Silent Kills Page 30

  The room before him was huge and cavernous, with vaulted stone ceilings and smooth tiled floors. But what drew his attention was the brick oven at the far end of the room. The fire in it was blazing, and a tall figure bent over a single sinister metal sliding tray attached to the oven, the steel blackened and stained with soot. Lee didn’t pause to consider the risk. He covered the yards between them in a dead run and launched himself at the figure, bringing him to the ground in a rugby tackle.

  The killer hit the floor hard, but wrenched from Lee’s grasp, slippery as an eel, and was on his feet in a flash. Lee grabbed for his ankles, catching his pant leg, but his opponent brought a knife down on his arm, slashing through his sleeve and into his wrist. Lee cried out and pulled away, rolling out of range of the knife. He was grateful for the heavy tweed jacket; the wound was not deep.

  He staggered to his feet and looked his foe dead in the face. Lee was struck by how pale his skin was. Tall and thin, almost cadaverous, he really did resemble a vampire. The only splash of color on his face was the bloodred lips, which were full and sensual. He was dressed like a nineteenth-century undertaker, in a black morning coat and stark white vest. He was younger than Lee had expected—judging by his unlined face, he wasn’t much older than Francois.

  To his surprise, the man smiled. “You’re too late, you know.” His voice was oddly stilted, as if he were trying to imitate an old-fashioned English accent.

  Looking past him, Lee saw that, lying on the metal tray, was Francois. His eyes were open but he appeared dazed. It was obvious he had been drugged.

  “Let him go,” Lee said.

  “Oh, and what—you’ll convince the prosecutor to go easy on me?” The tall young man laughed, his voice dry as sandpaper. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Think about what you’re doing,” Lee said, taking a step toward him.

  “As if I haven’t already!” the killer replied, brandishing the knife with both hands. “Come, now—you’ve been profiling me for weeks now, haven’t you?”

  “What do you mean?” Lee said, figuring if he could keep him talking, maybe he could stall for time until help arrived—if it ever did. Behind him, Francois stirred and lifted one hand weakly, but didn’t speak.

  “I know who you are,” the killer said. “You’re the profiler.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Oh, that shouldn’t surprise you. My type of offender likes to keep abreast of developments in his case, right?”

  “If you say so.”

  “I also know that you lost your sister too—just like me. Well, not exactly like me, but close enough.”

  “So that’s what started it,” Lee murmured. “I thought it might be a brother.”

  “Well, now you know,” the killer sneered. “And don’t try that ‘I-know-just-how-you-feel’ crap on me. It won’t work.”

  “Okay,” Lee said, his eyes on the knife. It was long, a good eight inches, and sturdy looking, with a nasty jagged edge at the tip. He clutched his arm where the blade had sunk in; his jacket was wet with blood.

  “Only one of us will leave this room alive,” his opponent stated calmly. “And I wouldn’t put odds on it being you.”

  “Why did you do it—why drain their blood?”

  The young man smiled. “You’re the profiler. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “I think you’re afraid to die, like your sister.”

  The killer snorted. “And they pay you for that? That’s pathetic!”

  “So tell me what I’m missing.”

  “I have a better idea—I’ll show you!”

  With that, he turned around, swooped toward the oven, and pressed a switch. The tray slid on its metal wheels toward the open flame.

  “No!” Lee cried, and dove for the switch. The killer threw himself on top of him, and he felt the blade sink into his back. He managed to press the switch before sliding to the ground. He looked up to see the killer hovering over him, that strange smile still on his face. He saw the upraised knife and kicked toward the hand holding it, but missed. He was having trouble focusing; the dizziness he had felt earlier was returning and his vision was rapidly dimming. He saw the blade descend, and rolled to the side.

  He tried to get to his feet, but couldn’t seem to make his legs obey. The flames licked and flickered orange inside their brick prison, mesmerizing him. He could feel his will and consciousness slipping away as the killer put a foot on his chest and smiled down at him.

  “I said you were too late.”

  Above him, the flash of steel as the blade descended.

  Lee closed his eyes and waited for the knife to rip into his flesh. And waited—but nothing happened. He opened his eyes just as Francois heaved himself off his metal bed and staggered toward them. As he did, he pulled one of the stakes from its leather straps on the front of his vest. The killer turned too, in time to see the wooden stake in Francois’s upraised hand. With a roar, Francois lunged forward and thrust the stake into his opponent’s chest. Instead of falling away from him, the killer wrapped his arms around Francois, pulling him close.

  “Francois—look out!” Lee cried, but it was too late. The knife was buried to the hilt in his torso. The blood of the two young men burst forth from their bodies, combining as it streamed to the floor. They sank to the ground, face-to-face in a death embrace.

  Lee pulled himself to his hands and knees and crawled over to them. He pressed his fingers to Francois’s neck, searching for a pulse. When he found it, his heart leapt with hope, but the throbbing of the boy’s carotid artery was faint.

  “Francois!” he said. “Stay with me!”

  The boy’s eyes opened and he smiled up at Lee.

