Ilse sped up the street, double checking the address Rudiger had provided where her phone rested on the passenger seat. She screeched to a halt in front of the apartment building.
Only two miles from the Green Leaf community center.
Ilse slammed her car into park, and flung open the front door, ignoring the handicap sign above her vehicle. She took up two spots, but the yellow lines and momentary indiscretion were nothing compared to what would happen if she was late.
Was she?
Breathing heavily, she raced to the doorbells, scanning them. There, Alexandra Sayed. She pressed the buzzer. Waited, heart pounding.
No answer.
She tried again, but still received no answer.
It was getting late. Very late. Nearing midnight.
What if she'd arrive too late? What if the woman was already dead?
"Maybe she's just sleeping," Ilse murmured to herself.
She couldn't think otherwise. All other paths led towards despair. She had to get into that apartment.
Ilse tried a couple more buzzers. But there was still no response. She glanced up, trying to locate the third-floor apartment. She looked back at the buzzers. 303.
Ilse scanned the windows above. She frowned. Most of the lights were off. But there, on the third floor, someone had left a light on.
Ms. Sayed?
Was Ilse overthinking it?
Suddenly, the door buzzed.
Her heart hammered. She licked her lips, staring at the door. She reached out a hand to push it open but caught herself.
The light was on. That had been a long delay. Was she just overthinking it?
Ilse shivered, glancing over her shoulder. No one was moving in the parking lot. The other buildings seemed to sleep.
She slowly lifted her hand from the door, allowing it to close shut with a click.
Something didn't feel right. She needed a way in. But her instincts were going haywire... the light was on, the delay too long...
But what if Ilse was just being silly?
She paused, then shook her head. Silliness was a small price to pay for caution. She could always apologize later for an inconvenience. But for a stupid mistake? Especially with such high stakes. That would cost too much.
Something was off. The light was on. There'd been no voice over the intercom. It didn't add up. Something wasn't right.
Ilse double-checked her phone to see if Sawyer had texted back. Rudiger had sent him the address. But as far she could tell, he was running late.
She was on her own and she needed an alternate route to the third floor.
Cursing to herself, and hoping she wasn't being overcautious, Ilse broke into a sprint around the building, hastening towards where dumpsters were tucked against the brickwork.
She glanced up again, towards the third floor. She spotted the apartment with the light.
The dumpsters were a bit too far off. She grabbed the handle of one, heaving, dragging it with a scraping sound across the ground. She ignored the scent of refuse, closed the plastic lid, then clambered on top of the container.
From the dumpster, she grabbed the trellis beneath the second-floor window, and with a grunt of exertion, and much gratitude to her jujitsu instructor, she pulled herself up, scrambling, using slits in the brickwork to propel her forward. She crawled up the windowsill, feeling quite silly all of a sudden. For a moment, braced against the second window, gripping the wooden work, she wondered what agent Rawley would think if he saw her now.
But again, silliness, overreacting, this could be forgiven. Recklessness, indifference to another, this couldn't.
She glared up at the third-floor window.
Her heart hammered. It was open.
Why was the window open? It was quite cold.
Her face was sweating from the exertion, and she could feel perspiration beading on her forehead.
Still, she couldn't hesitate. She pulled up further, climbing to the top of the wooden trellis, and reaching the sill of the third floor. Her fingers scrambled against marble and began to slip. She cursed, catching herself, and scraping her foot against the wooden protrusion beneath her. She steadied herself, her face pressed against cold brickwork.
Once she had steadied, she exhaled slowly, and then pulled up again.
The glare of the light from inside the third floor illuminated her. Breathing heavily, she glanced around, staring into the apartment.
Nothing stood out. No one was standing by the front door. No one was in the living room. The kitchen was visible too. Also empty.
Where was Alexandra?
Was anyone else here?
The window was still ajar, and her heart pounded as she peered through the angled glass, feeling a sudden surge of vertigo.
She pressed against the already open window, pushing it further, and slowly slipped through the window. Hopefully, no one thought she was a burglar.
She felt silly again, wondering if she was just about to startle a woman deep in sleep.
Who had buzzed her in?
Why wasn't anyone waiting by the door?
Tentatively, with shaking fingers she pushed the glass window open completely and slipped into the apartment. As she dusted herself off, limbs trembling from the exertion, faced with a sudden gust of warmth, she heard a soft, tinkling bell. She froze. Her eyes darted to the kitchen. There, sitting next to a cereal bowl, a small, toy poodle was watching her, panting happily. The poodle stared, and she stared back.
A voice suddenly whispered in her ear, "Very clever. I didn't think you'd come through the window."
Her heart fell to her toes. The scream died on her lips as she turned slowly, feeling something sharp against her neck.
He'd been standing behind the drapes. The window had been opened in such a way to face her away from his hiding spot.
A large, frowning man, with a knife in one hand pressed to her neck. He stepped from behind the drapes, his shadow sent across the floor. As the lighting changed, Ilse thought she saw something glint by the door. A long, thin wire.
