C. Barry - Redemption

He couldn’t deny the coroner’s reports that these were accidents, but he knew she was involved. She had to be. That wasn’t even the part that worried him the most.

It was the whispers.

Thane watched her enter the restaurant wearing a snug-fitting black dress and knee-high black boots. He slowed the video and studied her frame by frame. She was incredible, really. Long, black hair to her waist, wide almond-shaped eyes, red lips, and one smoking-hot body. She moved like a dancer—confident and graceful.

He let the tape run, closed his eyes, and listened to a sound he hadn’t heard since the night his father was murdered. He didn’t remember much from that night—not the killer, not the circumstances. All had been buried in his young mind then. But the sound—the whispers—those he remembered now. It took every bit of concentration he had to keep his emotions at bay, and the realization that somehow, someway, this woman had triggered this one small memory to the surface.

He held the headphones against his head tightly.

Just like all the other tapes, the voices were soft and light. There were two or three different tones, but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t understand what they were saying. If he asked his tech guys to boost the sound, they’d think he was crazy. There was no audio with half of these tapes.

Which proved that he might just be crazy.

Or maybe he missed his father so much that he was clinging to something that wasn’t really there. Maybe the woman had nothing to do with these deaths or his father’s murder, but there was really only one way to find out. He opened his eyes just as she exited the front door and disappeared into the night. The whispers faded.

At least now, he had something to show his boss.

He’d keep the voices to himself. He was on probation as it was. All he needed was a damning psych evaluation to finish him off.

Alexander Wolken slammed his fist against the steering wheel and yelled into his cell phone. “My emergency? My car died in the middle of Bed-Stuy, and it’s fucking two a.m. That’s my emergency.”

The 911 operator said, “I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t handle car problems. This line is for emergencies only—”

“Fuck you!” he yelled and disconnected the call. “Jesus H. Christ!”

Of all the nights for his car to crap out on him. The steady rain carved long streaks down his windshield, and the inside of the glass was covered in steam. But he could still make out the streetlights of this godforsaken neighborhood.

His cell phone beeped a low-battery warning, and he let loose a slew of curses, which didn’t help his situation. His choices were to sit and wait here until morning. Or get out and try to find a cab. Either way, his car would probably be stripped bare.

No fucking way. He cared about his car more than anything and anyone.

He tried doing a search for a tow service on his phone, but it kept blipping out on him. He ignored the annoying reminders that the battery was low. After a few minutes of searching, he finally found one. But when he managed to get them on the line, the call cut out dead.

“Piece of shit!” He threw the phone against the dashboard. It bounced off and landed on the floor somewhere. He didn’t bother to look. He slammed his fists on the steering wheel. This was all his wife’s fault. If she hadn’t had to work the late shift, he wouldn’t be driving to pick her up. Well, she could rot at work for all he cared. And when she did get home, he was going to beat the shit out of her.

Suddenly, the passenger-side door opened and a black figure slid into the car. He gaped at the strange woman in disbelief. He’d locked the doors, he was sure. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

She turned to him, and her eyes glowed silver in the dark. Her hair was black and wet, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Car trouble?”

Oh, Christ. Just what he needed. A hooker. “Get lost. I’m not interested.”

She brushed raindrops off her black coat onto his upholstery. “Really? So why did you rape and murder seven women over the last six years?”

Alexander blinked furiously for a few moments before regaining his composure. “Get out of my car!”

She turned to face him, her skin pale against red lips. “And your wife. You manage to find a reason to beat her regularly.”

Who the hell was this woman? How did she know all this? He reached out and grabbed her by the arm. “Get out!”

But she didn’t move, and his hand slipped right through her, disappearing into the black coat. He pulled his hand back out and stared at it.

“I’m not like them,” she said, her voice low and ominous. “I don’t bleed. I don’t break. You can’t hurt me.”

He growled in frustration and shoved at her with both of his hands, grasping nothing but air. He slashed at her, punching and hitting—nothing. It was as if she weren’t there at all. Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe he was losing his mind.

“Done?” she asked, sounding bored with his antics.

He felt the breath rushing in and out of his lungs. “What are you?”

She smiled. “Someone who knows everything you’ve done, Alexander. Every woman you’ve raped, beat, abused, strangled, and killed.”

His mind scrambled. She knew his name. She knew what he’d done. This made no sense. “You can’t know—”

“I do,” she said with a smirk. “Marcy. Jenna. Bridget. Colleen. Kim. Should I continue?”

He shook his head, the shock settling over him. He started to shake. No one should know about them. He’d been very careful who he chose, very careful not to leave clues behind. “Are you a cop?”

“Hardly. I just have connections,” she said simply. The car turned quiet. Rain pelted the top of the car softly. “Alexander Wolken, are you sorry for your sins?”

Reality returned with a vengeance. His sins? What about their sins? What about their sins? The way they looked at men and toyed with them. The way they teased and lied. The trouble they put men through, for what? Themselves. They were all selfish, every one of them. They had no idea what men wanted or needed, and they didn’t care. He was not at fault. They deserved what he did to them.

“Go to hell,” he hissed at her.

“Already been there.”

He reached through her and opened her door. “Out!”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then,” she said. Then she slipped out and slammed the door shut, leaving him alone seething. His breath came hard and fast, fogging up the windows.

He hit the steering wheel with both palms, hating the rain, hating everything. He was so furious, he could barely sit still. Who did she think she was? Getting in his car? Accusing him? Red rage filled his mind. A memory of each woman came back to his mind. The way they begged when they knew they were going to be brought to justice. He remembered every one clearly—

A knock on the driver’s-side window jolted him out of the past. He glared through the steamy glass and realized that men wearing hoods over their heads bobbed and weaved around his car.

Punks. Worthless punks.

Then a face appeared in his driver’s-side window, grinning through the steam. Alexander flipped the man off and grinned back. There, fucker .

Suddenly, the glass shattered next to him and a metal rod jammed into his face. Pain blinded him as he yelled and grabbed for his nose. A hand gripped the back of his head and slammed his face forward. Crushing pain followed. Warm blood spurted out across the steering wheel, and his mouth went numb. He didn’t even have time to react before he felt himself being ripped from his seat and dragged through the window.

Voices rang in his ears. Glass sliced his skin. He reached out to grab the nearest punk and got a handful of shirt. Damned if he’d go out without a fight.