Page 35

CHAPTER 35

Max

T he following day, I wake up in a bad mood. I'm tired from not having much sleep over the past couple of days and, frankly, I'm tired of getting chased and attacked. The only good thing that’s happened lately is the apartment superintendent actually fixed the front lock last night so I could sleep in my own bed. After a long hot shower, I sit on the edge of the bed and lay back, facing the ceiling. I can't even imagine going into work today and being productive.

I pull out my phone and send Catherine Nakamura a quick text to let her know I’m not feeling well and will be taking another sick day. It's not a total lie as I’m not feeling my healthiest emotionally. Rolling over to my side, I wage an internal debate on whether to even get dressed or go back to bed. It doesn’t take long for me to make up my mind once my stomach growls.

Shoot, I think as I go into the kitchen and pull open the fridge door. Nothing in there for breakfast, not even creamer for coffee. I rush back into the bedroom and get dressed. Out the front door I run, already imagining the iced coffee and breakfast burrito I'm going to have.

In the car, I flip on the radio in time to hear the man reading the day’s headlines. “ In other news, another body was located in the dry L.A. River underneath the famous Sixth Street Bridge. The unnamed victim was found to have ritualistic markings on their body, but the police are remaining tightlipped for the moment.”

Ritualistic markings? The scars on my belly tingle as if they’re warning me of impending danger. I push away my unease and take a couple of deep cleansing breaths. I look outside the passenger side window and sigh. After I get my food, I spend a few minutes trying to enjoy breakfast. Unfortunately, I can't shake my unease, and I can't get Ben out of my head.

“You’re a little psycho, dude,” I say to myself. “You can’t just show up at his house.” He hasn’t returned any of my texts. In fact, the last two I sent didn’t even show they were delivered. That means one of two things. Either he’s blocked my number, or something is seriously wrong.

“Screw it,” I say. There’s no way I can live with myself not knowing what happened. If Ben left for two years and I never heard from him again, I would be devastated but also tormented by our last interactions. I pull out of the parking lot and drive straight to Ben’s place. I need closure, if nothing else.

I pull up to the driveway and turn off the car. Ben’s house appears empty; the blinds are shut, two days of newspapers lay unopened on the front porch, and there are no lights on anywhere. Had he already left for his charity work in South America? Was I too late to to try and fix things between us? Even if it’s not really my fault, I’d love the chance to at least say goodbye. Ben really is a wonderful man, after all.

Only one way to find out, I think. I wet my palms with the water from my water bottle and muss my hair into some semblance of style and get out of the car. I straighten my shirt and make sure the fly is up on my pants. “You can do this,” I say as I close the car door.

I march right up to the front door and ring the bell without hesitation. I can do this .

The house remains silent.

I ring the bell again followed by a quick series of loud raps on the screen door. The wait is killing my confidence and determination. I feel the usual pull to run away—forget about it. But where’s that gotten me in the past?

Alone. I’m tired of being alone.

I pull the screen door open and bang on the hardwood door—it slides open a crack. I push the door farther so I can pop my head inside and shout, “Ben? Are you home? It’s Max. I think we need to talk. Hello?”

I wait what seems like forever for a response, but then I hear a thump from upstairs where I know the bedrooms are and I step inside. “Ben… are you home? Is everything okay?”

Again, no response, but another thud and what sounds like a mumbled voice comes from upstairs. Part of me wants to go back outside and call the police to come and do a welfare check, but what if Ben needs me now? What if there’s nothing wrong and I bring the cops to his house for nothing? Ben would think I’m crazier than he already does.

No, I will check first and call for help if needed.

Without another word, I step farther inside, careful to not make a sound as I go deeper into the home. After each step, I stop and listen for movement or cries for help—anything that might indicate what is going on or where the danger may be. After a few moments of this I reach the stairs. Each step is covered in a thick pad of carpet, which helps keep my footfalls silent. I make it quickly to the second floor and stop. I listen again for signs of struggle or danger .

Up ahead at the end of the hall is Ben’s bedroom. The door is cracked open, the light on. My belly tightens with nerves, but it isn’t until I see the shadow under the door move that my heart rate races out of control.

I inch toward the bedroom. Other than the shadow movement under the door, there is no indication the bedroom is occupied. Now waiting right outside the room, I look for something I can use as a weapon.

Stupid. Why hadn’t I thought of bringing something with me from downstairs? Thinking back to my training as a police officer, I decide it is best to enter quickly and decisively. Don’t give the enemy time to react.

On a silent count of three, I ready myself for a fight and kick the door open with a crash. I step through the door and gasp. Lying on the bed in front of me is Ben, naked and covered in blood. I rush into the room but stop short. An ankh has been carved into Ben’s left thigh. The knife my abuela had given me, the one that was stolen, lays next to Ben on the bed.

