2

I’d had my fun, but the real excitement was only just beginning. As I sat backstage, I took in my surroundings—the costumes, the props, the blood, the bodies—and awaited my big moment. I had no doubt that Keats would show. I had faith in him and I had faith in my plan. On the surface, it didn’t look like he had much love for his children, and they certainly had no respect for him, but he was human, he had weaknesses. That love did exist deep down and it would trigger the anger, the hatred, and the impulsivity that I wanted to see.

My father had not expressed an interest in toying with the police and I had no desire to do so either. It was far too risky, far too stupid. But the more I saw Lester on the evening news, reporting on my latest victim, the more I liked him. I could see something in him that I hadn’t seen anywhere else. He didn’t remind me of myself. He was far too normal, far too accepting of the world for that. But he reminded me of my father.

He had the same hatred, bitterness, and resentment that I knew that my father had possessed. They were traits that had always existed in me and had always been on the surface, but like my father, Lester had hidden them away, tucking them beneath a veil of normality. He wanted the world—his boss, his children—to think that everything was okay, that he was functioning as a normal human being should. On social media he interacted with his friends and acquaintances; at work, he acted with professionalism, even when the press jammed cameras and microphones in his face. My father had done the same in his own way. It had probably contributed to his early death and the end of his legacy.

My fascination with Lester had grown since the death of his wife. That tested the barrier that separated the angry Lester from the Lester that he wanted the rest of the world to see. Eventually, as I studied his movements online, watched the interviews he gave, and generally kept a close eye on him and his family, I saw that barrier break. I had always hoped that the same would happen to my father, that he would become more like me, like the person I knew he was and not the one he wanted to be. I never had the chance to see that, but I had seen it in Lester.

The death of his kids would make sure the barrier was completely obliterated, but that wasn’t why I did it. This was my moment, my final act as The Masquerade, and I wanted Lester to be in attendance. My adversary, my comrade, and in many ways, my father. Those murders would have accessed a primal part of him, and that’s exactly what I wanted to happen. I wanted an angry and feral man to come for me, not a calculating cop.

Of course, if I were wrong, then I would be caught. The police would swoop on the building like vultures on a carcass and there would be little hope of escape, little hope of getting out alive. That was a risk I was prepared to take. If I were arrested or shot, then at least I had gone out in style, at least my legend would be given a fitting end, one that was never bestowed upon my father. And that was what this was all about: my legend, my legacy. My attempts at taking on the name of The Butcher had ended in a cataclysm of violence and bloodshed, with my name and face plastered all over the media. Now that The Masquerade had also been discovered, it required another fitting end. Regardless of what happened from this moment on, I was one of the most brutal and prolific killers in history. My name would be spoken, remembered, and revered throughout the world for many years to come. My father had gone out with a pathetic whimper, but the person I was many years ago had gone out with a bang, and the same would apply to the person I had become. As for the next step, the next legend, the person I would become next. That was anyone’s guess.

“Please … help … me.”

The noise was weak but it was enough to interrupt my thinking. I looked down to see a woman in period costume crawling on the floor, a trail of blood behind her like sticky slime emanating from a slug’s behind. She hadn’t made it far, but in her state, even a few inches was commendable. After what I had done to her, just the fact that she was still breathing was enough to win my respect.

“And why would I do that?” I asked her.

She stared at me, her pleading eyes doing their best to see the human in me.

“You can stare all you want. I’m not going to help you.”

“Please, I—”

“You realize I was the one who put you in that situation, right?” I leaned over in my seat, my elbows resting on my thighs. “What makes you think I won’t just torture you and make your last seconds even more miserable?”

“Please, if you help me, I won’t tell anyone.”

That made me laugh.

“Please, I need … ambulance.”

I shook my head and straightened up. “You need a fucking miracle, that’s what you need.”

She reached out but her arms didn’t possess the strength to remain upright for long and she eventually flopped to the floor.

“Then … kill me,” she said, her face now pointed downward, her words muffled. “End this.”

I picked up the axe and stood over her. “Now that, I can do.”

The axe embedded in her skull. She was dead and out of her misery, but I didn’t care about that. As much as I tried to yank the axe free, even standing on her skull to get some leverage, it wouldn’t move.

“Ah, the irony,” I said, shaking my head with disbelief. “You keep it.”

As I searched around for another weapon, I heard the heavy doors to the building open and shut. My guest had arrived—the encore was ready to begin. There was no axe, no sword, nothing that could make my job easier, but I did carry a switchblade in my pocket, which was going to have to do.

I headed for the stage, took my spot at its center, and then waited for my audience to walk through the side door that had been unlocked in anticipation of his arrival.