The Crucifix Killer Part 16

Where the h.e.l.l am I?

How long have I been unconscious?

How did I get here?

Very slowly his memories started to form. The knock on the door. The excitement of seeing Rafael again. The strange intruder that had shown up at his rented apartment. The one-sided struggle, the confusion, the pain and then the syringe.

He felt dizzy, weak, hungry, thirsty and scared. His hands were resting over his chest, but they weren't tied. He tried to move them, but there simply wasn't enough s.p.a.ce. They touched what felt like unplaned wooden planks, his fingers feeling the splintery texture. He made an effort to scream but the gag in his mouth kept him from making a sound.

George tried moving his legs, but he could only manage one inch or so before they hit another wall in front of him.

A box, I'm inside a wooden box, he thought as panic started to take over.

I've gotta get out of here.

He jerked his body violently from side to side, his legs trying to kick out, his hands sc.r.a.ping away on the wood until all his nails were broken, but his efforts were not rewarded. He started to feel claustrophobic, making him more desperate.

He knew panicking wouldn't help. He needed to work with whatever little knowledge of the situation he had. He took a moment to calm himself down. Concentrating on his heartbeat he took deep breaths. After a minute it started to work. George urged his brain to think. He tried to gather all the information he had so far. He'd been attacked, drugged, taken hostage and placed inside some sort of wooden box. He could feel the blood flowing normally through his body, and that told him the box was in an upright position instead of lying down. That brought him some relief. If the box had been in a horizontal position it could mean he was underground buried alive inside some kind of coffin, and that petrified him. From a very young age George had been terrified of confined s.p.a.ces. He was only ten when his mother beat him senseless and locked him inside a wardrobe for twelve hours with no food and no water. His crime falling off his bike and tearing his brand-new pair of trousers at the knee.

He kicked his legs against the wooden walls again. They felt solid, as if the box had been nailed shut.

'Would you stop making all that noise?'

The voice took George by surprise. Someone else was there. George's heart started beating faster. He tried to scream once again, but the gag in his mouth was too tight and he produced only a m.u.f.fled grunt.

'It won't be very long now.'

George could feel the panic coming back. What wouldn't be long? Until he was freed or until he was dead? He needed to get rid of the gag in his mouth. He knew that if he could speak he would be able to reason with whoever else was there. That's what he knew how to do talk to people. As a lawyer he had negotiated million-dollar deals. He had convinced juries and judges that his side of an argument was the correct one. If he was given the chance he was sure he could reason with his captor. If only he could speak.

He jerked his body once again, making even more noise, hysteria starting to take over.

'That won't help you.'

Suddenly George froze. He knew that voice, he was sure he'd heard it before, but where? He made more noise.

'Suit yourself, if you wanna make noise, go right ahead.'

There was no doubt in George's mind anymore. He knew that person. He closed his eyes in an effort to search his memory. Where had they met before? In the office? In a court of law? Where? George implored his memory to help him.

'Jesus!' he said, s.h.i.+vering and reopening his eyes. It had been at a party, a BDSM party. It all came back to him. He could clearly picture the person's face in his mind.

'I know you . . . I know who you are . . .'

Twenty-Four.

Lucas stared at the race result on his computer screen. Garcia was trying his best to look over everyone's shoulders and get a glimpse of it. Hunter kept his eyes shut, too nervous to look.

'We lost,' Lucas's voice croaked. 'Trap two won it, trap five got second.' He had to force himself to look at Hunter.

'No,' Garcia said, his voice barely audible. He made an effort not to be sick and tasted his breakfast rise in his throat.

Captain Bolter pushed Lucas aside so he could get a better look at the screen.

's.h.i.+t! I should've picked trap two, I was between two and five I should've gone for two,' Lucas said, collapsing onto his chair.

Captain Bolter's eyes were still on the screen. The result read: 1st trap two, 2nd trap five, 3rd trap eight 1st trap two, 2nd trap five, 3rd trap eight. 'It's not your fault,' he finally said, placing a friendly hand on Lucas's shoulder.

