So Close the Hand of Death. J.T. Ellison
red.
He realized he had the most intense erection. For the briefest of moments, he imagined touching himself, the candy-red wrapping around the hardened flesh, and that was enough to drive him right over the edge.
Sated, trying to catch his breath, he stowed the gun inside his jacket and brought out the camera. He took fifteen shots, from various angles and distances, then returned to the boy and did the same. He glanced at his watch. Just past midnight. Time to go.
He loped off into the woods, along the well-trodden path that led to the lake, pleased with the night’s adventure, already thinking ahead to the next step. His nerves were gone now. He got to use the knife next.
Nashville, Tennessee
Midnight
Taylor Jackson started awake, heart hammering in her throat. She rarely slept soundly, but she must have been deeply under; she felt like she was swimming through the murky gray matter of her brain, trying to get the synapses to fire and open her eyes. Something had wakened her, something loud and close.
She reached her hand under the pillow, felt the cold steel of her Glock. Trying not to rustle the sheets, she drew the weapon to her chest, got a good grip on it, then bolted upright from the bed, gun sighted on the blank darkness of her room.
She heard the noise again and felt a chill move down her spine. An owl.
Shuddering, she lay back down and secreted the gun in its resting spot. She crossed her hands on her chest and willed her heart rate back to normal. The ceiling seemed closer than usual, moon spikes traversed the luminous paint.
Just this afternoon, her friend—if you could call Ariadne that—told Taylor the owl was her totem, her spirit guide. The owl would bring signs to her world. Not that Taylor really believed any of that mumbo jumbo; the Pagan priestess was full of warnings and prevarications. But hearing the owl hoot once more—that made three distinct hoots—she felt the dread begin to build. If she were to listen to Ariadne, she had to call this a sign.
She didn’t need an owl to tell her things were about to go south. It had only been forty-eight hours since she’d been forced to shoot and kill a teenage boy. Time was not healing her wounds. If anything, she was worse now than the day of the shooting.
She rolled over, trying to force the boy’s face from her mind. “Think about something else,” Ariadne had told her. “It will get better.”
That was a lie, though. It wasn’t getting better. As a matter of fact, things were devolving rather quickly. She knew what was about to happen. She could feel it in her bones. She didn’t need hooting owls or witches to tell her trouble was coming; her own gut instinct was on fire.
Her greatest enemy was finally making his move.
She stared at the ceiling. The Pretender, that psychopathic son of a bitch, had kidnapped Pete Fitzgerald, her dear friend Fitz, her sergeant and father figure. He’d held him and tortured him, but allowed him to live. A testament to the power the Pretender had, he held life and death in the palm of his hand. She understood the point loud and clear—he could take her. Anytime, anywhere.
He left behind a present for Taylor, a mockery of her abilities, and a warning, in an old Airstream trailer in the mountains of North Carolina. There was a note attached to Fitz’s detached eyeball, written in Hebrew. Ayin tahat ayin. The translation quite literal: an eye for an eye.
Fitz may be breathing, but he’d been disfigured for life. She had no idea what other damage had been inflicted, could only imagine the worst.
But she’d know soon enough. She was heading to Nags Head, North Carolina, in a few hours to bring him home.
She rolled over, the sheets tangling in her legs. She kicked at the whisper-soft fabric, let them settle around her like an obedient cloud.
The darkness filled her again, her mind still working in overdrive. The feeling that everything was falling apart, that she’d lost her edge, crept back in. The past two days had been among the worst in her life. Two days of recalling every moment in her head, the gun kicking in her palm, the sting in her wrist as she fired again, and again, the ringing in her ears deafening, the look of pure shock, and hatred, in the boy’s eyes. For the thousandth time she wondered, Could I have done differently? Of course not, he’d drawn down on her. Suicide by cop, they called the phenomenon. The disturbed suspect trying to get the officer to end it for him because he didn’t have the courage to end it himself.
Her mind shifted back to Fitz, to the pain he must be in, to visions of what it must have been like having his eye taken out. She prayed he’d been unconscious. She felt the gorge rise in her throat. Just speaking to him had dragged her out of her funk, momentarily. When he’d called, to tell her he was alive and okay, he hadn’t gone into the details of his ordeal. But he had given her a message from the Pretender, oblique and taunting. Two words, full of meaning.
“He said to tell you, ‘Let’s play.’”
She rolled back the other way, punched the pillow to get the goose down plumped up, then smashed her head into the softness. It wasn’t just the shooting and Fitz’s pain that had her disturbed.
Let’s play.
The Pretender hadn’t been terribly subtle. There had been phone calls to the house. The bullet and note left in her mailbox while she was out of the country, chasing yet another madman—always another madman out there, waiting to be found… The all-pervasive feeling that she was being watched. The lengthy silence from Fitz, his reappearance, was the real message. See what power I have, Taylor? I can touch those closest to you, anytime I want.
The Pretender wouldn’t be satisfied with hurting her friends. Not anymore.
Let’s play.
She wished Baldwin were home. His enforced return to Quantico meant he’d been away for the past two days. She didn’t realize just how much she needed him, had come to depend on his logic, and comfort, until he was gone. She’d been faced with one of her biggest challenges, had made it through just fine, but she longed to have him near. A small flash of happiness came over her. She’d see him tomorrow, if his disciplinary hearing didn’t keep him longer. If tomorrow ever came.
The clock read 12:17 a.m. now.
With a deep sigh, she got out of the bed. She pulled on a pair of black yoga pants, slid the Glock .40 into the waistband at the back. It was heavy, and dragged on the elastic, so she tightened the strings. There, that was better.
Her beloved pool table was just the length of a hallway away. Once in the bonus room, she turned on a banker’s lamp, the green cap casting an unearthly glow across the shadows. She flipped on the television. It was tuned to Fox News, and one of her favorite shows was on. Red Eye never ceased to amuse her; she especially liked the Halftime Report with Andy Levy. If she couldn’t cry tonight, maybe she could laugh.
She pulled the cover off the table and took her time chalking her stick, listening to the television with one ear. She racked, broke, pocketed the balls in turn, then did it again.
The owl affected her more than anything she’d experienced before. Maybe she’d finally bought into the witch’s insight. Ariadne had told Taylor she had no choice in the shooting, that she’d saved lives, that it was the right thing to do. She’d told Taylor Fitz would live, but be hurt. That Taylor and Baldwin were inextricably linked, and she could, and should, depend on him. Ariadne had insinuated herself into Taylor’s life, acting as a surrogate in Baldwin’s absence. So Taylor hadn’t been totally alone with her worries. Which was good, because she couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was collapsing around her. The Pretender was coming for her, and this time, he wouldn’t be satisfied with passing her in the night.
She didn’t know why he’d chosen this particular moment to act, to reach out. Why he’d chosen her in the first place, truth be told. He was a threat to her very existence, that she did know. Alarms and guns and protection aside, he wanted her for something.
Let’s play.
She