Page 82 of One
Rague splashes a bucket full of water on the fucker’s face, making him sputter and spit.
I let the coldness embrace me, pushing away all the unwanted emotions to utterly focus on the trembling scumbag in front of me. Shears in hand, I take a step and…
The dreamy memory disappears like fog in the morning, and the first thing that hits me is the suffocating smell of mold. I scrunch up my nose and snort uselessly, trying to get it out of my nostrils. Then the dead silence around me registers. Michael’s apartment is quite noisy due to the thin walls and proximity to a large hospital, which means I’m somewhere else.
It takes a few tries to open my heavy eyelids. A dull, raw ache flares in my head, but I manage to focus my gaze on my hands. They are tied to a chair; there’s some kind of padding between the rope and my wrists. It protects them. Somebody doesn’t want to leave bruises on my skin.
I’m not wearing my leather jacket, but I can’t see it anywhere. That angers me. That’s my favorite leather jacket. The cemented floor is covered in dust. The walls have vines climbing up the ceiling. The large room looks like a disused warehouse. There are old wooden crates on one side, and rusty storage shelving on the other. A camping lantern illuminates part of the room. The small dirty window on my right looks like a black hole of darkness. I turn my head more to the left and notice the body lying a few feet away on the floor.
I recognize one of the detectives I’ve met at the morgue in those sightless eyes. Blood soaks the front of his shirt. He must have died recently; his face is still rosy. My kidnapping has to be connected to the Rope Killer. Am I about to meet him?
The usual dark hunger spreads inside of me and I pull against the tight restraints impatiently, hearing a few cracks coming from the ancient chair. Being around other killers always turns me overly eager… to make them bleed. The pocketknife is making a hole inside my boot. Whoever brought me here didn’t pat me down for weapons. And they also left my feet free. Big mistake.
Just when I’m about to start oscillating my body on the wooden chair, the door to my right opens.
And I stare coldly at the man walking toward me.
“Mr. Bear-Stone. Surprised to see me?” He smirks with what I can only read as satisfaction.
I tilt my head and keep studying his dark eyes. I thought the dislike I felt the first time I met him was related to his profession, and the way he ogled Michael. But now I wonder if my instincts were trying to warn me against another predator.
“I gotta say, I didn’t expect to find you in the doctor’s apartment.”
“Really? I couldn’t have made my claim more obvious.” I snort derisively at him.
Polsner’s lips turn into a pout, but he keeps gloating. “That? It’s null since I claimed him a month before.” He stops in front of me.
Hearing him spout his pretentious claim on Michael makes me want to strangle him with the police badge hanging from his neck. And fuck, I just figured out the Rope Killer’s murder weapon.
A police badge’s chain…so devious. I kind of like it.
“The doctor is mine.”
“The fuck he is.” The derisive way Michael responded to the idea of Polsner ogling him clearly showed that nothing ever happened between them.
“I’m not interested in him that way.” He throws me a disgusted look. “He was going to be my next prey, before you came along. Every time I fucking checked, you were with him.” He sighs.
“Michael doesn’t have hemophilia,” I stated.
“True, but it’s too fucking hard to find the right candidates. And Dr. Caldwell…” Polsner lets out such a pleasure-filled moan, that it makes me want to punch his mouth. “He’s so tempting, with his blue eyes and fragile disposition. He’ll be next. Well, next next,” he adds, smiling devilishly at me.
“You’re so fucking delusional, as well as sloppy.” It’s kind of hard to use a bored tone when I’m burning with fury. If this sick prick thinks he can touch what’s mine, he deserves to feel how terrifying and painful my wrath is. Code be damned. This is the exception.
“Sloppy? Five victims and I’m still on the loose.”
Going off instinct, I say, “Damn luck. It’s a miracle you didn’t get busted before.”
“Each one of my kills was perfect,” he deadpans.
I can see a hint of irritation in his eyes, so I continue. “Like the last one? You moved the body. Which tells me it didn’t go as smooth as you predicted.”
“Improvisation is needed at times. The good therapist’s snooping-around forced me toaskhim a few questions, and it all inevitably ended up into his death.”
“And this?” I wave my restrained hands. “How do you explain me?”
He sniffs. “An inconvenience to get rid of.”
I’m a damn millionaire with a media circus and a family ready to find out what happened to me, and this fucker calls me an inconvenience. Maybe he’sreallysloppy—and with a massive I’m-untouchable superiority complex. “Was your partner scooping around, too? Yet another person who figured out you like to strangle fragile-looking guys.” I smirk.
