The Butcher and the Wren(12)

CHAPTER 9





THE DRIVE TO SCHOOL CAN take hours in the traffic. Sometimes Jeremy doesn’t mind the slow slog. It’s a time when he can be completely alone with no one nearby to interrupt his thoughts.

Today is not one of those days.

He’s anxious, and his legs have a million tiny insects running around inside of them. He taps and bounces his foot in a fruitless attempt to calm them. It’s been a long process of figuring out what he wanted to build for himself next. And now that it’s almost here, he can’t stop thinking about it. He can’t stop seeing his game play out in his head. He feels the environment, and smells the desperation already. Jeremy turns on the radio and pinches the bridge of his nose, flicking the channel to a local station.

“The victim, a white female in her twenties, was found behind a popular local bar early this morning. The body has been transported to the medical examiner and an autopsy is scheduled for later today.”

Jeremy can feel his heartbeat quicken and his face flush. There is a particular rush that courses through him whenever he knows this crop of inept detectives has received another of his guests. The only thing stopping them from joining the ranks of the criminals they chase is a kind of false morality. A fragile thing that could shatter at any moment, like blown glass.

And then there’s the medical examiner. No matter how deeply MEs believe the dead can speak to them, they can’t. They can determine a cause of death—sometimes—but they can’t even fathom what went through each victim’s mind while sucking in their last gulps of precious, futile air. Forensic pathologists can accurately explain what happens when a heart stops beating. But they can’t publish a paper that details what true anguish looks like or catalog the unbridled pleasure that comes from causing it. They’ve wielded a bone saw but haven’t wrapped their hands around someone’s neck. Death and pain cannot be explained in an autopsy report, not really. It’s primal and cannot be taught in a classroom or lab.

They have no idea what is in store for them, this team of so-called experts, still chasing a systematic killer who has an established pattern. None of them can see a shift in the routine coming. While they scramble to piece together a long-outdated profile, he will be orchestrating his magnum opus.

As the traffic starts to break in front of him, he shakes himself from his reflective daze.

Catch me if you can.





CHAPTER 10





IS THIS DEATH?

Wren is smothered by a darkness that is so thick she feels like she could chew it. An overwhelming heat consumes her in the dark. Her heart starts to race and the blackness glows red. She wills her mouth open as a trapped sob lies caught in her throat. Her chest aches, and she struggles to yell for help, but nothing comes out.

Then, without warning, the darkness dissolves, and she sees her parents before her. They stand together in a stark-white room, her mother clutching her father’s arm. Their faces twist with devastation. She throws her arms around them both at once. She can smell her mother’s homey apple scent and her father’s safe aroma, clean and warm. She stays glued to them for a moment, letting the relief fill the air.

But it’s cold now.

There are no arms embracing her back. She pulls her head back to look up at their faces. When she studies their tear-stained eyes, they just see through her.

“Mom, Dad!” she pleads, placing her hands on their cheeks.

They stay clinging to each other but remain distant from her. She feels hot again. It’s a deep, pulsating wave of heat mixed with nausea. She tries again to call for her parents, this time yelling above the white noise now hurting her ears.

“Mom! Where are we? Please help me!” she begs, receiving nothing in return.

Her mother’s eyes are worn and red from crying. She looks hopeless and doesn’t respond to Wren’s wails. Then a sound echoes throughout the static, white environment. It’s familiar, but it’s neither her parents’ voices nor her own.

“You’re dying, Wren,” a man’s voice says casually.

Her blood turns to ice water. She stares into her parents’ faces, still clinging to them and not wanting to look behind her. Like smoke, they fade until there is nothing left. She falls forward onto her knees as they disappear in front of her eyes. Another choked sob escapes her, followed by a shiver when he speaks again.

“What’s wrong with your legs, Wren?” he asks.

She looks down at the tops of her thighs and stands up from her kneeling position. As she puts her feet on the ground, it’s like stepping in water. Her weight shifts, and she wobbles. He’s laughing now. A low, cutting sneer escapes from his lips, and as she stumbles back to her knees, he begins to cackle.

“My legs,” she whispers.

There isn’t any feeling left in them, like dead limbs on an ancient tree. Finally, she turns to look at him as he crosses the space toward her. He’s clean, almost sterile, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans without a speck of dirt on them. His face is blurry. As he walks, she feels the air rush out of her lungs. She frantically coughs and gags, feeling like a hot poker has been jammed down her throat.

“Shhhh,” he coos softly, squatting next to her and placing one finger to his lips.

Even though she can’t make out his face, she can tell that he is smiling. Instinctively she uses her arms to pull herself away from him. She drags her heavy legs and palms the slick surface beneath her, desperately trying to place some distance between them.