Hunter was still silent. His eyes closed, his hands tucked inside his pockets. After a few more seconds he looked at Garcia and mouthed the words ' 'I can't believe this.'

Everyone stood motionless. No one knew what to say. Hunter wanted to scream and punch Lucas's computer screen, but he kept his anger locked inside.

Hunter's cell phone rang once again startling everyone. He snapped it out of his pocket and checked the display. A gentle nod towards Captain Bolter indicated that the caller was who they expected it to be.

'Yes,' Hunter said in a defeated tone of voice.

'Unlucky.'

'Wait . . .' Hunter pleaded but it was too late, the line went dead.

'Turn it off,' Captain Bolter pointed to Lucas's computer screen. 'There's no need for any more dog racing today.'

Lucas closed his browser and glanced at Hunter. 'I'm sorry, man, if I'd had some more time . . .'

Hunter knew Lucas had done his best. As he'd said, if it were that easy, everyone would be making money out of gambling.

'Hunter, Garcia, we need to talk,' Captain Bolter's voice was firm. This was not going to plan, at least not to the plan he had in mind. He walked back to his office, his heavy footsteps echoing throughout the silent room. Hunter and Garcia followed him in silence.

'What the h.e.l.l's going on?' Captain Bolter said, even before Garcia had closed the door behind him.

'What do you think, Captain? The killer's at it again, only this time he made me choose. If I picked the correct dog the victim would live.'

'That last phone call, did he tell you where the new victim is?'

'No, not yet.'

'He's playing games now?'

'It sure as h.e.l.l seems like it.'

Captain Bolter turned and faced the window. Fifteen long silent seconds followed before he spoke again. 'Why? He's never done it before. He's never given you a chance to save a victim. Why now? Why dog racing?'

'I couldn't tell you why now or why he's chosen dog racing, but the logical conclusion for why he's playing games is that he wants to share the guilt.'

'What? Are you for real?' the captain asked incredulously.

'It's a psychological game, Captain. He wants to share the guilt with someone, in this case, me. He wants me to feel like I played a hand on the victim's death by not picking the winner I'm just as guilty as he is.'

Captain Bolter turned to face both detectives. 'Are you telling me that all of a sudden this guy's feeling too guilty? He's feeling remorseful?' His irritation was carrying through to his voice.

'I'm not sure.'

'Well, you're the one with the big brain.'

'It's a possibility, who knows?' Hunter said after a small pause. 'In all the previous killings it was only the two of them, the killer against the victim. There was nothing anybody could do. It was the killer's decision to kill. By making me pick a dog the killer has brought me into the equation. In the killer's mind the decision to kill doesn't belong to him anymore. It belongs to me.'

'As if you had told him to do it?' Garcia asked.

'Yes,' Hunter said with a nod. 'And because he feels the decision to kill isn't his anymore . . .'

'He feels he's not as guilty,' Captain Bolter concluded.

'He might also be hoping to increase the frustration and consequently slow the investigation down,' Hunter confirmed.

'Well, it's definitely adding to my frustration,' Captain Bolter shot back.

'Or he may just be playing games for the h.e.l.l of it.'

Captain Bolter shook his head. 'He's f.u.c.king with us, that's what he's doing.'

'It looks like he's been doing that for a while, Captain,' Garcia said, immediately regretting his words.

The captain looked at him like a hungry Rottweiler ready to attack. 'Have you identified the first victim yet?'

'Not yet, Captain, but we're meeting someone on Friday that might give us a lead.'

'We're not moving very fast on this, are we?'

'We're moving as fast as we can.' Hunter's turn to sound irritated.

'Let's hope that this lead of yours turns out to be something real. This is starting to turn into a G.o.dd.a.m.n circus, and I hate circuses.'

Hunter understood the anger in the captain's voice it was the same anger he had bottled up inside. They knew the killer was about to claim a new victim, but they didn't know when, they didn't know where and they didn't know who. They were playing a losing game. There was nothing they could do but wait for the next phone call.

Twenty-Five.

Hunter arrived at Weyburn Avenue at exactly one o'clock. The street was buzzing with university students on their lunch break looking for the cheapest meal deal they could find. Burger bars and pizza parlors seemed to be the preferred choice. It didn't take him long to find the Pancetta restaurant tucked away between a Pizza Hut Express and a stationery store.

