Chris Carter - I Am Death

She quickly tapped the numbers into her cellphone and pressed the ‘call’ button.

Nothing. No dial tone.

‘What the hell?’ She looked at the display screen. She had not one signal bar. ‘How can this be?’ she yelled at her phone through clenched teeth. Just a moment ago she’d received a new message.

What Sharon had no way of knowing was that every time the caller got off the phone, he switched on his own cellphone signal scrambler.

Instinctively, she stretched her arm out and moved it around, searching for a signal.

Nothing. Not even half a bar.

‘Shit. Shit.’

Her brain turned another rusty wheel.

‘Landline.’

She rushed toward the phone on the counter in the kitchen, but just as she was about to snatch it from its cradle, it rang.

Stunned, Sharon brought it to her ear.

‘Hello?’

‘Let’s play a game, Sharon.’

Sharon froze.

‘And it starts like this. Lights out.’

In that instant, her entire house fell into darkness. Sharon let out another terrified scream. Her eyes circled the room but she saw nothing.

‘Oh my God, what the hell is happening?’ she said into the phone in a shaky voice. ‘Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?’

Sharon still had her cellphone in her hand. She swiped her thumb across the screen and turned on the flashlight application.

‘Do you know what your mistake was, Sharon?’ The voice came through the landline receiver once again.

Sharon could do nothing but breathe hard.

‘You went for the wrong window.’

Terror ripped through her heart as she remembered — her bedroom window.

Panicking and completely out of ideas, Sharon frantically moved her cellphone around. The weak light that came from the tiny flashbulb at the back of it cast shadows everywhere, but as those shadows passed over the door that linked the living room to the corridor, she saw a human silhouette move across it.

The next time she heard the man’s voice, it did not come from the receiver by her ear. It came from behind her.

‘I’m already inside.’

As he finally placed his pen down on his desk, Hunter noticed that his hands were shaking. Beads of cold sweat had also formed on his forehead.

He stood up, and as he did his knees clicked noisily. He’d been sitting down for way too long. He stretched his long frame and the stiff muscles in his back and legs responded with what felt like a thousand painful pinches. Hunter forced the stretch even more, this time bringing his neck into it. It clicked just as noisily as his knees.

Damn, he thought, grinding his teeth. Carlos is right. Maybe I am getting too old for this crap.

Hunter had just spent the last three hours transcribing and re-transcribing every word from the note the killer had sent Mayor Bailey that morning. He’d made twenty-five copies of it, trying to match the killer’s handwriting as best as he could.

And he’d done a great job.

The exercise was simple. Hunter wasn’t trying to memorize the note word for word, though, after recopying it so many times, that was exactly what had happened. But no, what he was really trying to do was to get some sort of insight, however small, into the killer’s mind, into the killer’s way of thinking. He was trying to think like the killer did, to feel what the killer felt when he wrote those words. He was looking for hidden meanings and word tricks. Trying to read between the lines.

After three laborious hours, Hunter had come up with very little. To him, it felt as if the killer knew that the note would be scrutinized to its very last detail. Every word, every letter, analyzed and reanalyzed — physically and psychologically — and the killer had locked every door; he had left no openings, no pathways into his psyche.

Hunter knew that carrying on any longer would bring him no better results.

He poured himself another large cup of black coffee, returned to his chair and half swiveled it around to face the old-fashioned picture board by the east wall. Despite how young their investigation was — less than twenty-four hours old — the board was already plastered with information and photographs.

Forensics had come back with the results of the test that had been run on the blood used to write the note that had been left lodged inside the victim’s throat — I AM DEATH. As Hunter and Garcia were expecting, the killer had used Nicole Wilson’s blood to write it, but according to the forensics report, it didn’t seem as though he had used a brush to do it. Instead, he had used his own fingers, dipping them in his victim’s blood before carefully inscribing each letter. Not surprisingly, forensics had found no fingerprints, partial or otherwise. The killer, no doubt, had been wearing gloves.

The second note, the one that Hunter had spent the last three hours transcribing, had been sent over to the forensics lab, together with the Polaroid photograph of the victim in captivity, immediately after he and Garcia had left Captain Blake’s office earlier that afternoon.

Hunter was no graphologist, but he didn’t need a forensics report to tell him that the notes had been written by the same person. Despite the killer using his fingers to inscribe the first note, and a red pen to write the second, his handwriting was impressively steady.

The killer had written both notes in cursive handwriting, and his calligraphy was firm but gracious. Despite the paper having no guiding lines, all the letters stood in perfect symmetry to one another, and they flowed in beautifully measured strokes and shapes. This told Hunter that the person they were looking for was meticulous, organized, paid particular attention to detail, and prided himself in everything he did, including how he murdered his victims.

The man finished tying his victim to the chair, got up and calmly walked over to the kitchen. After filling a large glass with water from the fridge, he strolled back to the center of the room and stood directly in front of her.

Sharon Barnard was still unconscious, her ankles zip-tied to the chair’s legs, her arms firmly secured behind her back. Her head was low, her chin resting against her chest, her mouth semi-open, her lips a little out of line, falling to one side. The man studied her for an instant — the details of her facial structure, the symmetry of her neckline, the intoxicating beauty of her naked body. Sharon was undoubtedly a very attractive woman... but not for long.

The man stood with his legs shoulder-width apart, steadied his body and threw the water on to her face.

As the ice-cold liquid came into contact with her skin, Sharon jolted awake and immediately sucked in a lumpy breath. Her head jerked back in a fright. Her eyelids flickered like butterfly wings for a long moment, while from her lips came indecipherable, frightened sounds.

The man waited patiently, his hands now tucked behind his back.

Sharon finally managed to open her eyes. Her confused and drowsy gaze moved right, then left, ultimately settling on the figure in front of her.

One... two... three seconds went by before Sharon looked properly at the man. There was something in his light-blue eyes, something in the way he looked at her that felt terribly familiar. She had met him somewhere before, Sharon was certain of it, but where?

She forced her memory.

Nothing.

It didn’t matter how tightly she closed her eyes, or how much she begged her brain to remember it, her memory just wasn’t able to make the connection.

Sharon opened her mouth in an effort to speak, or scream — she wasn’t sure herself — but her breathing was still too erratic, catching in her throat. Her diaphragm was unable to overcome her fear.