The Prophet (43 page)

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.