  “Don’t worry,” he said dreamily. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be fine.” There was no pain in his face, only peace. He tried to speak again, but blood gurgled up into his mouth. His eyes closed again for the last time as the life drained from his body.

  “Francois!” Lee cried, but he knew it was too late. He felt for a pulse in the other boy’s neck, but it was clear he too was gone. His eyes were open and staring in the direction of the leaping flames in the open oven of the crematorium.

  Lee looked at the two of them, side by side, entwined in each other’s arms like lovers, together forever in death. A gaping emptiness filled his soul as he gazed at them. Sitting on the floor now slippery with the blood of two young men, he wept.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  “Shit,” said Butts. “You probably have a damn concussion.”

  They were in the back of an ambulance, the rain still thundering like bullets against the metal roof. Lee lay on a stretcher, an IV attached to his arm, while Butts hovered over him, looking wet and miserable. He had discarded his aviator cap, but the goggles now dangled around his neck, the lenses opaque from condensed moisture.

  Butts repeated his concern to the young ambulance attendant, a stern-looking black woman with a thick, tightly fastened bun of dark hair and large, luminous eyes.

  “He’s probably got a concussion, you think? That’s a nasty bump on his head.”

  The paramedic pulled out a penlight and shined it into Lee’s eyes. “That’s what I’m trying to determine.”

  The concentrated beam of light made him squint and blink. His head throbbed, and he pressed a finger to his temple.

  “So whaddya think?” Butts said, peering over her shoulder.

  “Possibly,” she said, feeling Lee’s pulse. “Does your head hurt?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “It does, actually.”

  “But that could be from other things, right?” Butts asked. “For instance—”

  The paramedic turned to face him. “Detective, I understand you’re concerned about your friend, but it’ll go a lot faster if you let me ask the questions.”

  “Sorry,” Butts said. “I didn’t mean to interfere.”

  “Do you feel dizzy?” she asked Lee.

  “A little, yeah.”

  “Nauseous?”


  “Somewhat.”

  “Any blurred vision?”

  “Earlier I had some. It’s better now.”

  “Loss of consciousness?”

  “Right after the accident, yeah.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “Shit,” said Butts, evidently unable to help himself. “Sounds like a damn concussion.”

  “We’re going to keep you under observation for a while,” the young paramedic said, and ducked outside to speak with one of the dozen or so police officers now working the crime scene. Butts had arrived within fifteen minutes of the final confrontation, and what looked like half the city of Troy police force had shown up shortly afterwards.

  Lee gazed out at the twirling red lights of a second ambulance parked a few yards away. Another paramedic huddled under the archway, sucking at a damp cigarette, his shoulders hunched against the cold.

  “How did you manage to find me again?” Lee asked.

  “We did a GPS trace on your cell phone.”

  “Good idea. Smart thinking on your part.”

  Butts sighed. “It was Krieger’s idea, actually.”

  Lee smiled. “That sounds like her.”

  The ambulance door opened, and Detective Krieger climbed inside.

  “Well, how are we feeling?” she asked, peering down at him. She was still wearing her Egyptologist costume, and looked as stunning as ever, still crisp and fresh in her tight khaki outfit.

  “I’m okay,” Lee said.

  “He’s got a concussion,” Butts said.

  “Have you identified the UNSUB yet?” Lee asked, ignoring Butts.

  “His name is David Adrastos,” Krieger replied. “Comes from a wealthy family. His father made a fortune in shipping. Lived alone in Riverdale—we have a team over there now searching his house.”

  Her cell phone rang. She dug it out of her jacket pocket and answered it.

  “Krieger here.” Even in his dazed state, Lee couldn’t help noticing the creamy flesh hiding underneath the jacket. “Really?” she said. “Okay—thanks.”

  “What is it?” Butts asked after she hung up.

  “They found an older woman in one of the upstairs bedrooms. They think it might be a relative. He didn’t drain her blood, though.”

  “Maybe he killed her to keep her from revealing his secret,” Lee suggested.

  “Maybe. So far he fits your profile pretty well, in any case,” Krieger said.

  “Sorry about the kid—what’s his name?” Butts said.

  “Francois,” said Lee.

  “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

  “Me too.”

  “You did everything you could,” said Krieger.

  “Yeah. I know.”

  That didn’t make it feel any better. Another young life snuffed out—two, in fact. No matter what anyone might think of the so-called Van Cortlandt Vampire, he was a human being, a young man in the prime of life, and it was still a loss. Too much damn loss lately, Lee thought.

  He looked out at the lone paramedic huddled in the cold stone archway. The man took one final drag on his cigarette and tossed it on the ground. The glowing embers flickered for a moment, then died, drowned in the onslaught of pouring rain.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  Lee Campbell stood at his front window watching as night fell over the East Village. The last lingering rays of the sun bounced off the great rose window of the Ukrainian church across the street, casting a halo around the stained-glass saints in their long robes. The days were getting shorter now, and the saints would have their hour in the sun earlier and earlier, until the rays were entirely blocked by the buildings of midtown.