"I had hoped you would come that way," he said, following her attention.
Ilse's heart was exploding in her chest. Her mind was on fire. She couldn't think. Terror flooded her. She wanted to run. Wanted to scream.
But the man in front of her gave a soft little shake of his head, and said, "Step away from there. You and I have a night of fun ahead of us.”
She hated the way he said it. Hated the way his eyes lit up in excitement. He had a small gash along his cheek from where she'd cut him with her keys. He wiggled the knife, where it scratched beneath her chin, and slowly, with a swallow, she stepped from the window. He kept his knife against her but reached out with his other hand to shut the frame.
"None of that now," he said sharply. His gloved hand descended, gripping her wrist, pulling it away, and then pulling her gun from its holster. He tossed it onto the couch, away from her. "Neither of us are going to need that," he said curtly.
Then, he took a step back, as if to get a good look at her. He glanced up and down, his eyes taking her in. He smiled, then met her gaze. "As lovely as I remember.”
She knew he was taunting her, goading her. But at the same time, her own recollection kicked in.
The man was handsome, with dyed hair. He had crows’ feet around his eyes, and wrinkles near his mouth. Clearly he'd had some plastic surgery. The skin on his neck did not match his face. This was an older man, trying to cling to his youth.
His eyebrows perked up, slanted as if in a perpetual frown.
She felt a slowed jolt of terror. "You're the Icicle killer," she murmured.
He stared at her, shaking his head. "I never did like that name."
"You're the one who was active a decade ago—you kidnapped Claudia. Lauren."
"And they escaped. Yes. It took me some time to catch them again. But I'm patient. I feel like I've proven that," he said with a grin and another wiggle of his knife. "Come closer."
Ilse didn't move. She glanced towards the gun on the couch, but he narrowed his eyes. "We can either end this quickly or slowly."
She took a step towards him. He wiggled the knife again, and murmured, "I had this whole plan tonight, you know. You sort of ruined it by coming through the window if I'm honest."
Ilse wasn't sure if he expected her to look sympathetic. She just watched him, desperately thinking. She needed her weapon. But if she went for it, he would reach her first. He was closer to the gun, and he had a knife.
At the same time, she felt a bolt of worry. "Where's Alexandra?"
"Rachelle," he snapped back. "Just because you change your name doesn't change your past. You can't rob us of our handiwork."
"Us?" she said, trembling.
He snorted, shaking his head. "You weren't originally mine. But as your father is behind bars, I'll finish the job. The same with Abigail. She now goes by Irene," he sneered. "When I found out I nearly vomited. She wasn't one of mine either. But now she is. Like you. Like Rachelle."
Ilse could feel the threats of terror. She knew she could let it inundate her, flood her system. But what use would she be then? So instead, refusing to give in, though feeling it all the same, she said, "Where is Rachelle?"
"She's fine. For now.”
His eyes darted towards the hall. The dog still sat dutifully by the water bowl.
At the same time, with the window shut, the breeze gone, Ilse detected a faint odor she hadn't placed before. Though the fear was still there, some of her other senses were now chiming in.
The man was steady, calm. He'd done this before. Many times. The odor exuded a faint, chemical smell on the air. Chloroform? Was this what he had used to subdue his victims?
"Look here," the man said, with a giddy gesture of his hand. He seemed excited all of a sudden. "See that?"
He gestured with his knife for Ilse to take a step. She did. Now, angled down the hall, the first door on the left, she found herself peering into a bathroom. And there, in the bathtub, she spotted an arm dangling over the top. Something metal was wrapped around the wrist.
"Is she alive?" Ilse said, her voice hoarse.
"For now. Yes. She won't be much longer. And you're going to help me do it."
Ilse stared. He just looked back, his wide eyebrows giving the impression that he was surprised.
"You'll have to kill me first," Ilse growled.
He snorted. "That can be arranged. Don't be dramatic, dear, it doesn't suit you. I know who you are. I know little Hilda."
Ilse flinched. Far too many people seemed aware of her identity. "You don't know anything," she snapped.
"I know you survived a better man than yourself. I know you tried to escape. But I know you can't. He owns you, Hilda. And now you're mine."
Ilse glanced through the bathroom door once more. Her hands trembling where they rested at her sides. She wanted to bolt towards the window. But he'd shut it. Besides, they were three floors up. She wanted to rush to the door. But what good was that? She could see the tripwire now. The wire led towards the bathroom. From where she was standing, it almost looked like it was attached to the metal sheet glimpsed around Alexandra's wrist.
"You really are full of surprises, Ilse," he said. "I thought for certain you would come through the door. I never expected the window. Bravo. I'm impressed."
"You should give me the knife," she said, keeping her voice as steady as possible. "It's going to end poorly for you."
The Icicle killer glared at her. "You don't know what you're talking about. You're going to help me finish this masterpiece. And then you're going to be next. And I'll spend another twenty years evading capture."
