J King - Angel of Death

“Oh, and if you tell anybody else or fuck this up in any other way, I’m cutting you loose and charging you with obstruction. Yeah, you’re welcome, too.”

I see you, Keith McFarland. Good. Take the train to Woodstock. Yes, I will sit beside you. No one can see me, anyway.

It is our last train ride together. Then we’ll hitch to Burlington. Some kind soul will take us as far as your warehouse. I’ll make sure he is supposed to die tonight, too, and make sure he is nice and juicy for you. He’ll take us to your warehouse, and your pistol will convince him to accompany us farther – all the way inside. That wet, window-riddled old place will be the perfect scene for your final kill.

You will die tonight, in the very act. There will be a cop at every window of the building once we go in. A cop at every window, and one very important cop inside. She will shout to you, “Freeze! Police!”

You will not freeze, of course. You’ve listened to no one but me these past fifteen years. You’ll finish the killing, and they will shoot you down, ninety bullets, one for each of your victims. Most will hit your chest, but enough will go through your head to rip it clean away. That’s fitting.

And what of your hands? Oh, I have something really special planned for your hands. Leland couldn’t stop her hands from shaking. She pressed her back against the brick wall and took a long, deep breath of the dank air inside the warehouse. There are five squads within three blocks, and twenty plainclothes men on the street outside. Four of them have sniper rifles under their coats. The Racine and Milwaukee sharpshooters are in place all along Route 11. You’ve even got a couple guys in canoes on the White River, for Christ’s sake. Canoeing at ten-thirty on a March evening – that’s not conspicuous. Still, Samael’s a disorganized psychotic. He’d kill in the station house if the mood struck.

They’d already done a sweep of the old, crumbling warehouse. The owner had been more than willing to cooperate. They found nothing but rows of musty crates, nailed closed, padlocked closets, and a few intrepid rats. The perimeter had been up since eight o’clock, and anyone who crossed it would be called out by the spotters. As long as her earpiece was working, she’d know before the killer arrived.

She, and Blake beside her. He stood so still in the darkness that she had almost forgotten about him. Only the wave of a hand before her face reminded her. She glanced up to see his wiry hair glowing greasily in a wedge of moonlight.

He mouthed, “Anything, yet?”

She shook her head.

He nodded. He shifted the collapsed tripod from one hand to the other. Even Blake’s ego was an insufficient shield for the photographer tonight. The sweat on his brow looked like lizard scales in the moonlight. This would be a very cold place to hole up if one were a reptile. This killer was a reptile, a subhuman predator who had been protected by sly instinct – and by whomever held his leash.

“A car just turned the corner on Origen,” came a whispered voice over the radio. “Three men are getting out. Bunchy coat on the one. There’s a tall, thin guy with dark hair, a short guy with dark hair, and then the guy with the coat – blond, medium build. The coat guy goes first across the street, looks both ways. The short guy next, and now the tall one. I can’t see if any of them is packing. The coat guy is looking around, nervous. They’re heading for the east door.”

“Got it,” she whispered into the mike. Then to Blake she said, “East door. Let’s go.”

Blake quietly snapped the tripod to his side and followed her as she stalked out between the crates, across the damp floor.

In the headphone, the commentary continued.

“Looks like the short guy has a key. There must be a gun in the other pocket of his coat. The blond is saying something. It sounds like pleading.

“Ah, the door is open. Still no gun visible. We could arrest now, but they might be legit-”

“No. No evidence. Wait to see where they’re going, and then keep close.” Leland navigated a maze of rough-sawn crates and rusted piping. “Let’s see if we can separate them. We don’t know which one is the killer, and we don’t want to force his hand.”

“The short one just shoved the blond guy inside and followed, the tall guy behind. Still no gun.”

Leland slowed, hearing a voice ahead. She held out her hand, stopping Blake behind her and going into a crouch behind a set of steel barrels. Both held deadly still, ears straining in the cave-like air.

“M-Move!” barked a man’s voice, the sound growing louder with approaching footsteps. “I-I-I’m j-just about d-done with you.”

Leland whispered, “They’re moving toward us. They’re going fast, like they’re heading a little distance. Still no gun. Radio silence until I give the word.”

She waved the photographer down, but he was cautiously spreading the legs of his tripod and pulling the cap from his lens. They were in deep shadow here, and perhaps Gaines could stand in plain view and not be seen. Some ID shots would be welcomed, especially since she couldn’t make out the features of any of the three men.

Her Colt was in her hand, she realized. It, too, felt cold and reptilian. As Blake quietly cranked a lever on his tripod, she leveled the pistol toward the space where the three men would pass. There was a beam of moonlight thrown across the path from one of the windows. Perhaps when they stepped in that, she would see whom she dealt with. Her heart thundered. The snick, snick, snick of Blake’s camera was loud against the quiet flap of three pairs of feet. Leland held her breath and steadied her aim.

If they hear that cricketing noise, I might have to shoot. The blond man stepped into the shaft of light. Shadowy blueness filled the hollows, crags, and lines of his face. It might have seemed an evil face, corpulent and lit from beneath, except for the sheer terror on it. Then he was gone from the light. Next came the short man, hands rammed down into his pockets. His step had a hitch in it. His face, glowing for a moment, was wan and expressionless, a mask of skin. His dark hair formed a greasy drapery around his head.

He, too, disappeared into the darkness as he passed. The snick, snick, snick of film continued. The last man, tall and confident, strode easily into the puddle of light. It splashed up his lean figure and lighted a handsome, assured face. He looked directly at the chittering camera, and then at Leland, giving her a knowing wink.

Azra? Sergeant Michaels? What’s he doing? How did he find out about the sting? How did he insinuate himself into the killer’s confidence? Questions crowded through her. Why didn’t he tell me he had this lead?

The camera ceased as the three men swept onward. Leland stared numbly after them. They rounded a corner of crates ahead before she could croak into the microphone: “The situation’s changed. There’s a cop with them. The tall one. He’s from Indiana, out of his jurisdiction. They’ve rounded a corner. They’re going toward the north wing. Send five men through the west door to back up. Send ten more to the windows of the north wing. Nobody shoot until I give the order.”

As the headset crackled with acknowledgment, Leland glanced up to Blake, who was quickly collapsing the tripod. “Let’s go,” she said, her voice trembling. Good, Donna’s here. I knew she’d respond to the anonymous tip. That’s why I’ve not materialized – don’t want her to ID me. She’ll be inspector after this goes off. Imagine her surprise when

“W-Wait here,” you say.

You’re excited. You’re going to hyperventilate. Steady, Keith. You don’t want to screw up this one. He’s your last. Yes. Take it easy. There, the key’s in the lock. There, it’s open.