  A young couple huddled together on the steps of the church, heads intertwined like two nesting birds. The girl’s hair was dark; the boy’s was roan red, the same shade as the bricks on the apartment building next door. His hair blazed in the soft glow of the setting sun—it looked as if his head was on fire. Passion, fire, blood, anger ... all these things drove David Adrastos, Lee thought, but the forces that forged him were beyond his control. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for the boy. More than any case he had consulted on, his heart went out to this young man, and his desperate search for something to fill the void inside him. Except that nothing could, of course. The black hole in his soul continued to grow, until it began devouring him and the people around him.

  The police search of David’s house had answered a lot of Lee’s questions, and confirmed his theories. There were pictures and mementoes of David’s dead sister everywhere, and it didn’t take long to find out what had killed her. And it wasn’t hard to extrapolate that’s when his obsessions began—though Lee could only guess at the toxic family atmosphere that allowed them to grow and take root. Grief-stricken mother, distant father, everyone so preoccupied with the dying child that the surviving one comes to feel he doesn’t exist. Lee knew that kind of identity annihilation could turn tragic or violent—or both.

  And poor Francois. He couldn’t help wonder if he were in the boy’s place if he would have done the same. Someday he might very well come face-to-face with his sister’s killer—and then what? Would rage envelop him as it had Francois, dragging him down in its fatal embrace?

  The sun slid across the front of the church and onto the young couple on the steps, bathing them in its soft glow. Lee was looking forward to the coming fall, the long nights and short days—all the more precious because they were so brief. As the days gathered in length, they seemed to lose some of their meaning. But now that fall was here, a deep sense of peace settled over him as he watched the slowly descending twilight, the sky a faint pink in the western sky.

  The phone rang. It was Chuck.

  “Hey, it’s me.” He sounded sheepish.

  “Hi.”

  “Look, about that whole thing—”

  “Forget it.”

  “I feel so stupid. I ... oh, hell, Lee, who am I kidding?”

  “About what?”

  He could hear the long, slow intake of the breath on the other end of the line.

  “I just—I mean, I can’t ... oh, hell, I can’t imagine ever living without her.”

  “Okay.”

  “Shit, don’t say it like that.”

  “How should I say it? Look, I can’t tell you what’s right for you. I just don’t want you to—”

  “To be a sucker? A sap? Whipped? Well, maybe that’s what I am, so deal with it.”

  “Okay.”

  Another pause. “Look, that guy calling you about your sister ... we’ll get him.”

  “He hasn’t broken any laws.”

  “I know, but we’ll get him.”

  “I know you will. Thanks for calling, and good luck with—well, good luck.”

  “Shit, Lee. What do you think, I’m an idiot?”

  “No. I think you’re a sap.”

  Chuck laughed, which made him laugh too.

  “Okay, then, we’re both saps.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know how I feel.”

  “Sure I do.”

  “And don’t tell me you wouldn’t walk through goddamn fire for Kathy.”

  “Maybe I would. So what?”

  “Sucker.”

  They both laughed again. The mood had lightened between them—unaccountably, even with all that had happened. The capture of the Van Cortlandt Vampire had lifted such a great weight from their shoulders that nothing else seemed all that important—not even women and love and loss and betrayal.

  “Let’s talk in a few months and see who the real sucker is,” said Lee.

  “Yeah, right,” said Chuck. “You hear from Kathy?”

  Lee had finally confided in his friend about the trouble between them—given the situation with Susan, it seemed only fair.

  “Nope,” he said.

  “You okay?”

  “Yep.” And it was true. He was okay. He had been forced to put a lot of things on hold
in his life, so why not this too? That’s how it felt, like it was on hold between them.

  “You, uh, still on for tennis Sunday?”

  “Sure.”

  “You bring the rackets, and I’ll bring the—”

  “Good night, Chuck.” He heard the sound of his friend’s laughter as he hung up, and was glad. That feeling was mixed with other emotions, but there would be time for them later.

  He had a sudden urge to view the sunset from the roof of his building. He trudged up to the fifth floor and pushed open the fire door that led to the roof. The air was clear and thin, the lights across the river in New Jersey twinkling softly. The band of water visible between Manhattan and the western shore was flat and grey. From this distance it looked completely still, though Lee knew the river was never really still. The Hudson was restless, always moving, the tides either coming in or going out.

  He stood and looked out over the water. He wished Kathy were here with him, but he also understood that his own rage had helped drive them apart. Somehow, though, it felt right, at least for now. Here, at dusk in early fall, he had no desire to predict what the future might hold. The need to control his destiny slipped away as the sun sank slowly in the evening sky.

  He loved the river and its many moods. Like the city it enfolded, it was unquiet and turbulent, forever coming and going, never content to remain in one place. He had seen the Mississippi, the Delaware, and the Ohio, but they all seemed muddy overgrown streams next to the Hudson. It was as dynamic as the people who lived along its banks, from Battery Park to Saratoga and beyond. Lee knew that no matter where else his life might lead, he would always come back to this place—this river valley and the beleaguered, heartbreaking city he called home.

  Don’t miss

  C. E. Lawrence’s next mesmerizing thriller,

  Silent Slaughter

  coming from Pinnacle in December 2012.

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