyes flicked along the pews. No stained-glass windows here, or ornate chandeliers. The main room had a small wooden stage with an electronic keyboard and a drum shield.
No sound, though. No sound except for her heavy breathing and the soft patter of Sawyer's footsteps as he moved deeper in.
Then, at once, a faint mewling groan arose from the direction of the stage.
Sawyer's eyes narrowed; he didn't look back, his face turned towards the keyboard. He gestured at Ilse, though, pointing for her to stay behind him.
She obliged, keeping low, also moving through the pews in the direction of the stage and the keyboard. Another groan, louder, and then the quiet hum of whistling. Ilse frowned, and Sawyer's gun was now in his hands, pointing towards the stage.
The whistling grew louder, accompanied by heavy breathing, suggesting someone was now exerting themselves.
The groaning reached a crescendo, a bone-deep moan now emanated in the church. With a jolt of horror, Ilse realized what was happening.
“He's doing it now! Sawyer! He's doing it right now!” she whispered.
But her voice carried in the acoustics of the room. The whistling stopped. The groaning continued, but then, a soft, faint hissing sound accompanied the words, “Inside voices...”
Sawyer cleared his throat, gun in hand, then shouted, “Hey, you behind the piano, come out with your hands up. FBI!”
The groaning stopped as well, or, at least, became more muffled. Ilse's heart pounded rapidly, she stared towards the keyboard, trying to glimpse something, anything, out of sight behind the instrument.
Another, longer moment passed, then, a stuttering, hesitant voice called out, “S-stop. N-no, d-don't c-c-come closer!”
Sawyer shot Ilse a look, gesturing for her to stop moving. He held out the flat of his hand until she complied, and then he began to slink around the edge of the room, moving up a small ramp that approached the stage from the side. “FBI,” he called out, carefully. “Father Edward, are you back there?”
“H-he's fine!” the stuttering voice called. “G-go away! GO AWAY!” The voice bloomed into a shout of rage.
“Duncan?” Ilse called now, her voice sounding strange even in her own ears, echoing in the acoustics of the large room. The stun gun felt unfamiliar in her grip, and she slowly lowered it, pointing it at the ground. “Duncan Robinson, is that you?”
Finally, at the name, a head appeared over the edge of the keyboard. The face was slicked with sweat, and sprays of blood speckled his cheeks. He had thick, bottle-cap glasses and a weak chin. Ilse took a step forward to the other side of the room, away from where Sawyer was now creeping, trying to redirect Duncan's attention.
As she sidestepped, her eyes landed on the figure groaning on the ground, trapped beneath Duncan's knee.
Her heart jolted and her eyes widened as she stared at the hapless figure of a man in a sweater with a big cross on the front. One of his arms was trapped by Duncan's own hand. Blood was pooling down from the old man's wrist. A hacksaw leaned against the piano, discarded for the moment as Duncan tried to track the voices.
Now that she had a better angle, she glimpsed the way the white-haired, wounded fellow was still breathing, occasionally emitting a groan of pain. His wrist was bloodied, deeply cut, still pulsing hot crimson onto the stage where it soaked into the carpet.
Her heart leapt to her throat, and for a moment, Ilse wanted to scream. He was losing so much blood.
But the man in glasses still crouched over the fallen form of the priest. He was watching Ilse through narrowed eyes behind his coke-bottle glasses. “D—don't!” he yelled, pointing at her, with a red-stained finger. “Stay back!”
“I'm sorry, Duncan,” Ilse replied, quietly. “I just want to talk. Can we do that?”
He straightened a bit more, his head past the piano fully now. Crouched, it had been difficult to tell, but now, as he emerged, she realized just how large he was. Duncan didn't have the build of a weightlifter, but more of a lumberjack. Thick shoulders, thick arms, all of his muscles coming from work and labor rather than gyms or barbells.
He wore suspenders, and a greasy, stained flannel shirt with red flecks speckling the cross-hatched pattern.
Sawyer had reached the stage now, from the other side, his gun pointed towards Duncan's back.
Ilse tried to force a disarming smile, her hands still at her side. “Could you come out from behind there, Duncan,” she said, carefully, trying not to think of how much blood Father Edward had already lost. “I just want to chat. That's all, just a little discussion.”
Duncan hesitated, but to her surprise, he got slowly to his feet. Then, in a flash, he took four sideways skipping steps down from the stage and into the pews between Ilse and Sawyer.
The FBI agent cursed, and a second later, Ilse realized why.
