Carter Chris - The Death Sculptor

Hunter quickly scanned the surrounding tables to see if anyone else had heard Alice’s comment. Her voice had risen a few decibels with excitement. Everyone seemed much more interested in their own food and wine than in their conversation. His attention returned to Alice.

‘It doesn’t make sense to us because we haven’t figured it out yet. But to the killer, it makes perfect sense. That’s why he’s doing it.’

Alice measured those words in silence. ‘That’s what you’ve been trying to do, isn’t it? To think like the killer. To see the sense that only he can see.’

‘Well, it’s been exactly a week, and so far I’ve failed miserably.’

‘No you haven’t.’ She placed one hand on the table, and the tips of her fingers brushed against the back of Hunter’s hand. ‘So far you’ve done a better job than anyone would’ve expected. If it weren’t for you, we’d all still be looking at those sculptures, trying to figure out what they meant.’

Hunter paused and looked at Alice. ‘Was that you paying me a compliment?’

‘No, just stating the truth. But what did you mean when you said it was too much of a leap from our interpretation of the first one.’

‘Would you like to see the dessert menu?’ The waiter had come back to the table.

Alice didn’t even look at him, simply shaking her head. Hunter gave him a sympathetic smile.

‘I think we overdid it on the main course. We’ve got no space left for anything else, thank you.’

‘Prego,’ the waiter replied and went on his way.

‘What leap?’ Alice insisted.

‘If we’re right in our interpretation of the first shadow image, then the killer gave us his opinion of Derek Nicholson, right? He considered him a liar.’

Alice sat back on her chair, things starting to connect in her head.

‘But if we’re also right in our interpretation of the second image, then the killer didn’t give us his opinion of Andrew Nashorn.’

Alice saw his point. ‘If we’re right, he gave us his opinion of himself – an angry devil looking down at his victims.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Yes, and I can’t see a reason why he would do that. It seems wrong. This killer wants us to see something through his point of view. He wants us to understand why he’s doing what he’s doing. Why he’s killing these people. Telling us that he thought Nicholson was a liar, that he was maybe betrayed by him, makes sense.’

‘But telling us that he’s an angry devil out for revenge, doesn’t?’

‘Does it to you?’

Her eyebrows arched for a second. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘So you think he’s trying to tell us something about Nashorn with the second image?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Yeah, but what? That he considered Nashorn the devil? A man with horns? And how about the other four images, two figures standing and two down? What the hell do they mean?’

Hunter had no reply.

Seventy-Four

His eyelids fluttered like butterfly wings – very damaged butterfly wings. They felt as if they weighed a ton, and it took Nathan Littlewood several seconds and tremendous effort to half open them and keep them that way. Shards of light seemed to rip through his eyeballs. He took a deep breath and his lungs burned as if the air were sulfuric acid. Whatever drug was injected into his neck, it was now wearing off.

His chin slumped down to his chest, his head feeling too heavy for him to lift it back up. He stayed like that for several seconds. Only then he realized that he was naked, except for his sweat-soaked striped boxers clinging to his skin. It took him another moment to understand his position. He was sitting down on a comfortable leather office chair. His arms were pulled back behind him, around the chair’s backrest. His wrists were bound together by something hard and thin that was cutting into his flesh. His feet were also pulled back and tied together under the chair’s seat, about an inch or so from the floor. His whole body hurt as if he’d been at the receiving end of a massive beating, and the pain inside his head was eating away at his sanity.

Something was pulling against the corners of his mouth, and all of a sudden he was overwhelmed by a desperate gagging sensation. Coughing erupted from his chest with incredible force, but the air was half-blocked by the tight cloth gag in his mouth, and that served only to intensify his desire to retch. Littlewood tasted bile mixed with blood, and the coughs quickly escalated into a struggle not to choke to death.

Breathe through your nose , was the only thought that came into his head. He tried to concentrate on that, but he was too scared and drunk on pain for his brain to muster any discipline at that moment. Littlewood needed more air, he was desperate for it, and instinctively he drew another deep breath through his mouth. The mixture of bile and blood that was sitting just under his tongue was sucked back into his throat, blocking the oxygen passage even more.

Total panic.

His eyes rolled back into his head and the contents of his stomach exploded inside him, shooting up through his chest and esophagus like a rocket, though to him everything happened in slow motion. His body started to go limp. Life was quickly draining away from him.

He felt the acid taste of vomit take hold of his mouth a fraction of a second before it was flooded by warm, lumpy liquid. At that exact moment, his gag gave in, dropping from his mouth as if someone had snipped it off at the back.

He threw up all over his lap. But the good news was he could now breathe.

After a battery of dry coughs and spits, Littlewood started taking desperate gasps of air, trying to fill his lungs with oxygen and at the same time calm himself down. He started shaking, convulsing with two realizations – one: he had just come within an inch of death; two: he was still tied to a chair, and he didn’t have a clue what was going on.

Movement came from his left. Startled, Littlewood’s head snapped in that direction. Someone was there, but the shadows didn’t allow Littlewood to see.

‘Hello?’ he said, in such a weak voice he wasn’t sure it’d been audible to anyone but himself.

A few more desperate breaths to steady himself.

‘Hello?’ he tried again.

No answer.

Littlewood looked around himself. He saw a large bookshelf crowded with leather-bound volumes, a floor lamp by the side of a large desk across the room from him – the room’s only source of light. His eyes moved right and he saw a comfortable brown leather armchair. A few feet in front of it he recognized the psychologist’s couch – his psychologist’s couch. He was back in his office.

‘By the look on your face, I can see you’ve figured out where you are.’ The phrase was delivered in an even voice. Someone had come from the shadows, and was now standing about five feet in front of him, leaning against his desk.

Littlewood’s gaze refocused on the tall figure as even more confusion settled in.

‘This is your office. Four floors up from the road below. Thick windows. Thick walls. And your window faces the back alley. Outside your door there’s a large waiting room, and only then do you reach the door to the outside hallway.’ A pause and a shrug. ‘Scream if you like, but no one will hear a peep.’

Littlewood coughed again to try and clear the vile taste from his mouth. ‘I know you.’ His voice was croaked and weak. Fear cloaked every word.

A smile and a shrug. ‘Not as well as I know you.’

Littlewood’s head was still too fuzzy for him to put a name to the face. ‘What? What’s all this?’

‘Well, what you don’t know about me is that I am . . . an artist.’ A deliberate pause. ‘And I’m here to make you into a work of art.’