The Holiday Killer (12 page)

The steady beep of the pulse monitor woke Liz from her sleep and she rolled over, swatting as though to turn off the alarm. She hissed in pain and sat up slowly, the bandages on her arms, stomach, and face sticking to the skin beneath.

"Easy," Lisa said, climbing from her seat and resting her hand gently on Liz's back, as though trying to steady her without touching anything painful. "You got pretty burned, Liz. Your body needs to lie still for a while."

Lisa was covered in a suit, like a hazmat suit, with a mask covering her face and a net over her hair, as though the people operating the burn ward were afraid she'd catch something.

"What happened?" Liz asked, her voice little more than a wheeze. She needed a drink.

Lisa helped her with a glass of water, then eased her back down onto the mattress. "What do you remember?"

Liz thought for a second, trying to ignore the pain in her head. "I remember the fire and the shooting and—" She froze, looking at Lisa. "Phil."

"Phil? He's at home, getting some rest. He and Bill have been here constantly for the last three days, I had to send them home for rest, under the promise that I would let them know as soon as you woke up. What has he got to do with this?"

Liz tried shaking her head, but it pulled the skin on her face, so she decided it was best not to move for the time being. "No, he's not, Lisa. I shot him between the eyes."

Lisa's eyes bulged, but she stood up and hit a buzzer by the side of the bed. "I told them they were giving you too much morphine. You're hallucinating."

"No, I'm not, I'm—"

She was interrupted by one of the nurses bustling into the ward. She marched quickly over to the bed and smiled tiredly at Lisa.

"What's the problem this time?"

"She's making no sense. You need to drop the dose."

"I'm sorry, but I can't drop the dose without a doctor's order. And the only doctor on call tonight is a crotchety old bastard. You're better off waiting until tomorrow, with the new shift, and getting one of them to do it. It won't do her any harm to wait a few hours." The nurse gave Lisa a look.

Lisa threw up her hands. "How are we meant to get any breakthroughs with this investigation if you're all standing in the way of it?" she demanded of the woman. "First the burns kept her out, and now you're keeping her high!"

"That's enough!" the nurse snapped, her patience gone. "You can either try to make your way through her confusion tonight, or you can go home and wait for tomorrow. It's up to you."

Lisa glared at the woman, then sat down heavily next to Liz. Liz smiled hesitantly through the gauze at her ex-partner, who was glaring angrily at the nurse.

"It's okay, Lisa," Liz said, her eyelids dropping; between the drugs, the pain, and the argument, she was exhausted, unable to remember why she even hated Lisa. "You'll see I'm right when you go home. You'll see…"

Liz's eyes fluttered open to the same fluorescent light to which she'd fallen asleep. She didn't know whether it was morning, afternoon, or night—only that the nurses that walked past her were different.

"Hello again, sleepy head."

Liz's eyes widened and she turned her head to look at the man beside her. He was covered in the same gown, mask, and net that Lisa had been wearing the last time Liz awoke. And she'd recognize his voice anywhere. "How did you get in here?"

"They let me in. Amazing what you can do when you're the ex-husband of the patient." Phil put his feet up on the bed and leaned back in his chair. "I heard you had a little run-in with my doppelganger?"

"You could say that." Liz eyed the man warily, then noticed the cast on his right arm.

It hadn't been there in the warehouse, and that confused her. He'd broken bones falling down her stairs, and she'd shot him between the eyes. Was she hallucinating, or was there another copycat out there, who looked similar to Phil?

An uneasy feeling crept up her neck, and she wasn't sure if it was the drugs, if it was real, or even if she'd actually been there. Maybe there'd been a fire at home, and she'd been hurt there?

"Heard you gave my doppelganger the same treatment you did Mark Windsor." He smiled. "Or, at least, you tried to."

Liz pressed the buzzer, feeling sick. "He was going to kill me. I had no choice."

"And that's what you'll keep telling the police when they investigate, and it's what you'll tell yourself at night to help you sleep. But we both know it's not the truth." Phil dropped his feet, leaning in close to whisper in her ear and ignoring the nurses who appeared, asking what was wrong. "And only the truth shall set you free. Just like it will me."

"I don't want any visitors," she said to the nurses, ignoring Phil's words. "Please get him out of here."

One of the nurses tutted and bustled Phil out of the room, but not before Liz had a chance to muse on his words. It was just too much for her at the moment, so she gently leaned against the hospital bed, careful not to aggravate her burns, and asked for an extra dose of painkillers.

The nurses finished writing down vitals and left Liz to herself, in her single room without even another patient for company. She crept down on the bed, trying not to rip the scabs over her face, hands and side. She didn't even have the comfort of a blanket to snuggle into, because its weight on her burns would be excruciating
.

Was it really Phil?
she asked, in spite of herself.
Did I really kill him? Or was I just dreaming? And what did he just say to me? 'Only the truth shall set you free'? What did he mean?

She waited for the painkillers to send her off to sleep, willing her head to shut up for a few minutes.