The killer had placed himself directly between her and Sawyer. Now, if he tried to shoot, he'd risk hitting her.
Ilse looked past the hunter's form, her eyes wide as they peered at Sawyer in the dark. The FBI agent's gun angled to the side now.
Louder, now, with a note of urgency, she said, “He's going to bleed out. We need to get him help.”
But the moment she raised her voice, Duncan wrinkled his nose. His thick fingers flexed at his sides, like tree roots ready to gouge into the earth. He heaved a large breath, his wide chest rising and falling. “Inside voices,” he murmured. And then, he spun around, whipping something hard at Sawyer's head.
The FBI agent ducked, and a small, metal collection plate, hurled like a discuss, smashed through the window behind him. At the same time, Duncan lunged towards Sawyer.
The agent hesitated a second too long, his eyes flitting to where Ilse was still in the line of fire, and then, the killer tackled Sawyer, sending him careening over a pew.
“D-don't!” Duncan screamed. “B-bitch!”
Sawyer tried to struggle up, groaning as he rose, but Duncan, indifferent to his own well-being, launched over the pew, tackling Sawyer against the felt seat and holding him in place. Instead of going for the agent's neck, he went for Sawyer's eyes, fingers scrambling, plucking.
“Stop!” Ilse screamed, raising her taser again.
Sawyer tried to kick the thick-set killer, but Duncan had him in an awkward position, half tucked behind the seat.
Gasping, Sawyer scrambled beneath the pew, trying to rise out the other side. Something glinted on the ground at the killer's feet, and, horrified, Ilse realized the agent's gun had fallen next to Duncan.
“Stop!” she screamed again.
“Inside voices!” he yelled back, stomping towards Sawyer's face.
He missed, this time, though, his feet strangely barefoot. Sawyer, gasping and coughing dust managed to slip back out into the aisle, tumbling against the wall. The killer charged, swinging a haymaker and clipping Sawyer under the chin. Again, despite the beating he'd already taken, despite two nights of no sleep, Sawyer still managed to retain his feet, head spinning, no doubt, eyes blinking, but still upright.
Sawyer's gaze flicked towards his gun, and he tried to slip past another haymaker. This time, though, the killer seemed to note the attention. He growled, glancing down and then lunged.
Both of them went for the gun. Their heads cracked together, and both went reeling back, the gun kicked further under the pews, out of sight. Sawyer was cursing, groaning, blood spewing down his nose now. He blinked as if trying to focus.
Duncan Robinson stood taller than Sawyer, rubbing at his own head and muttering, “Owie. Owie!”
Distracted, momentarily, the gun out of sight, Sawyer trying to recover, Ilse needed to buy the agent some time. But Duncan seemed not to respond when she raised her voice. Auditory triggers to past trauma? Not unheard of.
So, in a desperate attempt, taking a step towards his exposed back, she said, in as even a tone as she could muster, “Duncan, please. Let's talk.”
He straightened a bit, his shoulders set. The large man turned, frowning out at her from behind his coke-bottle lenses.
He blinked owlishly for a moment, rubbing one, blood-stained hand against his forehead. Ilse was all too aware the sounds of groaning from the stage had stopped. How much blood had the man lost? Were they already too late?
Still, she needed to distract him. To give Sawyer a chance to recover. The lanky agent was still blinking, trying to stand upright, regaining his senses. For the moment, Duncan was only watching her.
“That's right,” she said, quietly, one hand spread in a calming gesture. “We should use inside voices,” she mirrored.
Duncan nodded, slowly, tilting his head.
Ilse, on the fly, desperately trying to think through this man's behavior also tilted her head. “Do you like animals, Duncan?” she said, softly, repeating his name, asking a question to divert attention.
He hesitated. “Who—who are you?”
She smiled, forcing her lips to peel back despite every synapse in her brain. She put on a cheerful, playful tone. “I really like animals. What's your favorite animal?”
He hesitated, watching her a moment longer. Sawyer was now bent double, searching desperately behind the pews for his gun.
Ilse felt her heart flutter in her chest. Duncan was nearing his thirties, and yet he acted like Katarina, in a way. Lost, bewildered, confused. The way he'd screamed “Owie!” Clearly, he was emotionally damaged. The maturation process had been significantly curtailed by his father's influence. The file hadn't been clear, but Duncan Robinson had suffered abuse at the hands of his father. For years. No one had helped him. No one could...