Ilse knew by now the man liked talking about himself. But even more than that, she knew who he was. She had studied the Icicle killer while working with Claudia and Lauren. She had seen it as her duty. This man wasn't a mystery to her. She had never seen his face, only a composite sketch, but he wasn't surprising. In fact, he was mundane. An un-repressed appetite—out of control. He was the embodiment of binging, drug addiction, pornography, the sorts of things that often controlled people's habits and choices. In its case, he thought because it caused pain and fear in others it made him strong. Really, he was pathetic. The only time he could get others to cower was by threatening them with pain. Behind a locked door, or in anonymity, he was nothing more than a lack of self-control or compassion. Mundane. Predictable. Just like every serial killer she'd encountered. Society had an infatuation with monsters like this. TV shows, books. It made the serial killers feel special. As if somehow, they were unique.
Really, though, at their core, they were all the same. Violent, self-centered, desperate. So desperate to have an impact, so starved for anything like love, they settled for fear and pain.
She knew these sorts of men. But she also knew how the Icicle killer had started. A sexual sadist. He had assaulted his victims before killing them.
So what had changed?
In the past, he had kidnapped women on the side of the road, taking them to an obscure location, had his way, and only then had he killed them. At the time, it had been by strangulation.
So why had he changed? She glanced towards the bathroom again, surreptitiously. Alexandra was motionless. The same as Claudia. Same as Abigail. Same as Lauren. Helpless. Naked.
There was, after all, a sexual component.
But why didn't he do anything with the bodies? There had been no DNA evidence. Why didn't he abuse them like he used to?
"Come now," the man was saying, gesturing with his knife. "You're going to help me finish this. And then it's your turn."
Ilse looked at him, looked at the bathroom door. Her heart was beating wildly, her mind spinning. She knew if she followed him, she would be dead in minutes. But also, she knew, she had to get out of there. Had to get help. Had to stop him. Had to reach her gun.
But it was too far away.
He was blocking her path. He gestured with the knife again, impatiently.
She hesitated, her blood freezing.
And then it hit her. She couldn't get the gun. Couldn't subdue him. But she could stall. More time meant more options. Time gave results. Time was all she had left.
"You can't perform anymore, can you?" she said suddenly. She looked up, staring him straight in the eye.
He hesitated, frowned, looking back at her.
"I'm right, aren't I? Old age has not treated you kindly," she spoke firmly, matter-of-factly, channeling her inner Sawyer.
"Shut up," he snapped.
Ilse knew she was treading on dangerous ground. Knew that the angrier she got him, the more pain he would inflict on her when he got the chance. Sadists like this only new one language. But she would have to risk it. Risk pain in order to stall. And by his reaction, she knew she was right. His MO had changed, because he had changed. Against his will.
"You know they make little blue pills for that," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "But I guess after all those murders, you couldn't be expected to keep performing at the same level." She lowered her gaze, giving him the same sort of once over he'd done for her. She let her eyes linger near his waist, and flicked her eyebrows up. All of it was designed to irritate, to instigate, to stall.
And it worked. For a moment, he stopped gesturing at her and just went rigid.
"What did you say to me?" he said, growling.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of," she said sarcastically. "All men of a certain age sometimes face that. I'm not judging you. I've just never met a limp dick serial killer before."
His eyes bugged, his jaw clenched, his face going red. He wasn't nearly so handsome anymore. His eyes were fixed on her now, his hand trembling where he gripped the knife. "What did you say?" he said in a murderous voice.
She took a hesitant step back. Stalling only went so far. Now he was furious. What next? For a moment, she hesitated, poised, preparing to lunge for her gun on the couch. He was still blocking her. She would only hope she could move fast.
He was spluttering in fury, his knife raising. Thoughts of getting her to kill the woman in the bathtub had faded to be replaced by a desire to see her dead instead.
He growled like a wounded animal. The small poodle in the kitchen whimpered, dropping on the floor and burying its head in its paws.
Ilse swallowed, but finished with another small burst of laughter, forced, and said, "The limp dick serial killer has a nice ring to it. Maybe they'll replace your Icicle moniker with that. I think that fits you."
Two things happened at once. One, the monster screamed and lunged at her. At the same time, she heard a shout, the sound of a loud thud, and the front door banged open.
Vaguely, as if caught in frozen time, Ilse realized the killer had left the front door unlocked, likely to entice her through it.
But now, Agent Tom Sawyer came barreling through, shoulder first, gun in his hand.
The killer spun around, halfway through his attack. He yelled in surprise.
Sawyer stumbled, tripping on the wire across the door, sending himself clattering to the ground. His own gun skittered into the kitchen.
At the same time, the wire across the ground went taught.
Ilse heard the faintest of sounds from the bathroom. She stared and watched in horror as the metal item on Rachelle's wrists tightened. A second later, blood began to spill down the woman's arms. So much blood, pouring into the bathtub, down the side of the porcelain, pooling on the tiled floor.
Blood. Sawyer, cursing, was scrambling to his feet.
But the killer, with a roar, lunged in attack.