Jim Morgan watched as reflections of the patrol car’s flashing lights danced across the front window of the remote gas station. He strained to see beyond the strange and ominous shadows into the building’s interior. Although the call from dispatch warranted only a routine robbery report, for some reason, an irrational yet overwhelming feeling of dread crept over the edges of his consciousness. He couldn’t explain the sensation—cop instincts, intuition, or premonition—but he knew something wasn’t right. He took a deep breath and released a prolonged and deliberate exhalation. As he exited the vehicle, he forced away the feeling that something dark awaited him.
He noted the absence of the moon. The darkness seemed solid and eternal beyond the pool of radiance cast by the lights of the cruiser and gas station. He felt as if he sat on the edge of the world, and nothing else existed in the universe. Turning his gaze back toward the station, the feeling took root again.
He couldn’t pinpoint the source of his fear, which frightened him even more. For Jim, the worst kind of fear had always been one without a name. Out of trepidation, he considered calling to check on his wife, Emily, and their daughter. He consulted his watch and decided against it. He didn’t want to wake them.
His partner, Tom Delaine, said, “You okay? You look like somebody pissed in your cornflakes.”
“I’m fine. Let’s get this over with. It’s past my bedtime, and I just want to go home.”
The look of concern was still evident on Tom’s face, but he nodded and walked toward the front door of the station. Neither man had drawn his weapon, since they knew from dispatch that the assailant had already fled the premises. Nevertheless, a proper report needed to be filed, and the station’s attendant had seemed adamant that someone should come right away.
As they entered the building, Jim caught the hint of a strangely familiar smell, but he was unable to identify it. He pushed the thought away and focused his mind on the task at hand.
Once inside, he scanned the room. The station’s counter rested along the back wall, parallel to the door. A man with dark hair and haunting gray eyes sat behind it. The attendant’s midnight black t-shirt stretched tight across his chest, firm muscles bunched underneath. The man didn’t say a word; he simply stared without expression at the two policemen.
As their gazes locked, Jim instinctively moved his hand closer to the pistol holstered at his side.
“Nice night, huh?” the attendant said. “The darkness tonight is … oppressive. It has weight.”
He couldn’t comprehend the logic that associated an oppressive darkness with a nice night, and he distrusted the man possessing a mind in which the two were linked. The significance of such a statement was apparently lost on his partner. Tom just raised his eyebrows and replied with a drawn-out, “Okay.” After a pause, he said, “Were you the one who reported the robbery?”
“No,” the man said, “I reported a murder.”
Upon hearing the statement, Jim’s breath caught in his throat. He moved his hand over his gun but didn’t draw the 9mm Glock semi-automatic from its holster.
“Who was murdered?” Tom said.
The attendant didn’t answer, and although Jim couldn’t be sure, he thought a suppressed grin had passed over the man’s face. Instead of a reply, the attendant leaned forward and shifted his gaze down one of the station’s aisles.
Jim followed the man’s stare to where a gruesome image caught him unprepared, bombarding his senses.
The dead man at the end of the aisle had been stripped naked. Blood was everywhere. Numerous lacerations ran along the length of his body, but the frenzied slashes were most prevalent around the heart, lungs, and sexual organs. His eyes had been gouged out.
Without hesitation, both troopers drew their weapons and pointed them at the strange man behind the counter. Tom took a step forward and said, “Get your hands where I can see them!”
The suspect made no attempt to bring his hands up from beneath the counter. In fact, the formation of a smile constituted his only movement as a malicious grin spread across his face. The smile held no joy, nor love, nor warmth. It was cold, making Jim feel like a fly trapped in a spider’s web.
Tom took another step forward and repeated himself with no better results. He had now advanced to no more than three feet from the counter. Jim, on the other hand, had taken a step back and wanted to scream at Tom that he had moved too close. The thought dissipated when the man behind the counter spoke in a calm, yet commanding voice. “Do you like it? It’s my version of a killing by Andrei Chikatilo, Russia’s Rostov Ripper. You’re probably not familiar with him. While you were learning about Lincoln and Washington, I was learning about Jack the Ripper, Albert Fish, Ed Gein, the Zodiac. Those were just a few of my founding fathers.” The killer’s eyes darted between them. “You boys don’t recognize me, do you?”