The room spins and my breathing comes in ragged gasps as my panic intensifies. I grab the bed and nearby dresser to steady myself and manage to remain standing. Ben’s voice drifts through the echoing heartbeat pounding in my ears. I do what I can to focus on Ben’s words.

“I’m sorry…” Ben’s voice comes through clearly, but then quickly fades.

“Ben,” I say, still trying to focus my attention. “What happened?”

“I should have told you…” Ben says.

“What?” I shake my head. None of this is making any sense. Suddenly, movement draws my attention toward the bathroom. I swallow hard as everything comes instantly into focus. I reach for the knife next to Ben but there’s my attacker is standing in the way rushing toward me with his own knife in hand.

I manage to stagger back two steps in time to avoid the blade. The attacker cackles as he twirls around, lunging toward me again with the knife. Unarmed, I turn and run for the door. If I can put enough space between us, maybe I can find a weapon of my own, call for help, or even turn the tables.

My left toe clips my right heel as I am running backward out of the room, arms raised in self-defense. I go reeling backward onto the hardwood floor. The wind rushes out of my lungs on impact. Gasping for breath, I struggle to stand but fail. Viktor Fedorov himself emerges from the room, knife raised high overhead. The man of my nightmares, the man who’s been hunting me… The Butcher is here to kill us himself.

I crab-crawl backward toward the stairs, but not fast enough. Within seconds, Viktor is atop me, straddling my chest. I grab for the knife but can only manage to claw at the man’s shirt.

Viktor’s face is covered in blood, his hair matted across his forehead in a real-life horror movie effect. He throws his head back and laughs, but rather than mirth, it is as if the Devil himself had emerged.

I bend my knees and buck my hips up from the floor, which shifts Viktor forward. I slam both my fists into his face with a satisfying force. The counterattack gives me enough room to further destabilize him as I slam Viktor’s head into the wall. The drywall crunches in the shape of his skull, but we’d missed the wall stud. It isn’t a knockout blow.

I scramble to my feet and rush for the stairs, but Viktor is faster. He grabs for my foot and sends me sprawled out face-first down the stairs. I tumble over and over, the corners of each step digging into my shoulder, back, hip, and stomach. I come to a stop on the first floor, head in the living room, feet still resting on the bottom step.

I moan and try to sit up, but my head throbs, and the room spins, preventing me from moving. I close my eyes as I try to regain my breath. A footfall to my left and then right forces my eyes open. The Butcher kneels next to me and whispers in my ear. “Dr. Ben lied to you.”

I shake my head.

“He didn’t tell you who he really is, did he?”

I don’t speak, still trying to clear my head enough to get up and continue to fight.

“After I had my fun with you… the only one who ever got away…” Viktor uses his untrimmed, blood-stained finger to trace along the side of my cheek and down to my chest. “The good doctor was your surgeon… he saved you… sewed up the pretty little gifts I’d left you with—to remember me by.”

I try to sit but am pulled back down flat on the floor.

Viktor licks the blood from my cheek. “How could you ever think it would work between the two of you? Do you think he would ever be able to find you attractive after he’d held your liver in his hands? After he’d saved your weak, pathetic life?”

I try to speak, but the madman covers my mouth with a gory hand. “Listen to me good. You will never be free of me. I will always be watching from the shadows. And when I decide to take your life or the lives of those dear to you… I will.” He shrugs. “And there won’t be a damn thing you can do about it. You were the one who got away, and for that, I’m going to make you suffer.”

Panic rises inside me. The thought of being pursued by such a man, constantly looking over my shoulder, living in fear, it is too much. I unleash a thick, primal scream. The sound is loud and foreign, even to me. Viktor flinches. I reach up with both hands and take hold of his throat, digging my thumbs into his windpipe.

Predator becomes prey. His eyes go wide, and he tries to escape my grip. As he moves, I follow, never letting up. My thumbnails pierce Viktor’s skin, and I watch as the monster’s blood mixes with my own and the blood of Ben.

Viktor falls backward, and I shove with all my might to slam his head onto the tiled floor. The sickening crack of skull against tile is loud, and whatever air is left inside his lungs is forced out at once. Desperation takes hold as Viktor begins clawing at my face and neck, anything to get me to release my grip. I squeeze harder, watching his eyes bulge from their sockets. My arms tremble under the strain as I choke the life from this madman. Despite the surge of adrenaline, my body is giving way to fatigue. If I give up now, I will die and so will Ben—there’d be no one to save us; I am all we have now.