Another abducted child was reported while Liz was in the hospital, and she supposed it was only logical that Mark Windsor would be back on the prowl during all the major holidays, now that he'd admitted that he'd been hiding in plain sight. New Year's Eve was primetime for kidnapping, and she couldn't help but feel responsible. If she'd only shot the bastard in the warehouse when she had a chance, that little boy wouldn't be facing the Grim Reaper so soon.

By the time Liz was discharged, the boy's parents had found him hanging from the rafters of a small local church, like a twisted mockery of Jesus, his own intestines holding him up. The church had been left unlocked the night before in order to allow anyone who needed the respite, and the priest who found him was under observation for the heart attack he suffered upon discovery.

Liz's thoughts wandering more and more to the unsolved murder spree rampaging through her city. But she was surprised to receive a text from Lisa the morning she was discharged.

Liz,

We found some more evidence, but it's not enough to convict. Come to your house when you're ready, and I'll go through it with you; see what you can add.

Liz didn't really understand why she was being included in the investigation, but she realized that there wasn't really anyone who knew these crimes better than the original investigating officers—her and Lisa—and they would be in the best position to solve it. Liz figured that they could put aside their differences to solve this case, to save the kids this madman would get hold of if they didn't, and couldn't fault the woman for trying.

Bill was surprised when Liz told him she wanted to return to the house, but didn't really try to dissuade her. For that, Liz was grateful. The last thing she wanted to do was argue with the burly police officer while potential evidence lay at her fingertips.

He dropped Liz off at her house, after urging her to stay with him for a couple of days if she didn't feel comfortable after all.

The house was quiet, though it had been knocked into chaos by police dusting for prints, attempting to catch the prankster who'd broken in and rushed her. She set about absently cleaning up, keeping her eyes out for signs of the intruders. She didn't know when Lisa intended to show up, but she didn't want the house in complete disarray if they were going through files.

There was a glass on the drainer she didn't remember leaving out, so she left it there, noting the fingerprint—round and prominent—on the side of the glass. She cleaned her way up the stairs and toward the bedroom, finally taking a deep breath as she pushed open the bedroom door.

She stepped inside, then jumped when the door was slammed shut behind her. She barely had time to draw her gun before she was knocked to the ground, the gun flying into the corner. She blinked as the room went dark, but could see that two larger figures were dragging her toward her bed.

"It's really a shame, Liz," one figure said, taping her hands down around the bare wooden slats as the other held her feet. "This would have been the Holiday Killer's greatest artwork, but you came home early. So you'll have to join in the fun."

"What the hell are you talking about, Windsor?" Liz snapped, right before he shoved a sock in her mouthed and tied it in place with a dress tie.

"You'll be surprised, alright." The other figure at the foot of the bed tied her feet up, ignoring her attempts to kick him in the face. Then Mark—for that's who it was—let go of her feet, stepping back.

"I'm sorry, Liz, but you have to be put down. For the good of the cause."

Liz stopped struggling, staring at Lisa as the woman manifested out of the dark, wearing what looked like a doctor's outfit, but was a little different—a mortician, Liz realized. She was shocked and pained to see her former partner, along with her ex-husband—whom she couldn't understand surviving a shot to the brain—actively conspiring with the Holiday Killer.

But, most of all, she was pissed.

"Now, we'd love to do this quickly, but that's not part of the deal." Lisa smiled and grabbed a small knife, its blade undoubtedly sharp. "We had to wait for you to get out of hospital before we could do this. Now
you
have to wait until we're ready for you to die."

Liz struggled against the ties, but Windsor grabbed her hand, forced one of her fingers open, and held it steady. He took the knife from Lisa and cut through Liz's finger joint, sheering through cartilage and flesh in a single sweep.

Liz didn't feel it for a minute, the shock was so great, the blood pouring from her hand, but when the heat was applied to the cut, cauterizing the wound, the pain shot up her arm, making everything from her fingertips to her shoulder ache. She screamed through the gag, tears leaking from her eyes. She felt weak, fuzzy, and detached from what was happening.

"Don't faint on us," Windsor said, grabbing her face and splashing water on it. "We're not finished yet, not by far."

Pain dulled her senses and she saw darkness approaching. Then the throbbing shot up her hand again and she realized that Lisa had cut through the joint of another finger.

"Ring around the rosie, a pocket full of posies…"

Liz turned her head to look up at Phil, who was watching her with a dull look of disinterest. He pulled out a small knife and ran the blade up her leg, cutting her pants and the flesh underneath. Then Windsor tore the knife from Lisa's hand and cut off the top of Liz's pinky. More blood flowed over her hand and she screamed.

Phil reached up and tore the tie from her face, pulling out the gag.

"Why?" she croaked, choking on the dryness of her mouth.

Windsor smacked her in the face, breaking her nose and splitting her lip. "Shut up, Liz. We have a lot more to do before you get to speak."

Lisa grinned, taking the knife from Mark as Phil stepped back, watching. "You killed our brother, Liz."

"Wha—?" Liz choked on her blood as it dribbled down the back of her throat.