Tom screamed at the man with even greater ferocity. “I don’t care who you are … just put your hands on your head. NOW!”
The killer shot Tom an uninterested glance and said, “You should show me a little more respect. After all, I am a bit of a celebrity. My name is Ackerman.”
Jim felt his breath stripped away once again. When he had first laid eyes upon the man, he had noticed a vague familiarity. Now, his synapses fired, and he made the connection. He had seen the man’s face on television, a two-hour special presented by one of those network news shows. He tried to remember the name of the special. It was something along the lines of An Experiment in Madness, but he couldn’t remember the exact title. He did, however, remember the description of the man and his hideous crimes. The program had described the kind of monster that was only supposed to exist in the minds of Hollywood’s most creative—not a person of flesh and blood who found substance in the real world.
Tom repeated his ultimatum, but this time he spoke the words in a soft voice, as if beseeching the madman to submit and end the confrontation without a fight. “Put your hands where I can see them. I’m going to count to three, and then—”
“I wouldn’t do anything rash, officer. If you’re not careful, my pretty little hostage might get her pretty little face blown off.”
“What hostage?”
Ackerman redirected his gaze from Tom to Jim. “The one under this counter with the sawed-off shotgun strapped against her right temple. It’ll make a real mess of her, believe me on that. I’ve seen it before. It’s not pretty. And I know exactly what you’re thinking. You think I’m bluffing.” He turned back to Tom. “And you’re thinking that even if I am telling the truth, you can probably put one between my eyes before I could get my shot off. You’d be wrong, though. My finger’s resting right on that trigger and, as soon as your bullet struck, my muscles would clench and her head would be blown out the other side of this counter. So, gentlemen, it appears that what we have here is a Mexican stand-off.”
Ackerman took a deep breath and continued in his honeyed tone. “Isn’t this fun? You both began your day like any other. You kissed your loved ones good-bye, enjoyed a cup of coffee, maybe read the morning paper, but little did you know that this would be the most significant day of your lives. Today is a day that makes or breaks everything you’ve ever said or done, everything you’ve stood for or believed in. At some point, we all come to a place where we have to choose whether to be the hero, the villain, or to walk away and remain one of the sheep. This is one of those moments, gentlemen.
“I’m going to give you both a choice. You can walk away now and continue on with your lives. Maybe I have a hostage under this counter that I’m going to carve up the second you walk out that door, and maybe I don’t. Maybe you can catch me and make a name for yourselves, or maybe you’ll die trying. There’s no way you can know for sure, but that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? There’s no meaning. Good doesn’t triumph over evil. There’s just random chance and death. You were the unlucky ones who got the call tonight. The gentleman down the aisle was the unlucky one who was working the station tonight. We like to walk around and think of ourselves as being so damn evolved, so much better and more intelligent than all of the other wildlife. But you know what?”
Ackerman looked at the two men as if he was a hungry animal and they were his next meal. He lowered his voice. “In the end, no matter how many delusions of grandeur we blind ourselves with, we are all either hunters or the hunted, predators or prey. Life is just one big game, gentlemen. The winners survive and the losers rot. The choices we make determine our fate. So … make your choice.”
Jim stood at rigid attention, entranced by the madman behind the counter. Ackerman had recited the speech with passion, as if the killer were a politician rallying the constituency behind some noble cause. He had never seen a man with two guns pointed at his face remain so impassive. There was no fear in him. Fear to Ackerman seemed as alien a concept as an airplane to a Neanderthal. More than that, it appeared as if the man felt in complete control of the situation.
Despite the gun in his hand, the realization of that fact made Jim feel defenseless.
Tom’s voice cracked and contained a noticeable tremor. “There is no hostage,” he said. “There were no other cars out front. Now, you put your hands where I can see them, or I swear to God in heaven, I will put a bullet right between your eyes.”
Jim wasn’t convinced by Tom’s statement, and neither did it seem to influence Ackerman. He knew that Ackerman would have most likely stashed his own car in back, in order to keep up the appearance of being the attendant. If some woman had stopped and come across the killer, he would have moved her car to the back with his own. The possibility that Ackerman had brought the hostage with him in his own car also occurred to him.
