The Butterfly Killer

Chapter 8

8

Marcus heard dripping water. It echoed around him, like there were many spots where it was coming from. He tossed his head, his eyes still closed, as he tried to make the sound stop from within. He made a low groan in the back of his throat.

His body ached. He didn’t know where the ache was coming from, but he just knew he was in pain. It was a dull pain that bloomed in different spots—he felt it everywhere but almost like it was a remembrance of pain than anything else.

He tried to sit up. The pain in his neck and lower abdomen worsened. He seethed as he fell back down. He gasped as his eyes stared up at the ceiling. Wood. He saw wood planks and then a metal sheet. He was in some kind of shed.

He turned his head to the side. He could feel the ghosting of the fingertips digging into his throat. He wheezed as his own panic started to seal off his airway. His hand was shaking as he raised it to touch his neck. There was nothing there. He knew that. But it was his brain being played.

His mouth was dry. He swallowed to try and coat his dry tongue. The taste in his mouth was sour. He must have thrown up as he passed out or when he was here.

He rolled to his side. The floor was sticky. It was too dark to see much of anything. The small light coming from under the door of the shed helped only a little. His stomach turned as he thought of the possible things that might be on the floor.

He heaved, his empty stomach throwing up only spit and acid. He spat it out and groaned as his stomach clenched again. He didn’t know why he was so weak. It felt as if someone had beaten the shit out of him.

He crawled along the floor, the sticky liquid and the dirt clung to his skin and his clothes. He reached the door. It was sturdy. He banged his hand against it to see if it would push open on its own. Of course it didn’t. That would be too easy.

His hand searched out along the plywood for the handle or for a lock. There was a metal handle. He grabbed it and yanked at it. The door barely moved. There was something on the outside locking him in.

He panted as he sagged against the door. His hand went to his side. It ached there.

He felt wetness as well. His pulse quickened as he felt his side with his fingers. There was a gash on his side about two inches long.

A half sob escaped him as a pain so great it had him seeing white almost made him pass out. He gritted his teeth as gasped for breath. His eyes bulged as he stared into the darkness. The stuff sticky on the floor was his blood. He’d been laying in it for who knew how long.

He slowly lowered to the ground. His chest heaved. For a long minute he sat in the silence, listening to his labored breaths as his thoughts cycled through so many things.

His eyelids lowered. He straightened up as he almost fell asleep.

No. He wasn’t going to give up.

As much as it pained him, he moved to the other end of the shed. He searched blindly for anything he might be able to use as a weapon. The man had been smart enough to remove everything.

“Fuck,” Marcus hissed under his breath.

He didn’t have time to formulate a plan. He heard a door outside the shed open and close. His eyes locked onto the little light coming from under the shed door. The movements of a shadow—legs and feet—made the light flicker.

The man outside the door stopped. He stood for a paused moment before he started messing with what Marcus thought to be the lock trapping him inside.

The shed door groaned as it was pushed in. A bright light flashed into Marcus’s face. It blinded him for a second. He shielded his face as the shed door closed. It thudded against the wooden frame.

“Hello, officer.”

Marcus’s breath caught in his throat as he recognized the voice. It was Michael.

His brow furrowed. Michael was the copycat? It didn’t make sense.

Michael lowered the flashlight. “You look confused to see me.”

Marcus backed up as much as he could, pressing his back against the wall of the shed. His eyes were still recovering from being blinded by the high-powered flashlight. It had seemed more like a laser beam stinging the back of his retinas.

Michael crouched in front of him. He wore jeans and a t-shirt again, the same casual outfit Marcus saw him in when he wasn’t jogging.

“You’re the copycat killer?” Marcus’s voice wheezed out of him. He gritted his teeth as another jolt of pain went through his side.

Michael moved the light to the wound. He gave a soft snort. “Copycat killer? I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else. I don’t copy anyone. I’m original.”

Michael gave a smile that must have been trying to be cute, but it only made Marcus more disgusted.