Lisa grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at the knife blade. "That man you killed in the alley? That was Rhys Malone, my half-brother. He changed his name when he realized the kind of work Mark was getting involved in, and we completely hid our connections to him. He just didn't understand that he would be drawn back into it."

Liz's brain was paralyzed by the pain in her hand and the cracks in her partially healed burns. Before she could work out what Lisa was talking about, her eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted.

Mark threw down the knife in disgust, backing away from her body as Phil headed for the bathroom, looking for a weapon. "And people wonder why I go after kids. They don't collapse nearly so quickly."

She always keeps her razors under the sink… Hello, what do we have here?
Phil thought, and smiled as he pulled the object out from under the counter.

Lisa picked up the knife, muttering to herself as she carefully began to flay the skin from Liz's forearm. She paused for a second, then looked around the room. "Where's Phil?"

Phil stepped from the bathroom, training a gun on them. He waited, watching them, as Lisa threw down her scalpel and laughed at him. Behind her, Liz was waking up, pain glazing her eyes as she looked at her partially flayed arm.

It's alright, Liz. I'll get us out of here.

"What are you doing, you dumbass? There's no way you're trying to stop us," Mark crowed, stepping in front of Lisa.

That's the last time you call me that,
Phil thought, aiming the gun at his head. "I don't have to," Phil said, his hands steady. "All I have to do is shoot you, and I get my life back."
No more sneaking into houses at night, no more threats against my dad. I don't have to be your whipping boy anymore.

"We were
giving
you your life back, you dumb shit," Mark said, slowly approaching him. "You were free to do whatever you liked, to run free through the town. You were above the law, above everything!"

"All I ever wanted was to have my family safe!" Phil screamed and shot at him, but Mark knocked the gun out of his hand and smacked Phil hard in the jaw. Phil went down like a rock.

He looked at Liz, only to cringe as Lisa slammed into him, a tool from a nearby tray in her hand.

*

The gun skittered under the bed Liz was laying on, and the blood from her arm had leaked under the tape, making the binding lose its stickiness. She wiggled her arm, managing to pull it out from under the tape, and ignored the pain in her body as she felt around for the butt of the gun.

Meanwhile, Mark belted Phil in the face, making the man whimper in pain just as Liz found the gun. She lifted it, sighting with her ruined left hand, and squeezed the trigger with one of her two remaining fingers.

The shot hit Mark in the knee, forcing him down. He groaned in pain as he landed, and Lisa turned on Liz, who had lost her grip on her gun. The weapon bounced off the wall and under the bed.

"You fucking little bitch!" Lisa bellowed, coming at her with the scalpel.

Phil jumped on Lisa as she went to stab Liz, pulling her away from her victim. His face was swollen, his arm rebroken, but he still fought the woman for control of the knife.

With the digits she had left, Liz forced her other arm out from under the tape, the adrenaline pumping through her system diluting most of the pain. She spun around, the scabs on her side breaking, grabbed a knife off the table, and, screaming her pain and hatred, threw it at Lisa's back, hoping for a lucky shot.

The handle bounced off Lisa's back, though, and she turned with a laugh to look at Liz, who had collapsed back on the bed, in too much pain to do anything more. Mark groaned on the ground, but Lisa ignored him, heading for the bed again.

"Fuck you, Lisa."

Lisa grabbed her own chest, holding the skin near her heart. She turned to look at Phil standing right behind her, and Liz saw the handle of the knife protruding from below her shoulder blades, right where her heart was.

"You ... stabbed me."

And she dropped, a look of shock on her face. Suddenly Mark wrapped his hands around Phil's neck, yanking him to the ground.

"You—killed—my—sister!" he ground out, while Phil clawed at his throat.

"And you killed my son!" Phil squeaked, landing a kick on Mark's bad knee. The man let go out of reflex, giving Phil enough time to lay into his face just as the police stormed the room.

Phil lifted his hands, falling to his knees as an officer forced him down. He let them handcuff him, glancing at Liz, who was trying to reach her ruined hand out to him, trying to convey how sorry she was that she hadn't trusted him.

"Phil—"

"I love you, Liz, never forget that."

Liz opened her mouth to say something more, but the cops hauled him to his feet to get him out of the way of the stretcher, and he was lost in the melee as a pair of police pulled him out into the dying light. Liz collapsed.

*

"You know there's going to be a trial, right?" one of the policemen asked, leading him gently toward the car. "We have to know how many deaths you were involved in."

Phil shook his head. "I didn't know Lisa was in on it until she begged me to help her with the latest one. She didn't tell me who it was. When I saw it was Liz, I called you guys in. You'll find a gun in the corner somewhere near Liz—the one that took out Mark's knee."

The cops looked at each other, then helped him get in the car with a little more tenderness than would otherwise have been offered.

"Do me a favor," Phil said. Then he spied his father striding across the grounds toward them. "Actually, two. Keep Dad away, and make sure Liz gets to the hospital. She's lost a lot of blood, and she wasn't in the best shape, last I saw her."

The cops nodded, closing the door. The car was warm and Phil relished it after the chill of the snow. He laid his head back and fell asleep—the best sleep he'd had in three years.