Oliver Stark: 88 Killer

The car started to gain speed, the bumps in the ground making it lift and lurch left to right. It was a hundred yards away and gaining fast. Harper had no time to run; he stood firm and put his gun hand out, steadying it with the other. Shooting someone dead through the windshield of a car that was traveling at speed was hard enough; with the tension and the darkness it was ten times more difficult.

He waited as the car approached. He had one chance and had to leave it as late as possible. Harper counted down. At two seconds he would shoot to the right side of the driver and jump to his left.

His finger pressed. Three seconds. He was blinded now by the headlights, by the roar of the engine. Two seconds. He shot twice and threw himself to the left. The car veered right and clipped Harper’s feet as he was moving through the air.

Harper turned, his gun pointing as the car drove on a few more seconds, then stopped. Harper exhaled. He’d hit him. The killer was down.

Harper scrambled to his feet and moved cautiously towards the car. He peered into the darkness, but through the shattered windshield he couldn’t see a thing. He moved round to the driver’s side. There was a body leaning against the door. He could just make out the trickle of blood from a wound on the side of the head. Harper pulled open the door. Then a gunshot rang out from inside the car. Harper was thrown backwards and the dead driver was pushed out on top of him.

A masked face glanced across. The killer moved across to the driver’s seat and drove the car away.

‘Two of them,’ said Harper. ‘There were two of them.’ He shoved the dead weight off him, stood up and turned over the body at his feet.

Martin Heming’s grimace and wide eyes stared back at him.

Photography Labs, Manhattan

March 15, 4.53 a.m.

Harper ran across the open ground and reached Denise in the car. He was breathing deeply. ‘We got to follow that car.’

‘Yes — are you all right?’

‘I’m okay. What the hell happened?’ said Tom.

‘I don’t know,’ said Denise. ‘They must have dropped one guy off earlier. One guy came out, then the second guy came out a couple of minutes later — the one you shot at.’

‘Let’s follow,’ said Harper. ‘We’ve got to get this killer.’

‘Where’s Eddie?’

‘He got hurt.’

‘Bad?’

‘I hope not. He’s okay, I think.’

Denise drove off.

‘Did you get the plates?’ Harper asked.

‘Sure, here.’ Denise tossed him a notebook. They could see the tail lights up ahead. Harper called base and put out an APB on the license-plate.

‘It was Martin Heming,’ said Harper.

‘Heming?’

‘The guy on the grass. He’s dead. I don’t fully understand his involvement yet. We got a lot of working out to do. He wasn’t involved in the killings. There was only one guy at the Capske scene and the Glass scene. Heming might have been helping him. Or maybe the killer was blackmailing him, who knows?’

They drove in silence, Harper trying to keep focused on the tail lights ahead. ‘He’s heading into Brooklyn,’ he said.

‘Abby and Lucy are in danger,’ said Denise. ‘If he’s panicking, he could do anything. We can’t lose him.’

‘That’s right,’ said Harper. ‘So put your foot down.’

They drove over the bridge and into Brooklyn. The car they were following headed into the area called Bedford-Stuyvesant. Harper watched the car slow ahead. Then it turned.

‘I think we’ve found his lair,’ said Harper.

‘You think we should call for backup?’

‘Yes, but we can’t wait for it. We’ve got to get Lucy and Abby out of there now.’

They turned the final corner and saw a long alley. The car had vanished. They drove on, then turned and circled, but the car was nowhere to be seen.

‘What now?’ said Denise.

‘Now,’ said Harper, ‘we try to find him again. We’ve lost him. I’ll call Patrol, get this area saturated.’ Harper shook his head. ‘Shit. How the hell did he slip away? We almost had the bastard.’

Lock-Up, Bedford-Stuyvesant

March 15, 5.35 a.m.

The killer entered the lock-up and slammed the door. He was sweating; it had been a very close call. Too close. They had nearly caught him. Time was short now. There was nothing else to do. His final plan had to be actioned. Ahead of him, Lucy stared out of her Plexiglass and brick prison. His shirt was covered with pieces of glass and his face was bright red.

He stood for a moment, shaking, unable to move; his rage was burning him up inside. He moved across to his desk and violently swept everything aside. The typewriter and papers and Nazi medals cascaded to the floor. Then he turned. He stared at Lucy. She was the origin. He picked up the typewriter and threw it across the room. It hit the Plexiglass and rebounded on to the floor.

He turned away, running his fingers through his hair. Across the room, he had written the eighty-eight words that once upon a time had meant so much.

There was nothing else left now. There was no need to wait, no need to hide, no need to keep Lucy or Abby alive. They were closing in on him. He felt the noose tightening. He had to destroy them, pack up, and then make his final point.

Heming was dead but it didn’t matter. The man was expendable. He had come across Heming when he needed help, when he had needed Section 88 to help hurt and destroy.

He had big plans now and he’d have to carry them out alone. Karl Leer had got him another old truck. It was an orange Dodge and it was waiting outside.

It would be just like it was in the book about Sturbe. The book that he had devoured, that had incited him and made him feel that he also had the power to turn all that feeling of being bullied and broken into revenge — not against his attackers, but against those that they attacked too.

Sturbe had come alive in his mind. He was like a father to him. A guiding light. When the Jews tried to resist, in the Warsaw Ghetto, German troops destroyed the synagogue. A final symbolic gesture. He would do the same.

He turned to Lucy. The time had come. They all had to die. He had to die too. No question, no question at all. It was only a matter of when.

He opened the door to Abby’s closet, pulled her out forcibly and dragged her to her feet.

She was weak but she screamed her lungs out in a hoarse voice. The killer held her neck and squeezed, watching the pain cross her face. Lucy banged frantically on the Plexiglass. She howled at him to stop.

He stared at Abby with grim satisfaction before pulling open the door of his gas chamber and throwing her inside as Lucy raced at him, trying to reach the door before he slammed it shut and bolted it.

He stood staring at them, breathing deeply. He wasn’t sure any more if it was real or a game. He felt the emotion welling up in his chest. He had to be strong to the end.

He moved across to the canister of Zyklon B and saw the reaction in the gas chamber, as blind panic spread over the faces of Abby and Lucy and they began screaming and hitting the Plexiglass. He would not kill them yet, he decided. They would be last. First, he had to make sure of something. Everything was a battle and this one he wanted to win.

The Brooklyn Library

March 15, 7.05 a.m.

‘Lafayette, it’s Harper. We lost the killer. We chased him to Bed-Stuy and he disappeared. Eddie’s in the hospital — he’ll tell you everything.’

Lafayette was pacing his room. ‘Shootings at the Forensic Unit, Harper? An operation I knew nothing about? Is this right what I’m hearing? I’m telling you, get back here now.’