He wasn’t sure whether his partner had overlooked those scenarios, or if Tom’s actions merely represented a desperate attempt to end the situation. Either way, he knew it wouldn’t work. Ackerman wouldn’t allow this to end without things getting messy. He could see that much in the killer’s eyes.
Ackerman sighed. “Well, darling, they apparently don’t believe you’re real. Why don’t you scream for them?”
With Ackerman’s last word, the front of the counter exploded outward, sending pieces of wooden shrapnel in all directions. The shotgun blast tore into Tom’s left side, sending a spray of blood into Jim’s face and dropping Tom onto the linoleum.
Jim dove into the closest aisle. An instant after he was clear, the end cap display of Dorito chips erupted from a second blast.
He regained his feet and fired two shots in quick succession around the corner. He barely had time to see his shots strike the counter when the shotgun answered, sending him back to cover.
He could hear Tom crying and cursing. His gun must have been lost in the confusion, he thought. And Tom must have been half delirious with pain since he wasn’t even attempting to find cover. Jim knew that his partner wouldn’t survive if he didn’t immediately end the confrontation and get help.
“Trooper down. Send medical,” he said into his portable packset radio. He didn’t bother to announce his name or location. The radio carried a unique code that dispatch would identify while the GPS in the patrol car would alert backup units of their position.
But, unless he acted now, he also knew that he and Tom would be dead by the time backup arrived.
He tried to stay focused, but he couldn’t keep his thoughts from wandering onto his wife and daughter. Will I see them again? Will I get to watch my daughter grow up? He thought of brushing the golden, curly locks of hair away from her face and kissing her on the forehead. He thought of the way her eyes lit up with awe and wonder as she sat on his lap and listened to him read.
He thought of his wife kissing him good-bye and telling him to be careful. He thought of holding her, skin against skin, and running his fingers through her raven black hair.
I have to be strong. I have to make it home to them. He tried to tell himself that he would see them again, but somehow he knew better. At that moment, he would have given anything for one more chance to hold them.
The smell of gunpowder mixed with the aromas of scented cleaning fluids attacked his senses and made him feel lightheaded. It was that or the adrenaline. Either way, he felt as if he was in a washing machine on spin cycle. He tried to get himself under control, but he was terrified beyond reason. He had no idea of what to do next.
He knew that he wouldn’t survive a frontal assault against the shotgun, so he decided his best option would be to move around to the back of the aisles and perhaps catch Ackerman off guard. Plus, the greater the distance, the more advantage his 9mm would have over the less accurate shotgun.
Moving as quietly as possible, he made his way down the aisle. Reaching the opposite end cap, he peered around the corner into the next row.
All clear.
He dashed to the next end cap.
So far, so good.
There were only four rows of food in the small station, which meant that if he made it to the next end cap without Ackerman seeing him, he would have an unobstructed view of his opponent’s hiding place.
He checked the next aisle for danger and was about to make a dash for the next end cap when he heard a small but strange noise coming from the front of the store. It took him a moment to associate the sound with anything tangible, but then he made the connection of a liquid being pressed from a squeeze bottle. Following the sound, Tom’s wailing increased in intensity, and the injured officer screamed an almost unintelligible call for help.
“Your friend is having a very bad day, officer. He made his choice to stay and fight, but I guess that I didn’t really give you much of a choice, so here it is. Your partner was right. There was no hostage before. But there is one now, and he’s not going to leave here alive. I will, however, let you walk right out that door, get in your car, and leave this place behind like it was nothing more than a nightmare. If you stay, maybe you can stop me and save your friend, but let’s be honest. I’m better at this game than you are. If you stay, odds are you’ll both die. The choice is yours, officer.”
He gritted his teeth. Ackerman most likely knew his position, so the chance to sneak around behind the madman was gone. He knew that Ackerman was right. He had never been in a situation like this. He had never seen any real action other than a few rowdy traffic stops and a hostage situation at a diner a few years back, where he had been one of about twenty policemen on the scene. He had been involved in some murder investigations after the fact, but he had never been in a shootout with the killer.
