Page 130 of X Marks the Stalker
Blackwell screams—raw and desperate—but the panic room swallows the sound. No echo, no reverberation. Just the three of us in this soundproof box.
I stare at the bleeding mark on his chest, the red line vivid against his skin, and something primal stirs inside me. I take the knife from Xander. Our fingers brush, electricity racing up my arm.
I step toward Blackwell and place the blade against his skin, right next to Xander’s mark. With deliberate pressure, I carve a circle—an “O” to complement his “X.” Blackwell writhes against his restraints, but I maintain steady pressure, completing the circle.
Blood beads along both our marks, tiny crimson dots forming a macabre connect-the-dots puzzle on his chest.
“XO,” Xander says, his voice warming with approval. “Fitting signature for our first collaboration.”
I reach for the black duffel bag at my feet. From inside, I withdraw a heavy-duty nail gun.
“What are you doing?” Blackwell’s voice pitches higher, his businessman’s composure fracturing. “This is kidnapping. Assault. You won’t get away with this.”
Xander steps behind me, his presence steadying. I pull out a thick manila folder—my life’s work. Years of meticulous research organized into neat, orderly evidence of Richard Blackwell’s crimes.
“Ready for the presentation portion of our program?” I ask Xander, not turning around.
He squeezes my shoulder. “Born ready.”
“You’re making a terrible mistake,” Blackwell says, his voice cracking. “I have connections. People will come looking for me.”
“Like Martin Reeves?” I slide a crime scene photo in front of his face—Martin’s body riddled with bullet holes. “Funny, no one came for him.”
“Please,” Blackwell begs, his voice rising to a shout. “I’ll give you anything! Money. Information. Whatever you want.”
Xander steps forward, ripping a cloth napkin from Blackwell’s pocket and stuffing it into his mouth.
“No one will hear you,” Xander says, “but you’re giving me a headache.”
I spread the first set of documents across the table—bankstatements showing transfers to offshore accounts, names of girls who disappeared traced to Blackwell.
“Megan Clarke,” I say, holding up a photo of a dark-haired teenager. “Twenty years old when she disappeared.”
I hand the nail gun to Xander. He presses it against Blackwell’s shoulder. The mechanical thunk echoes as the nail penetrates flesh and muscle, securing the photo to Blackwell’s body. Blackwell’s scream muffles against the cloth, his body jerking against the restraints.
“Rebecca Torres,” I continue, sliding another photo across the table. “Nineteen. Last seen getting into a black car registered to your company.”
Thunk. Another nail, another photo, this time into his upper arm. Blood trickles in thin rivulets down his skin.
“Daniel Forrester,” I say, presenting a photo of a middle-aged man. “Whistleblower at your media company who was about to reveal your blackmail operation.”
Thunk. Blackwell’s chest this time, just below the collarbone.
For each piece of evidence, each name, each life destroyed, the nail gun delivers judgment. I maintain eye contact with Blackwell as Xander works, each nail securing a document, a photo, a piece of evidence to Blackwell’s flesh. His muffled screams gradually subside to whimpers, then to a hollow, defeated silence.
The nail gun’s metallic clank punctuates each new photo until Blackwell’s torso becomes a grotesque bulletin board of his crimes. Blood seeps from dozens of wounds where metal pierces flesh, spreading crimson pools across his once-pristine shirt.
I’m placing a document detailing bribes to JudgeHarrison when Blackwell’s head lolls forward, his body going slack.
“Shit,” I mutter, checking his pulse. It’s there, but faint. “He’s out and we’re not done.”
Xander drops the nail gun and reaches into our supplies, pulling out a pre-filled syringe. “Lazlo’s special delivery,” he says, tapping the barrel to remove air bubbles. “Said we might need this.”
He jams the needle into Blackwell’s chest, pushing the plunger down. For a moment, nothing happens. Then Blackwell’s body convulses, his head snapping back, eyes flying open wide with a gasp that sounds like a drowning man breaking the surface.
“Welcome back,” I say, leaning in close enough to see the sweat beading on his forehead, to smell the metallic tang of his blood mixed with expensive cologne.
His chest heaves with desperate, ragged breaths. The adrenaline forces his heart to pump harder, sending fresh blood pouring from each wound. Little crimson rivulets trace paths down his torso, dripping onto his thighs and pooling on the floor beneath the chair.
