Chris Carter - The Crucifix Killer

Hunter drove slowly, taking no notice as the other drivers sped past him shouting profanities out of their windows.

He parked in front of his apartment building and rested his head on the steering wheel for a moment. His headache, if anything, had worsened and he knew tablets would have no effect. Before leaving the car he checked his cell phone for missed calls or messages. A futile exercise as he was sure he didn’t have any. He’d left instructions with everyone at the hospital that he should be informed the second Garcia regained consciousness, but something told him that wouldn’t happen tonight.

He stepped into his empty apartment and closed the door behind him, resting his throbbing body against it. The devastating solitude of his living room saddened him even further.

With his brain half numb he slowly walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge and stared at it blankly for a few seconds. His body should be screaming for food as he hadn’t eaten anything all day, but he didn’t feel at all hungry. In reality he was dying for a shower. It would help relax his tense muscles, but that would have to come second. His primary need was for a double Scotch.

He struggled to make a decision, staring at the bottles in his small bar for a few seconds. He smiled as he decided to go for something strong – Aberlour thirty years. He filled his glass halfway and opted for no ice this time. ‘ The stronger the better,’ he told himself, collapsing into his beat-up sofa. The effect of the strong liquid as it touched his lips was invigorating. It burned against the small cuts that surrounded his mouth, but he welcomed the sensation – enjoyable pain.

He rested his head against the sofa backrest, but forced himself not to close his eyes. He feared the images that hid behind his eyelids. He spent a couple of minutes staring at the ceiling, allowing the sturdy taste of his single malt to numb his tongue and mouth. Soon he knew it would numb his entire body.

He got up and walked to the window. Outside, the street looked quiet. He turned to face the empty living room once again. His body was slowly relaxing. He had another sip of his whisky and checked his cell phone once again pressing a few keys to make sure it was working OK.

In the kitchen he placed his glass on the table and sat down. Leaning back on the uncomfortable wooden chair he rubbed his face vigorously with both hands. As he did so, he heard a faint creaking sound coming from the corridor that led to his room. A shiver of fear raced through his body with extraordinary speed. Someone was there.

Hunter jumped to his feet and immediately felt the kitchen spinning around him. His legs started losing their strength and he held on to the worktop for balance. As confusion set in, his eyes rested on the empty whisky glass on the table. Drugged.

Before he collapsed onto the kitchen floor his unfocused eyes registered a dark figure moving towards him.

Slowly he opened his eyes, but it made no difference. The darkness was unconditional. He felt dizzy and very light-headed. Whatever drug he’d taken with his whisky had knocked him out in minutes. The first thing he realized was that he was sitting down, bound to some sort of uncomfortable chair. His hands were tied behind his back, his ankles tied to the chair’s legs. He tried breaking free but his efforts were in vain. His body hurt even more now but he was sure he had no broken bones – at least not yet. He felt thirsty – very thirsty.

Hunter had no idea how long he’d been out. Slowly and painfully his memory began to fill him in on what had happened. He tried to calm himself down and a familiar feeling came over him. He looked around in darkness and even though he couldn’t see, he knew where he was. He’d never left his apartment. He was sitting in his living room.

He tried moving again, but his hands and legs had been bound too tight. He made an effort to scream but his voice barely made a sound. It surprised him how weak he felt. Suddenly he sensed a chilling presence behind him.

‘ I can hear you’re awake. ’

The same robotic voice that had tormented him for over three years echoed through the room, catching him by surprise and startling him stiff. It came from behind him, some sort of speaker set up. Hunter felt a strange sensation run through him. He was finally in the presence of the killer. The Crucifix Killer.

Hunter tried turning, rotating his neck as far as it would go, but darkness prevented him from seeing his assailant.

‘ Don’t rush it, Robert. This is the final chapter. For you at least. It’ll all end tonight. Right here. You’re the last one. ’

The last one . Hunter’s findings in his office were now confirmed. This had all been about revenge.

He suddenly heard the sound of metal against metal. Surgical instruments he presumed. Instinctively his body went rigid with fear, but consciously he forced himself to stay calm. Hunter understood the psychology of killers, especially serial killers. The one thing they want more than anything else is to be understood. To them their killings have meaning, they serve a purpose and they want their victims to know they aren’t dying in vain. Before the kill, there’s always the explanation.

‘ Tonight you’ll pay for what you’ve done. ’

Those last words sent a judder of recognition through Hunter’s body. The voice that came from behind him was loud and clear – not robotic – not metallic – no distortion box. Hunter didn’t need to search his memory, he didn’t need to think about it. He knew that voice and he knew it well. All of a sudden the darkness disappeared. Hunter squeezed his eyes as uneven circles of light blurred his vision. His pupils contracted trying to get used to the brightness. As the blurriness dissipated a familiar shape took form in front of his eyes.

The blurriness seemed to have taken forever to subside, but once his eyes regained focus he knew he’d been right. Strangely enough he didn’t want to believe it. His eyes fixed on the person standing before him.

‘By the look on your face I can see you’re surprised,’ she said, her voice as sweet as it’d always been.

Hunter had hoped he’d been wrong. But now, staring at her, it all fell into place. He managed to whisper only one word. ‘Isabella.’

She smiled at him. The same smile he’d seen so many times, but this time her smile carried something else, something it’d never carried before. A hidden evil.

‘I thought you’d be happy to see me.’ Her Italian accent was gone. In fact, everything about her was different. As if the Isabella he knew had vanished, replaced by a total stranger.

Hunter’s expression remained immutable. His brain was finally piecing together the last of the puzzle.

‘You deserve an Oscar. Your Italian accent was perfect.’

She bowed down acknowledging the compliment.

‘Very clever trick with that phone call at the restaurant too. A perfect alibi,’ Hunter said, remembering the call he’d received from the killer when he was having lunch with her for the first time. ‘A recorded message with a timer. Simple, but very effective.’

A hint of a smile creased her lips. ‘Allow me to introduce myself…’ she said steadily.

‘Brenda…’ Hunter interrupted in a hoarse and weak voice. ‘Brenda Spencer… John Spencer’s sister. The record producer.’

She shot him a surprised and uncomfortable look. ‘Doctor Brenda Spencer if you don’t mind,’ she corrected him.

‘A medical doctor,’ Hunter asserted.

‘If you must know… a surgeon.’ A new malevolent smile.