His adversary, however, had taken countless victims, several of which were law enforcement. The killer outgunned and outmatched him; yet, he knew that he could never abandon his friend.
Tom Delaine was a hotheaded, irrational jerk, but he had also been his partner and best friend for nine years. Tom had been there the day that Emily had given birth, handing out the cigars and grinning like a proud uncle. Tom had been the only person who could comfort him on the day they placed his father in the ground. His partner had counseled him through every tough moment of his life and had never asked for anything in return.
“You come on back here where I can get a good look at you, and I’ll give you my answer,” he said, without the slightest tremble in his voice.
“All right, officer, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He didn’t respond. He was already on the move.
He made his way down the middle aisle, staying low and trying to zero in on Ackerman’s location from the sound of his voice. If his instincts proved correct, Ackerman awaited him at the end cap of the third row.
When he reached the end of the aisle, he peeked one eye around the corner, but couldn’t see the killer. Tom lay only a few feet away.
He edged farther out of the aisle, but still no Ackerman. He was about to reach for Tom, when he heard a match being struck. In that split second, he noticed the line of liquid running from around the side of the station’s counter to where Tom lay. He sniffed the air and realized that the sound he had heard earlier was the spraying of lighter fluid. Before he could react, a hand appeared from around the corner of the counter and dropped a match into the trail of liquid.
The stream of lighter fluid ignited, a blue spark questing out and morphing into hues of red and yellow. Within the blink of an eye, the fire shot back to Tom and engulfed him in flames.
Tom’s tortured screams of agony filled the gas station and reverberated off the walls and glass. The echoes compounded on each other, giving the effect of a chorus of the damned.
In that moment, Jim lost the capacity for rational thought and acted on pure instinct. He dropped his pistol, ripped off his coat, and slapped at the flames in a last-ditch effort to save his friend. After a few swings, his coat glowed with reds and yellows, as well. He dropped it to the linoleum next to Tom.
A part of his rational mind, which had now been thrown to the back of his consciousness, realized that his friend and partner of many years was gone, but terror had usurped coherent thought. His own screams added to the cacophony of suffering.
After what felt like an eternity, his partner’s thrashing ceased, and only the flames remained. The smell of charred flesh filled the space all around him, adding to the whirlwind of emotions swirling in his mind.
A mixture of terror, grief, and anger consumed his consciousness. He sat on his knees, weeping for his friend and knowing that he would be next. For some time, he had been aware of the man with the shotgun standing behind him in the aisle. Ackerman had used Tom as a distraction, and the ploy had succeeded.
His voice trembled and tears ran down his cheeks. “Why did you do this? You called us here just so you could kill us? Why?”
“Why?” Ackerman said. “That is the eternal question, isn’t it? From the beginning of human existence, we have sought frantically for the answer to one question: Why? Well, I’m afraid that I don’t really have an answer for you, other than to say that it is simply who I am. Some people paint beautiful works of art. Some people are doctors, lawyers, butchers and bakers and candlestick makers. I am a predator, a killer. Life’s a game, and I like to play. But I’m not quite through playing with you yet. Give me your wallet.”
“My wallet?”
A kick to the back of the head answered his question. “Your wallet, now. Please.”
He complied, and Ackerman took the proffered item. The killer sifted through the wallet’s contents, pausing to study the driver’s license and a tattered family photo. “You’ve got a beautiful family here, Jim Morgan. I’d love to meet them.”
“Don’t even look at them!” he said as he charged at his best friend’s murderer.
Ackerman used the shotgun as a club to knock him to the floor. Then, the killer pummeled him until blood flowed from several large gashes on his face. He could feel his flesh tearing with every blow, but he could do nothing to stop the barrage.
After a moment, the blows ceased. Ackerman stood over him, aiming the shotgun. “I was just going to toy with you a bit before ending your life, but now … I think I’ve got a better idea.”
Ackerman walked behind the counter and retrieved a bottle and a cloth, his eyes never leaving Jim.