For one brief second, the man smiles. I have let go of his neck with one hand, and air rushes into Viktor’s lungs with a wheeze and bloody gurgle. Without a second to waste, I slam my fist down onto his throat. The cartilage protecting his airway gives way with a crunch. I repeatedly slam my left fist down, each slam crushing the killer’s throat further. I don’t stop, I can’t stop. Blow after blow. Tears fill my eyes, sobs echoing through the house as I continue to pummel my enemy.

Finally, unable to bring my arm up again, I fall to the side. Pure exhaustion takes hold as the last bit of adrenaline drains from my veins. My eyes flutter shut, and I feel myself rising from the floor as I lose consciousness. Am I dying? I try one last time to open my eyes, but as I do my vision tunnels and darkness consumes me.

A muffled cry stirs me back to consciousness. I don’t open my eyes, not at first, still assessing my current situation. Concentrating on my feet and hands, I'm surprised to feel I’ve not been hog-tied or taken anywhere to be tortured and killed. Peeking through slit eyes, I see a pair of black boots step through the front door. Without a second thought, I scramble to my feet and put up my hands, but instead of the killer, it's Bretton there, gun raised.

“Max.” He rushes to my side. “Are you okay?”

I look down at my blood-covered form and nod weakly. I then look over to the lifeless body of Viktor Federov, and my shoulders sag. It's finally over.

“Do you remember where you are? Max? Talk to me,” Bretton urges.

Ben. Shit. “He’s still up there,” I say, pointing to the second floor.

“Who?”

I shake my head. How did Bretton know where to find me? “Ben.”

Bretton pulls his gun up to the ready and starts up the stairs, me desperately trying to trail closely behind him. The room tilts as my breaths raggedly heave from my chest, my arm aches, my belly tightens with fear. Bretton looks back at me and purses his lips. I figure he either thinks I’m too injured to come along, or he wants me to stay back. But there's no one who could convince me to stay. Not with the possibility one of Viktor’s followers is still in the house and Ben is up there unprotected. We quickly reach the landing with no sign of anyone that shouldn’t be there.

When we enter the bedroom, Bretton makes a sweep of the room, bathroom, and closet, while I rush to Ben’s side. There’s so much blood soaking the bedding and mattress.

Is he still alive? I touch two fingers to Ben’s neck and hold my breath. A rush of emotion swells inside me when I feel the soft, rapid pulse. “He’s going to need the EMTs, he’s lost so much blood. His heart is steady but fast.”

“Ambulance is already en route, Max,” Bretton says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “They’re coming for both of you.”

Without thinking about a better option, I take off my own shirt and wrap it tightly around the wound on Ben’s thigh and keep my finger on his pulse to make sure his heart doesn’t stop. The distant sound of sirens grows louder. My shoulders sag. “They’re coming, Ben. They’re going to save you.”

Ben’s eyes flicker open, and a soft smile crosses his face. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

I force down my rising emotions and swallow hard. “Don’t speak. Save your strength, the EMTs are almost here.”

Ben closes his eyes. I feel a stab of guilt more painful than the actual stab I’d experienced at the hands of a madman. I look up at Bretton. “Thank you for coming for me. How’d you know I was here?”

“I’ve been following you,” he says softly. “I know we were honest with each other about who we were, but I still had a job to do, and the only way I could do it was to follow you.”

“I never wanted to kill anyone.” I shake my head. “But he said he would never give up until I was destroyed.”

“Don’t think about any of that right now,” Bretton says. “He’s dead now… he’ll never hurt another innocent person again. The world has you to thank for that.”

I nod and hold out my hand. “Thank you.”

Bretton holds it for a few moments and then says, “You’re welcome.”

The paramedics rush into the room and separate everyone, pulling me into the hallway while one of them assesses Ben.

“Sir, I’m going to need to take you to the hospital and get you checked out. You’ve got an egg-sized knot on your head that’ll need a CT Scan. ”

I know better than to argue with them. If they say I need to go, I'm all theirs. “Please save Ben… please!” Tears fill my eyes as they start to pull me away from him. My heart aches as I see him lying there covered in his own blood. His wounds far too severe for me to simply kiss them away.

“He’s in good hands,” the medic says. “Do you think you can walk down the stairs to the rig with me?”

I nod, and the medic keeps one hand on me at all times while we make our way outside. The bright sunlight blasts a hole through my head, and I clamp my eyes shut. “I can’t keep them open.”

“This way, sir.” The medic takes me by the arm and leads me to the back of the ambulance. “Up you go.”

I get up into the rig and lay down on the stretcher. I keep my eyes closed while the medic takes my vitals. I can tell by the jostling of the vehicle we are on our way to County Hospital—it's going to be another long night.