Now, she was no longer even watching Sawyer, her eyes fixed on Duncan. “I'd like to talk with you,” she said, quietly. “Somewhere else, though. Somewhere safer.”
“Talk?” he said, frowning.
“Yes, please. If you'd like to.” She lowered her taser now, placing it on the seat next to her and raising both her hands. A sign of trust, of vulnerability. She took a step towards him, nodding encouragingly.
“I—I'm good with words,” he said, still stammering. “I—I...” He winced, as if in pain, and began to scratch inside his arm, dragging his fingernails. “I—I'm,” he finally managed to gasp out the word. “Not stupid!” he said, breathing heavily now as if he'd run a race.
“I know that,” she said, nodding. “I know that, Duncan. You're not stupid. But we should talk somewhere else. Shouldn't we?”
She took another hesitant step forward, her heart panging in her chest, her blood bruiting wildly. Before her, he almost seemed a wounded animal, one of his feet caught in a trap. The pain from the trap was affecting his choices, his decisions. A wounded, cornered animal just acting out...
Right?
Wasn't he?
How far down the path had he gone, though?
How far—
She'd taken another step closer, and suddenly, his entire demeanor changed. Duncan's eyes flashed, not with anger, not with fear, not with hatred.
But with pure, unadulterated enjoyment.
He'd tricked her, and he knew it.
Now, so did she.
He howled, lunging at her, hard, tackling her and bringing her small form smashing to the ground between the pews. He scrambled on top of her, fingers around her throat, squeezing tight. His other hand jammed into her face, trying to pull out an eyeball with his bare hands.
“Shh, shhh,” he hushed her, giggling. “Silly, silly,” he said. “Silly little girl.” He continued squeezing, choking.
She squeezed her eyes shut, desperately kicking, trying to push him off. One hand found the taser she'd left on the chair. Desperately, eyes squeezed still, she bent her wrist, flailing wildly, aiming the taser. Squeeze. Sawyer had just said to aim and squeeze.
So she did.
Above her, Duncan's thick form suddenly jolted, back arching. He cursed wildly, the giggling ceasing at once. But as he jolted, he snarled, one hand lifting from her face, reaching back and plucking the taser's barbs from his skin.
He spat at her now, ripping the device from her hand and flinging it across the church.
“B-bitch!” he snarled.
Too far gone. Too far down that road. Trauma, pain, abuse, a childhood of horror. Just like Heidi. Too far...
A strange realization, even being choked, black spots dancing across her vision. At least she still had her eyes, though once he was done, she wasn't sure how much longer...
She gasped, heart fluttering. The air was gone. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Pain. Pain and horror. Pain and desperation. But also... an oddly strange peace.
No one expected much from a dying woman. No one cared if the dead were late. No one blamed corpses.
Then, a loud bang!
Two more blasts. The grip around her throat suddenly went loose. The killer's eyes froze behind their frames. He let out a gasping little breath.
“D—daddy,” he wheezed. And then, he collapsed, bleeding against Ilse, pinning her to the ground.
“Doc,” Sawyer was shouting, limping rapidly towards her, gun in one hand, phone in the other. “Yes, yes Trinity Episcopal,” he was shouting. “Send paramedics now!”
He flung the phone off onto the pew, snarling as he ripped Duncan's form from Ilse's chest, shoving the large killer beneath the pew in front.
Ilse wheezed, dark spots still dancing across her eyes. She stared up, trying to make out Sawyer's hazy form against the outline of the ceiling.
“Doc,” Sawyer said, desperately. “You okay? Hey, did I hit you? Are you okay?”
Her head rested against cold, hard tile. Her throat felt like fire. The dark spots increased. She turned, staring at Duncan. Now that he'd toppled, she spotted the three bullet wounds in his large, muscular back.
“Doc, hang on. Help’s coming. Just hang tight,” Sawyer was shouting.
“N-no,” she said, weakly. “I-I'm fine. Help...” her voice trailed off. “Him,” she managed to gasp out.
Sawyer turned, wincing, glancing in the direction of the stage. He cursed, hesitant. But then he growled beneath his breath, jabbed a finger at her. “I'll be right back. If you die on me, I'll haunt your ghost.”
She wanted to point out this didn't make any sense. But the dark spots now covered her vision, her eyes fluttered, and she couldn't see.
The last thing she heard, as she drifted away, was the rapid sound of footfalls as Sawyer sprinted towards the stage to help the priest. And, in the distance, the sound of approaching sirens.