He writhed in agony on the floor as he watched Ackerman dump some of the contents of the bottle onto the piece of torn cloth. His vision blurred as his eyes filled with tears. He could taste his own blood in his mouth and still smell the acrid smoke from Tom’s charred remains. His brain couldn’t process the onslaught of information transmitted by his senses, and his mind threatened to shut down.
Ackerman knelt and placed the cloth over his mouth. He tried to fight back, but his efforts were futile. Within a moment, he succumbed to the chemicals and darkness overtook him.
*
Jim awoke and scanned his surroundings. He noticed that he was home. His first thought was that the entire ordeal at the gas station had been nothing more than a nightmare.
When he saw his wife and daughter, his relief dissipated like a warm breath on a winter’s day.
His wife, Emily, and their young daughter, Ashley, sat across from him in their living room. The chairs from the dining room had been arranged, as if for an intervention, with Emily and Ashley facing him. They were bound, and duct tape covered their mouths. Their disheveled hair matted together and clung to their foreheads, sticking in a mixture of sweat and tears.
“Ashley!” He tried to run to her, but his own restraints held him at bay. He fought with the ropes, and the fibers dug into his skin.
He turned to his wife. Her raven-black hair hung in her face, and fear contorted her features. Her light complexion, one of the traits she had inherited from an odd pairing of an Irish-American grandmother and a Japanese grandfather, had flushed with red. He thought of the countless moments in which he had run his fingers over her smooth, delicate skin. She had always hated her pale pigmentation and complained of how easily she burned in the sun, but he adored her milky complexion. It reminded him of fine porcelain. He had always felt undeserving of her. Although he had never seemed to find the words to tell her, he felt like the luckiest man in the world to have her as his wife.
Tears cascaded down his cheeks, and his heart broke. He wanted to tear the heart from the monster who had done this to his family. He wanted to light the monster on fire, like the killer had done to Tom, and give the psychopath a glimpse of the hell that clearly awaited him.
As he fumed with impotent rage, Emily caught his attention, and with her eyes, she indicated for him to look to his right.
He followed her gaze, and the cold gray eyes of a madman greeted him.
The sawed-off shotgun in one hand, Ackerman stood and walked to Jim’s side. “It’s about time you woke up,” Ackerman said, patting him on the shoulder. “We’ve been having a great sleepover so far, Dad, but we’re ready to start the night’s entertainment.”
Ackerman moved behind him and leaned in close to his ear. “You’ve got a real nice family here, Jim. You’ve built a good life for yourself. Nice house, cutest little girl I’ve ever seen, and your wife … man, she’s gorgeous. And I don’t mean that in a vulgar or crude way, Jim. I’m just telling you, honestly, she is a beautiful woman. She reminds me of one of those old-time movie stars, with her dark hair and pale skin. You know, from the thirties or forties. Back when the world was black and white. Anyway, I’m just saying that you’re a very lucky man.”
Jim gritted his teeth and shook with rage. He wanted to scream at Ackerman. He wanted to tell him to shut up and go to hell, but he didn’t want to do anything to play into the madman’s fantasies. So he just sat there, praying that his girls would make it through this alive. He didn’t care what happened to himself. If he had to die to save them, then so be it, but he begged God to save his wife and daughter.
“What are your thoughts on death, Jim? Do you believe that our lives flash before our eyes … that we relive it all in that final moment? What about the whole light at the end of the tunnel thing, do you buy that? Or what about the spiritual aspects? Do you believe, when I kill your family, that they’ll go to a better place?”
Jim couldn’t contain his fury for another second. He couldn’t listen to another moment of the killer’s musings. He convulsed and tried to wrench his limbs free from his bonds. He screamed at the top of his lungs, but without any words. The English language lacked the ability to convey the emotions that coursed through him. His scream was something more ancient than words, more primal.
After a long moment, the screaming stopped. He took in each breath with fury, his nostrils flaring on every inhalation.
Ackerman patted him on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Jim. I understand your pain.”
He felt defeated and helpless, but he needed to be strong and think. He couldn’t see any means of escape or rescue. They lived in the woods, so no one would hear his screaming. But then, he remembered that he would be missed. A backup unit will travel to the gas station. They’ll find Tom’s body and realize that I’m missing. Eventually, they’ll check my home. But how long will that take? How much time has already passed? He needed to stall the killer. He needed to keep him talking. “Why are you doing this?”