The restaurant entrance was pleasantly decorated with colorful flowers and plants, all in a red, green and white theme. The place was small and it resembled a typical Italian cantina. Its squared wooden tables were covered with red and white checked tablecloths. A strong but pleasant smell of provolone cheese mixed with bresaola and salami greeted customers.

Hunter waited at the restaurant entrance for a moment, observing the waiters moving in between tables. His eyes browsed the entire room. Isabella hadn't arrived yet. The maitre d' showed him to a corner table next to an open window. As he made his way through the restaurant floor, two women, no older than twenty-five, followed him with their eyes. Hunter couldn't help noticing it and returned the compliment with a confident smile, which in turn was met with a shy giggle and a s.e.xy wink from the dark-haired one.

He placed his jacket over the back of his chair and sat facing the entrance door. Out of habit he checked his cell phone for any missed messages or calls there weren't any. He ordered a Diet c.o.ke and had a quick look at the menu. He wondered if he'd recognize Isabella. His memory of the weekend was pretty hazy.

The events of yesterday still played in his mind. Why greyhound racing? If the killer wanted to gamble, why not horse racing or roulette or something more common? Was there some hidden meaning behind it all? And as the captain had said, why has the killer started playing games now? Guilt? Repentance? Hunter didn't buy that. His thoughts were disrupted by the waiter who had just finished pouring his drink into an icy gla.s.s. As he had his first sip his attention was drawn to the restaurant door.

Dressed casually in a thin, white, cotton blouse tucked into tight, faded, blue jeans with black cowboy boots and belt to match, Isabella looked prettier than he remembered. Her long dark hair fell loose over her shoulders and her olive-green eyes carried an intriguing sparkle.

Hunter raised his hand to catch her attention, but Isabella had already noticed him sitting by the window. With a pleasant smile she made her way towards his table. Hunter stood up and was about to extend his hand for the conventional handshake when she leaned forward and kissed him twice, once on each cheek. Her perfume was citrusy and subtle. He held out the chair opposite his offering her a seat, a gentleman-like gesture that was very much unlike him. He waited for her to sit down before going back to his chair.

'So you found it OK?' she asked in a cheerful voice.

'Yeah, no problem. It looks like a very nice restaurant,' he said, looking around.

'Oh it is, trust me.' She renewed her smile. 'The food here is very tasty tasty.'

'Touche,' he thought. 'I'm sorry about that. That sentence came out all wrong yesterday. Sometimes my brain works faster than my lips and words don't come out quite as I'd like them to.'

'It's OK. It made me laugh.'

'So, you work at the University?' Hunter changed the subject.

'Yes.'

'Medical or biological department?'

Isabella looked baffled for an instant. 'Biomedical research actually. Wait, how did you know? Oh G.o.d! Please tell me I don't smell of formaldehyde.' She subtly brought her right wrist to her nose.

Hunter laughed. 'No, you don't. You smell terrific to be honest.'

'Thank you, that's quite sweet. But tell me, how did you know?'

'Observation really.' Hunter played it down.

'Observation? Please tell me more.'

'I just pick up on silly things that most people don't.'

'Like what?'

'Just above your wrist line there's a slight depression,' he said, tilting his head towards her hands. 'As if you've been wearing tight rubber bands around both of your wrists. The white powder residue around your cuticles is consistent with cornstarch powder, which you know is used in surgical gloves. My guess is that you've been wearing gloves all morning.'

'Wow. That's quite impressive.' She looked at her hands for a couple of seconds. 'But the powder on my fingers could be from chalk. That means that I could be a professor at the University. And I could teach any subject, not just biomedical,' she challenged Hunter.

'Different kind of powder,' he shot back with conviction. 'Cornstarch is much finer and a lot harder to wash off, that's why you have it only around your cuticles and not your fingers. Plus you have it on both of your hands. So unless you're an ambidextrous professor, I'll stick with my surgical gloves theory.'

She stared at him in silence. A nervous smile played on her lips.