“Then who are you?”

Michael took a deep breath. “Well, I don’t have an official name yet. The police haven’t connected the dots between my murders.”

His eyes narrowed. There was a look of anger behind them. “Two years I’ve been killing and they haven’t caught on.”

His eyes moved to Marcus. “Until you showed up.”

He moved closer. Marcus pressed the back of his head against the wall. There was a nail digging into the nape of his neck, but he didn’t dare move.

Michael got so close Marcus could feel his breath on his skin. “Lily didn’t mention she had a brother. In all the times I watched her…she didn’t say a word about you.”

Marcus couldn’t breathe for a second.

“You were watching her.”

Michael lowered the flashlight to the ground. He lifted his hand to Marcus’s cheek. Marcus jerked his head back. He slammed it right into the nail.

He let out a yelp.

Michael laughed as he clenched a fistful of Marcus’s hair. He pulled Marcus’s head to the side. “Yes, I was watching her. She was going to be next. The one to make me a headline.”

The fingers crawled along his scalp. Marcus shoved at Michael’s arm, but the man only gripped his hair harder. Marcus hissed as Michael dug his fingertip into the fresh wound on the back of his head.

“And then you fucking ruined it.”

Michael punched Marcus right in the face.

Marcus groaned as he dropped to the floor. Michael let him fall. He kicked Marcus in the gut and then in the chest, right beside where Marcus’s wound was.

“I had it all planned out.” Michael stepped over Marcus. He placed the sole of his shoe on Marcus’s hand and crushed it. “And you fucking ruined it!”

Marcus screamed.

“Stop that.” Michael slammed Marcus’s head down on the ground. “I will kill you if you don’t shut up.”

Marcus let out a little croak.

The pain split down to the base of his skull and down his spine. His limbs were numb as the pain took him over. He gave one little pitiful gasp as he tried to breathe. The floor was cold against his cheek. He felt his blood trailing down his forehead. He couldn’t say for sure if all the blood on the ground was his. He felt sick thinking about how many others was mixed together.

Michael paused. He loomed above Marcus, staring down at him as if he was thinking about something. Marcus’s breaths became labored. He dug his nails into the cement under him. His heart raced as he stared at the light filtering from under the door. He was scared to know what Michael was thinking about right then.

The silence was heavy. It weighed down on Marcus like a fifty pound weight. His breaths became harder to take until it felt like someone was strangling him. He wheezed, his blood filling his mouth. He’d bitten his tongue when he went down to the ground.

“I was planning on killing you outright,” Michael said with amusement. “But now that I see you…I think you’ll be the perfect replacement.”

Marcus went still as Michael lowered himself atop him. He went to his knees as he crouched over Marcus. He placed his hands next to Marcus’s on the cement. Marcus stared at the hand in front of his face. Michael was wearing black gloves.

“I’m going to have so much fun with you,” Michael whispered in Marcus’s ear. A cold shiver went through him.

“When I’m done with you, you’ll wish I’d killed you.”

Marcus’s whole body was on fire. His vision drifted in and out. He grasped onto the anger swelling inside him. It was just a spark, almost put out by the hopelessness he felt. He felt as if he couldn’t do anything—that it was too late. He just wanted everything to be over.

But he couldn’t end here. He couldn’t let his last moments be spent not even at the hands of the killer he was truly after. He wouldn’t be killed by someone who meant nothing to him.

As much as it killed him, the pain was so strong it almost took him out, he forced himself to reach out for the flashlight laying on the floor. He clenched it with the last bit of strength he had.

And then he swung it at Michael’s head.

He felt the impact as the end of the flashlight rammed into the side of Michael’s skull. There was a crack and Marcus didn’t know if it was the flashlight breaking or Michael’s head. He pulled it back and slammed it into the man’s head again before Michael stumbled backward.