Ackerman’s eyes narrowed. “Why? We’ve been over that. The why doesn’t matter. Have you ever heard that old adage about the 10/90 rule? It says that life is ten percent what happens to us, and ninety percent how we react. That’s what’s important. It’s not imperative to think of why this has happened to you and your family. Everyone is always whining. ‘Why me?’ ‘Why did this happen to me?’ They think it’s the end of the world when their forty-thousand-dollar car won’t start, and they can’t make it to that cushy desk job to pay off that family vacation to Hawaii. But they don’t even know the meaning of the word pain. Don’t whine to me, Jim. Why is not important. You need to concentrate on what you’re going to do about it. How are you going to save them? How are you going to stop me?”
Ackerman leaned in close. He could feel the killer’s hot breath on his neck. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’ve been looking for someone to play with … a worthy opponent. I want you to beat me.”
Ackerman retrieved Jim’s gun from the waistband of his pants and placed it in Jim’s lap. “Here’s the game. Let’s call this one … Two is the Price for One. Two of you are going to die here tonight. I don’t care which two. If you kill yourself first, then I’ll finish your daughter. If you break the rules or refuse to play, then I’ll make you watch as I kill your wife and child. I will take my time with them. They will pray for death, and you will wish that you had given it to them. You could choose to shoot both of them and save yourself, but I don’t see that happening. If you kill your wife, you can finish yourself or let me do it. Either way, in that scenario, your daughter lives. I’ll call 911 after I leave here and tell them to come get her. She might have some emotional issues, but otherwise she’ll be fine.
“But before we begin, I want you to come to the realization that no matter what you choose to do or not to do, two of you don’t leave here alive. And you do not want me to have to finish this for you. Trust me on that. I know you’re thinking that eventually they’ll find the mess at the station and come looking for you. Rest assured that I’ve taken that into consideration, so we’ll have ample time to finish our little game. Now, let’s play.”
Ackerman cut Jim’s hands free. He knew what to do. He saw an opportunity, and he took it. He scooped up the gun from his lap and turned it on his captor.
But the killer was ready.
Ackerman wrenched the gun from his hand and slammed the shotgun into the bridge of his nose. Then, the killer swung the shotgun toward Ashley.
*
Jim had time to scream, “NO!” before the shotgun blast thundered through the house.
He didn’t want to look. He clenched his eyes shut, but he knew that he couldn’t shut out the monster that had stepped from his nightmares into the real world.
When he opened his eyes, his heart leapt when he saw that the blast had discharged into the floor, and his daughter still lived.
“Are you ready to play nice?”
Tears flowed from his eyes. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll play your game … just don’t hurt them.”
“Good. I’ll give you one more chance. But if you try anything this time, I’ll get tired of this game and move on to another. You’ll like that game even less than you like this one. Let’s continue.”
Ackerman slammed the pistol back onto his lap.
This time, he didn’t pick it up. His mind reeled. There has to be a way out of this. I’m a good cop. I have to find a way to save my family. But what can I do? The madman has a shotgun pointed at my head, and if I fail again, we’re all as good as dead. From the corner of his mind, the only available path began to take form, but he pushed the thought away. It was too horrible. He couldn’t bring himself to consider the possibility. And yet, he did.
When he looked into his wife’s eyes, he knew that she had followed the same train of thought to the only possible conclusion. If only one of them could survive, it had to be Ashley.
The look in Emily’s eyes conveyed what she was thinking. I love you. I understand. And it’s okay. His wife, the love of his life, the woman with whom he planned to grow old, nodded her head and closed her eyes.
He picked up the gun and raised his shaking hand. He placed his finger over the trigger, but he couldn’t bring himself to squeeze. He lowered the gun.
How can I kill the woman I love? He searched his mind again for an alternative. The only way to save his daughter was to kill her mother. An idea began to take form, but it was such a long shot.
He raised the gun again. He knew that he couldn’t move forward without his wife’s consent, but she had made her feelings clear. Her courage and resolve gave him the strength to do what had to be done.
He took aim and squeezed the trigger.
