Gratitude: Part I - Act 4
Agent Harrison slowly put the file back on the dashboard of his car. His jaw slowly dropped. Impossible. This was... he stared into the abyss of the night and shook his head. This was impossible. The Cremator had been killed ten years ago. He had seen her body. He had seen her buried!
But the tell tale calling card was there. In that folder. This woman who had been killed —a murder which might have been overlooked— was a subtle clue to the web of disturbing and unexplainable murders which had been flagged by the Bureau for decades.
Either this was a copycat killer and the murder of Ms. Brandon had been a sloppy mistake... or the Cremator was back. Harrison swallowed.
In the darkness and silence at the heart of the City That Never Sleeps, a taxi tore past Harrison’s car, heading East. In the back, as the taxi moved through Harrison’s headlights, the agent could clearly see a young woman in a black leather jacket.
Without a second thought, he threw his car into gear and accelerated around the corner after them.
Niki stood by Whistler’s side in the dim light of very early morning. It had taken ten minutes by taxi to get here. The darkness was just beginning to yield to the grey light of dawn. Before them was a small baseball diamond where several men were gathered.
The Slayer and the demon were standing out of earshot and out of sight. Niki was trying not to fall asleep on her feet.
“What are we doing here?” she asked tiredly, pulling her leather jacket tighter around her.
“These guys are new in town,” Whistler informed her.
“The Deceivers?” Niki prompted, carefully drawing her short sword. But the demon shook his head.
“Nah, just vampires. I followed them here from JFK.” He turned away from them and tugged his fedora down to cover his face as a pair of vamps walked past them to join the group.
Niki wasn’t so interested in concealment. “Then let’s get slaying—”
“Not so fast,” Whistler took her arm, covering the gleam off her sword with his plum jacket. “Don’t you have a code of conduct?” To her quizzical glance, he lifted something out of his jacket pocket. “You’ve sworn not to slay vamps wearing these, haven’t you?”
Niki glared at the small silver bracelet. IXI. “Where did you get that?”
Whistler cocked his head. “I bought it for sixty bucks from some schmuck at the airport.”
The Slayer was exerting a great deal of effort to continue to remain inconspicuous. “So you’re telling me that every vamp— they’ve all been playing me?”
Whistler shrugged. “We’ll I can tell you that these guys here certainly didn’t shed blood at your side in the Civil War.” He dropped the bracelet into her hand. “What did you expect would happen? Giving carte blanche to anyone with a bracelet... Terrible idea.”
Niki ground her teeth. “I didn’t hear you complaining six months ago!” Without another word she pulled her sword from where it was hidden inside his jacket and charged the group of vamps.
Brian Harrison kept his head down as he watched the scene play out before him. The suspect was engaging a group of at least ten, armed with what looked like a sword. Instead of running away, the men were rushing her and one after another were being decapitated.
Harrison’s eyes widened as one after another they turned to dust. He had been searching for this person half his career. She could incinerate a person at will. Leaving no evidence or DNA. The victim couldn’t even be identified. The perfect murder.
The FBI had been tailing a serial killer they had named the Cremator as far back as the mid seventies. He had followed the woman who they had pegged as their main suspect here to New York City where she had been killed in a random fight on a subway.
That was ten years ago. Harrison had been convinced the murders would end when out of nowhere they started up again. He had found no leads until the murders had shifted back to New York a few years ago. Either Nikki Wood was not the Cremator serial killer or this new girl was a copycat.
He had personally seen the Cremator, or who he thought was the Cremator, impale someone on a sharp stick. The person had promptly been incinerated. When he had seen the murder of Megan Brandon and the ME’s autopsy report, he had feeling the Cremator was back. Why had Megan not been incinerated like the rest of them?
Harrison shook his head. The crazy bitch was leaving clues. On purpose. She knew he was following her and she was taunting him. No one at the Bureau would believe him. How exactly did she incinerate people? they would laugh. Does she shoot fire from her eyes like Superman? He grimaced as she finished off the thugs with the sword, strolling away from the cloud of ashes. Whoever she was, he vowed, he would take her down. No matter what it took.
Logan smiled in his sleep. They were all back at the beach. The sun was bright and the ocean was cleansing. The butterscotch ripple ice cream was dripping. Hanna was laughing; bright and sunny laughter, like he remembered it when she was six.
Rachel was smiling. She was smiling at him. No more suspicion, no more resentment. They were a family again. For one perfect weekend they had been a family again.
Logan rolled out of bed. He wasn’t sure what woke him up, but it couldn’t have been for no reason. Then he heard something else. A door closing. He swallowed. Training his ears, he listened to the deep silence of... he glanced at the clock; 3:16 am.
A muffled scream jolted him into action. His heart pounding and his adrenaline surging, he raced down the stairs to the front door which was standing ajar. Rachel rolled over in bed, mumbling something in her deep sleep.
On the front lawn in the darkness played out a scene from Logan’s nightmares. Hanna was struggling against the grip of several laughing vampires. Tears streaked her face as they pawed at her and tore her pajamas.
None of them saw him as he raced out the door, fury and terror competing for dominance in his mind. Before any of the vamps could turn around, he had body checked one halfway across the street and shoved a second to the ground. He delivered a vicious kick to the face of a third and felt something familiar and unwelcome building in him.
Logan closed his fists to conceal the incriminating light he knew was beginning to spark between his fingers as he vaulted over one of the vamps and snatched Hanna from the grip of the last two.
Their faces morphing, Logan hid his daughter’s face from the sight. With a hiss they began to spread out to circle him. The three who had been knocked down got up with snarls.
“Honey,” Logan said through clenched teeth and with a trembling voice, “don’t look.” She nodded into him as he hugged her tight.
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