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“You bitch!” Clarence screamed as his microphone bounced off the drywall and broke in two. “I’ll kill you.”
The podcaster launched himself at Ripley as his two henchmen scurried into the room as backup. Ripley saw an Ella-shaped blur take off in their direction, and she had no doubt she could handle a few cowardly youngsters. Clarence’s shoulder headed towards Ripley’s midsection, but Ripley moved to one side, caught one of his arms and cut him off at the pass. She couldn’t guarantee she hadn’t dislodged his shoulder from its socket, but she was past caring about his safety. Goading an agent into attacking you was just as punishable as actually striking one.
Clarence’s boots clawed at Ripley’s ankles, but the man had very little in the way of strength. He might have left a couple of scratches, but barely noticeable on the palette of wounds that was Ripley’s body. “You want me to carry on?” she said as she locked him in an armbar position.
“You won’t take me out of here alive.”
His nasal voice. His phony machismo. His unconfirmed status as a serial killer. Ripley had switched to combat mode, where she saw this man as a target and everything in the room as a weapon. She could feel a particular part of Clarence’s ensemble calling to her, begging her to make use of their substantial weight and importance.
“So be it,” Ripley said. In her peripheral vision, she saw Ella tackling one of Clarence’s boys to the floor. The other already lay beside him, rolling around like a discarded toy. The rookie had done her part, now Clarence needed to join the fold.
He tried to spin himself around, squirm out of Ripley’s hold, but she had him locked in too tightly. This man clearly wasn’t about to yield unless he couldn’t stand anymore, so Ripley was left with no option. She summoned every ounce of strength in her old bones, flung Clarence around and sent him sprawling across his desk.
Piles of electrical equipment followed him to his destination south of the table; a computer tower, camera, two monitors. His frail body swept them along, burying the guy in a pile of wires and black boxes. Ripley saw a hand pop out from beneath, then a leg.
Still alive.
“Jesus,” her partner called out. Ella reminded her, “That’s not the first time you’ve done that.”
Ripley looked over, saw Ella standing over one man in cuffs, another stuck below the heel in her boot.
“Those heels finally came in useful.”
Ella shrugged. “These boots weren’t made for walking. Anyway, cuff that scumbag and let’s get out of here. He’s got a lot of explaining to do.”
Ripley scoured through the pile of broken equipment to find the living soul buried within. As she rifled through broken partitions, she found herself holding Clarence’s camera. A little green light above the screen told her it was still on.
She turned it on the wreck at her feet and said, “Yeah Clarence, I am a grandma. And I still kicked your ass.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
He stirred the froth in his coffee until it melted into the brown liquid, staring at it blankly while he composed his thoughts.
A waitress came over and dropped a saucer of milk on the table. She said something likesorry for the wait,but he wasn’t listening. He wasn’t really here. His physical self might have been in a busy coffee shop, but his mind was adrift at sea. The front page of theQuad City Timessaid there’d been a brutal slaying in Dellmount the night before, although the grisly details were alarmingly minimal. No names, no details, just liberal mentions of the so-calledDavenport Monster, a title he would willingly embrace if the circumstances allowed.
But they didn’t, because he hadn’t killed anyone last night.
This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. For years he’d dreamed of this moment; sitting in a coffee shop while the oblivious patrons gossiped about the cold-blooded killer on their doorsteps. They’d all be blissfully unaware that the monster they blathered about was only a few feet away from them. It would be a thrill like no other, to hide in plain sight as he cut out the city’s cancer. These women who thought they were making a difference, when it was all just a ploy for attention. He saw right through their nonsense, and he was going to expose them to the world for the narcissists they were. You had to be the change you wanted to see in the world, not grandstand in front of a camera for clout.
But apparently, you couldn’t even take lives without someone trying to steal your thunder anymore.
Two nights ago he’d broken into the home of Miss Katherine Parkinson. He’d shown her how a real person of influence did things. He didn’t just shout into cameras on the news. He took a hunting knife and thrust it into her stomach, left her lying like a slaughtered pig and proved that she wasn’t above tradition. Katherine needed to know that she wasn’t in charge and never would be, nor would any of her peers. As far as he was concerned, anyone who challenged the patriarch was a bullseye for his blade. He was putting all the so-calledadvocatesin this city on notice, to the point that they’d all flee back into their holes and never come out again. He didn’t see himself as a murderer, but a social terrorist doing what was necessary.
But someone else had come along, overshadowed him, and scattered all his hard work to the wind. This operation was the result of months of resentment, weeks of planning, carefully executed techniques that had gone off without a hitch. He’d staked out Katherine’s place, figured out her schedule, took a huge risk in climbing up her fire escape to get inside. He could have easily been caught since he had to climb past six other apartments to get to Katherine’s, but he was confident that it went off without a hitch.
Meanwhile, someone else was taking the glory. Some coward who’d decided to begin their reign of terror literally the day before his. What were the odds? Almost incalculable. By his napkin math, the chances of two killers coming into contact with each other were about one in six million. Not unachievable odds, but the chances of them beginning their respective operations within two days of each other in the same town?
As he gulped down his sugary coffee, he couldn’t help but cast suspicion on these events. Had someone uncovered his plan and tried to overtake him? Or was that a preposterous thought? Was this some bizarre, once-in-a-lifetime miracle or did the rabbit hole run a little deeper?
He perused the news article one more time, to see if anything stood out, something he could latch onto.
THREE TIMES A KILLER: DAVENPORT MONSTER STRIKES AGAIN.
Dellmount. Davenport. On Tuesday, police were called to an apartment in the West Orchard Building on Herald Street and discovered the discarded body of one of the building’s residents. The victim, not yet named, reportedly died from asphyxiation. This comes in the wake of two previous victims, claimed over the past two nights, with many residents and experts fearing that these crimes may be the work of a serial offender. Police are undergoing a city-wide investigation and have enlisted the help of federal agents. More details as they arrive. Follow the up-to-date investigation on the Quad City Times website.
Three times a killer. He had to laugh, even though there was nothing funny about it. Anyone with half a brain should be able to tell that these killings were the work of two separate people, but you could always trust the press to favor the myth over the truth. Pure sensationalism. Just another reason this whole country had gone straight to hell.
But it didn’t matter what people thought as long as he carried out his operation in full. He was providing a public service, to right the wrongs of modern society. This new wave of progression clawed away at everything he thought he knew about the world, everything his old man had taught him. Plus, he had to admit, killing these women was a hit of pure ecstasy. They were originally meant to be outlets for his rage, but he couldn’t deny the exhilaration.