*
Jim sobbed into his hands. He prayed and begged for God’s forgiveness. He wanted the pain to end, but his beliefs told him that suicide might keep him from seeing his wife again in the next world. He couldn’t bear the thought of eternity without her.
The gun fell from his hand and struck the hardwood floor with a metallic thud.
Ackerman spoke as he reached down and sliced the rope that restrained Jim’s feet. “Well done. Let’s move onto another game. We’ll call this one … The Easy Way or the Hard Way. I’m going to give you a choice about how you die. Option number one is a shotgun blast to the back of the head. It would be quick and painless, but you would be very, very dead. Option number two is that I let you run out the backdoor. Of course, this means that you would have to leave your daughter behind, but don’t think about that. You don’t have a choice in the matter. If you stay, I’ll blow your head off, and she’ll be left alone with me anyway. Besides, I don’t care about your daughter. You’re much more fun to play with.
“I’ll give you a head start, and then I’ll come and find you. I won’t use the shotgun. I’ll use a knife. It will not be quick. It will be the most agonizing death that I can give you, but there is always the possibility that I won’t find you or that you could overpower me. That’s the decision that you have to make. Do you give up now and put an end to all your suffering, or do you hold on to the hope of salvation and face the possibility of a gruesome end? You have thirty seconds …”
With one last, long look at his baby girl, he stood and bounded toward the back door. He didn’t want to leave her behind, but he didn’t want her to watch him die either. Ackerman was right. He didn’t have any other choice.
His mind screamed one singular thought: revenge. He no longer cared about his own life or how he died, but the killer had given him a chance to avenge his wife’s death, and he would take it.
He exited the back of the house and ran headlong into the awaiting arms of the dark forest.
*
Behind Jim, in the kitchen of the trooper’s once-peaceful home, Francis Ackerman Jr. picked up the phone and dialed. The man on the other end of the line answered on the fifth ring.
“Hello, this is Father Joseph. How may I help you?”
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Silence answered.
“Are you there, Padre?”
The man on the end of the line exhaled slowly. “I’m here, Francis.”
“I’ve killed three tonight, and I’m about to do another … a cop.”
“Why do you call me? Is it just another of your games?”
“No. I just … I just needed someone to talk to. And you’re all I’ve got.” He clenched his eyes shut and fought back the tears. “I’m so tired, Father.”
“Through the Lord, you can find peace, but you have to want it.”
“I don’t believe in your God. I don’t want your heaven or your hell. I just want to sleep. I want darkness. Oblivion. I want it to be as if I never was.”
“It doesn’t work that way. One day, you will face judgment, whether you believe in God or not. But it’s not too late, Francis. Turn yourself in. I can help you. I can—”
“No one can help me. I’m far beyond your redemption.”
“No one is beyond redemption.” After a hesitation, Father Joseph said, “You can’t blame your father for all that you’ve become.”
Ackerman unconsciously rubbed at the scars on his hands and forearms as he thought about his father. He could still hear the man’s voice in his head; whispers in the dark. We’re going to play a game, Francis … Kill her … Kill her and the pain will stop …
“At some point, you have to take responsibility for your own actions,” the priest said. “He might have set you on this path, but you’ve chosen to walk down it. You have to want to stop.”
“I can’t stop. It’s all that I am. I’m a monster.”
“I don’t believe that. You wouldn’t keep reaching out to me if there wasn’t a part of you that wanted to be better than this.”
“Don’t presume to understand me, Padre. It doesn’t matter what I want. I wish that I was a real person, but I’m not. And I never will be. I’m broken, and no one can put me back together again. Besides, I’m just giving the people what they want.”
“No one wants this.”
“Sure they do. Do you know how many letters I received when I was in the institution? They want a villain. They’re fascinated by me. I’m their god. To some, anyway. Others just need to see people like me out there to make them feel better about the darkness inside themselves. To make them feel normal. And if some cop gets lucky and kills me, it doesn’t even matter. I’ll live on forever. They’ll study me in psychology classes. Others will duplicate my work. They’ll write books and produce documentaries. The longer I evade capture, the more victims I take, the more shocking my crimes … the more my legend grows.”
