Jo Robertson - The Avenger

"I'm fine, Howard," she repeated more firmly.

He gazed speculatively at her, a frown drawing the well shaped brows down. "May I come in? I know it's late, but the Bishop wants to know when you'll return to your classes."

What time was it anyway?

He craned his neck, straining to look around her. "And Bishop Cantrell, well you know how he is, expects a full report from me." He smiled disingenuously and spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "You wouldn't want me to get in trouble with the Boss, would you?" He grinned and jokingly pointed an index finger straight up.

The last thing she wanted was Howard intruding. Sharing an office with him was annoyance enough. Another warning flapped in her groggy subconscious, some danger she'd almost forgotten.

She sighed. On the other hand, the sooner she let him see she was none the worse for her experience, the sooner he'd leave her alone. She leaned against the door and lifted her hand to slide back the chain.

A weak wave of adrenaline tried to fire up her body.

Through the tiny crack, Howard wheedled, "We're all concerned about you, my dear."

Olivia began to unhook the chain as if her fingers had no will of their own. At the exact moment the round ball of the chain hovered between hooked and unhooked, the curtain over her mind lifted and she had a clear, stark image of Howard rummaging through her computer files. How did he find out she was here at Isabella Torres' apartment? Was he stalking her? Had he followed her from the precinct? She remembered him in their shared office, sitting on the edge of her desk, his face solemn and solicitous. She remembered thinking what a phony he was. The idea that this puffed-up, overblown ego of a man could be dangerous was ridiculous.

But had anyone investigated Howard? Howard, who knew next to nothing about Latin language. An icy sliver of alarm wormed through her blood as the truth of the situation slammed into her.

Ted Burrows was Howard Randolph's teaching assistant. Ted Burrows taught Howard Randolph's Latin rhetoric class. Ted Burrows was an expert Latin scholar and grammarian. And Howard was not.

She scrabbled to replace the chain, and for a moment, it swung crazily against the jamb right before Howard forced his weight against the door.

"You're so very easy to follow, my dear," Howard said with a grin.

Then she flew backwards into the wall, slid down its rough-textured surface, and felt the hard, cold entry floor rise up to meet her.

Even through the frenetic prowling in his mind, Jack embraced the Change. The muscles in his body bulged and rippled like those of an animal ready to pounce. His sinews thickened, his pupils constricted to pinpoints beneath his lids, and his nostrils flared with the myriad scents around him as his olfactory neurons activated exponentially.

No mixed sensory perceptions, but straight-forward sensations – sight, sound, and especially smell, his strongest sense. But he hunted in an unknown tangle of woods that confused the animal in him. He detected three distinct scents that diverged into three different paths.

He wavered momentarily. All three smells connected to Olivia, but which one involved the killer? He sniffed and held at bay the howling in his throat. To the south the night air was redolent with a man-smell, rank and fetid, but laced with weakness and indecision.

Not that way.

Directly northeast lay an enemy, vile, sensually decadent, but ultimately a slinking hyena like the Swahili Fisi that preys on the weak, the helpless, and the dead. A coward.

Not that way either.

The western scent beckoned, musty and dank with blood-violence. He started down that path, his padded feet silent on the fecund earth. After several miles at a steady pace, he halted and lifted his nose to the light wind.

The enemy lugged ahead, five hundred meters or more, traveling awkwardly through the thick woods. Under a heavy burden, he staggered on, flanked by the fetid odor of his malevolence.

Olivia crawled backwards away from the front door. Her brain jabbered messages, but she was a slug, slow and boneless. A phone, a weapon, something, anything to use against him.

Get up, move, run!

But the sleeping pills had slowed her reflexes and she watched in horror as Howard Randolph closed the door behind him and slowly leaned back against it.

"Olivia, dearest Olivia." He shook his head in mock sadness, a tiny smile on his lips. "Why do you fight the inevitable? Confusa sum."

I'm confused.

He loomed over her, bulky and menacing. Why hadn't she noticed before how athletic he was for a man his age? Bookish and affected, he'd seemed like someone's harmless uncle.

She remembered catching him at her office computer, browsing through her files, and prying around the papers on her desk. She scuttled backward until her shoulders reached a corner where the baseboard dug into her hip.

Half a dozen clicks tumbled in her head like the fitting together of giant puzzle pieces. This man had access, through her office and computer, to all her personal data. Had used that access deliberately and thoroughly. This man she thought was a respected colleague was…

Howard Randolph was going to kill her.

Terror ripped through her like an electric shock and permeated the drug-induced fog. Hysterically, she wondered which method he'd use on her. What punishment did Howard think she deserved? The horror of someone finding her mutilated corpse like one of his previous victims almost sent her over the edge.

Howard was the Dead Language killer.

His next words confirmed the thought. "Alea iacta est." The die is cast. He smiled slyly.

"What's that supposed to mean, Howard?" She raised her voice to drown out the roar in her ears and bit her lip to keep from screaming. "That makes no sense!"

His nostrils flared and he snarled, "Putasne?"

You think so?

Olivia realized she should've flattered, not challenged him, acted impressed with his Latin facility, poor as it was. She shouldn't have called him on his out-of-context remark. His face twisted in an ugly grimace right before it shut down like a smooth slate erased of all emotion.

"If you turn yourself in, they'll give you leniency," she reasoned. "You have to let the police help you."

"Putasne?" he repeated and barked a harsh laugh.

"I know Sheriff Slater and Agent Holt. They'll see that you get a fair deal."

He bent over her as she sprawled on the floor. "No one will give me a fair deal, Olivia," he spat. "No one will understand my mission."

"If you stop now, explain yourself," she argued, "things will go easier for you."

"Nunquam!" he shouted as his sinewy arms reached for her. Never!

Olivia scrambled to her feet and tried to make it down the hallway, to the bedroom where she could lock the door against him. But she tripped on her own awkward feet.

Never. The single word resounded like a death knell as she crashed to the floor, her body pinned beneath the suffocating weight of him. A quick, sharp sting in her thigh baffled her and her limbs flopped cloddishly as he turned her over. Howard's face leered above her, his lips close to her mouth.

She ceased struggling and then… nothing.

Jack catapulted himself down the last path – westward. Ten miles down that road he smelled his nemesis. This adversary was his target. The scent of Olivia was strong this way. Unrelenting, the enemy had hunted and had her in captivity.

Invigorated by the lust of the hunt, Jack leapt forward, closing the distance between them. Ahead, he spied the vehicle and caught the Olivia-scent laden with sweat and anxiety. He smelled fear coursing through her veins, but underlying that, resilience and determination.