“You know what would really make you a legend? Turning your life around. Think about it. People would be truly fascinated by a man who could do the things that you’ve done and still find his way to the light. You could be the villain and the hero. The Bible says, ‘Joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance.’ There is a way to have everlasting life, Frank. I can show you. I can help you. You just need to turn yourself in.”
“Good night, Padre.”
“Wait. Don’t—”
Ackerman hung up the phone. He dried the tears from his eyes and checked the time. He knew the possibility existed that the officer might escape from his grasp, but they never did. He was too skilled at his job.
He would find his new friend, and he would make good on his promise. Jim would die a slow death. The cop would scream until his lungs filled with blood and he drowned on the same liquid that once pumped the life through his veins. In the end, however, the taking of Jim’s life paled in comparison to devouring his spirit, and he knew that he had broken the man. He had made Jim realize and appreciate all that he had taken for granted, and then, he had stripped it all away.
He placed the shotgun on the counter and removed a hunting knife from a sheath at his back. He slowly turned it in his hand, admiring the blade. He pondered the glorious suffering that he would soon administer. He would savor and prolong every moment of Jim’s agony and of his own ecstasy. Then, in the end, when every exquisite scream had been extracted and every avenue of torture had been exhausted, he would take Jim’s life.
*
Francis Ackerman strolled into the diner and took a seat at the counter.
After a moment, the waitress said, “What’ll it be, mister?”
He looked deep into her eyes. “Coffee and steak.”
She scribbled on her notepad. “How would you like that cooked?”
“Bloody.”
“Baked potato, salad?”
“Just steak and caffeine, thanks.”
He turned his attention toward the television set mounted on the wall. Something caught his eye, and he asked the waitress to turn up the volume.
“In an incident that has shocked the entire state of Colorado, three men, including two State Troopers, were brutally slain last night. A fourth victim is currently being treated for a gunshot wound to the head but is expected to make a full recovery.”
He leaned forward in his seat. Full recovery?
An image of a State Trooper at a podium replaced that of the anchorman. The subtitle read, Major Christian Steinhoff, Colorado State Patrol. He committed the name to memory. The perspiring policeman said, “Emily Morgan is expected to make a full recovery and has now regained consciousness. We will issue more details later, but according to Mrs. Morgan, an assailant matching the description of Francis Ackerman Jr. forced her husband to choose between her life and that of their daughter. Based on the findings of the preliminary investigation, we believe that the quick thinking of Trooper Jim Morgan saved his wife.”
The cop on the screen drank from a glass of water and continued. “Trooper Morgan and his partner, Trooper Tom Delaine, responded to a call a few weeks ago in which a young woman had been shot in the head. They had entered the residence in response to a domestic disturbance and found the woman lying in a pool of her own blood. They had thought she was dead, but upon further examination, she was found to be alive. The young woman had been shot in the head at an angle with a .22-caliber pistol, and the bullet had deflected off her skull. The impact knocked her unconscious but left her with a survivable wound.
“The wound to Emily Morgan’s head is almost identical to the wound sustained by the woman in the previous case. Although the previous incident involved a lower-caliber weapon, Trooper Morgan had gone to the shooting range on the day of the incident and still had his weapon loaded with a cheaper brand of ammo containing a lower grade of gunpowder. Although we can’t know for sure, we believe that Trooper Morgan successfully attempted to recreate the previous incident in order to save both his wife and daughter. Although Mrs. Morgan did lose pieces of her skull and ear and is being treated for swelling around the brain, she is expected to make a full recovery and is currently under our protection.”
He reclined back. I’ll be damned.
“Congratulations, Jim,” he said aloud. “Guess we’ll have to call that one a tie.”
He noticed that the older man sitting next to him at the counter held a spoonful of mashed potatoes halfway between his mouth and plate. He turned to find the man staring at him. A half-read newspaper rested on the counter in front of the older man, which undoubtedly contained a picture of the killer named Francis Ackerman Jr. The man trembled, and small chunks of mashed potatoes fell into his lap. The man didn’t seem to notice.
Ackerman sighed and shook his head. My work is never done. “Do you want to play a game?” he said.