Marcus hesitated. He was going to hit the man again, but something stopped him. The blood, the stench in the air, and the shaking in his hands prevented him from throwing the final blow. He didn’t want to be a killer.

He didn’t want to be on the same field as the man in front of him and the man he was trying to hunt down.

The flashlight clattered to the ground. He stumbled backward, his feet numb and his mind a frenzy of thoughts that made him sick. He found the courage at the last second to turn on his heels and run to the door.

He slammed into it. His whole body was out of wack and his coordination suffered because of how frenzied his mind was. It took him a couple tries to get a hold of the door handle. It was merely a piece of wood slotted into another piece of wood. He lifted it and shoved through it.

His feet picked up speed, but he tripped a couple times. Thankfully he didn’t slam into he ground. The sunlight was too bright. His eyes had a hard time adjusting to the afternoon sun. He still stumbled around. He didn’t know what it was. Maybe Michael had given him something while he was still passed out and that might be why he was having such a hard time doing much of anything.

He rubbed at his eyes as he ran to the end of the street. His vision blurred for a second as another bright beam of sunlight shined into his eyes.

He hissed and groaned as the pain bloomed in every inch of his body. He shook his head as if that would make the pulsing in his head go away. It didn’t. It made it worse.

He clenched his teeth and stepped out into the road. Even with his vision blurry, he was able to see a car coming his way. He flagged them down and to his luck they actually stopped.

The driver stepped out. Their tall figure moved slowly toward Marcus.

“I need your help,” he gasped through the pain. “Call 911. A man?—”

He pointed to the shed. “—he attacked me.”

He let out a yelp as another sharp jolt of pain went through his side. His hand fell onto the hood of the car.

So there was someone there. It confused him that they weren’t reacting at all.

His body went stone cold when they placed their hand on the back of his neck. They had moved closer than he’d realized, standing directly behind him. Their body heat filled him with a sense of dread. He was caught in his flight or flight instincts. Like a bird with its winds clipped—there was only one dooming choice for him.

They slammed his head into the hood of the car and everything went black.

Agent Mercer stepped around the pile of blood slowly trailing down the driveway. He snapped on the latex gloves given to him by one of the forensics team members. He crouched to get a better look at the dead man on the ground. He was in his late mid-to-late sixties, gray hair, and completely not the TBK victim profile. His chest had been ripped open in a haste—not at all like the beautiful work of the Butterfly Killer or the supposed copycat.

Agent Burns came jogging over. “I just spoke with one of the neighbors. They saw Marcus being moved into the back of a blue Toyota. I’ve already put a APB on it.”

Mercer stood up. “Did they see who the person was?”

Burns shook his head. “They didn’t see their face, but the woman described them as being tall with long dark hair. Could be a woman or a man—neighbor said they were slender.”

Mercer stared at the man’s body for a hard long seconds, taking his time to memorize all the details of the kill. He looked at it in a calculative way. He saw all the mistakes the killer had made, each time the jerk of the knife had been harsh, ripping the skin instead of cutting it, and the blatant disregard for the kill.

Burns watched his partner. His eyes avoided the body though he should be doing his own observation. “What is it?”

Mercer moved around the body. “Palmer was right. This is a copycat.”

Burns forced himself to look at the body. Somehow, this one was worse. There was anger in this kill. More so than the others. It was like a rabid animal had gotten ahold of the man.

“Why do you say that now?”

“All that Palmer said about the new murders being more methodical were correct, but there was no definite way to prove the killer hadn’t just improved.”

Burns frowned. “But what do you see that makes it definite?”

“Because—” Mercer pointed to the man. “There is no pleasure in this. The killer did the signature because he needs to keep up the ruse. He doesn’t care about the signature—it means nothing to him.”

Burns slowly nodded. “And what do you think he’s going to do now that he has Marcus?”

Mercer shrugged as he pulled the gloves off. “He wanted to lure Palmer out here. I’m guessing he didn’t know there was another serial killer so close. He was probably surprised. I doubt he’s going to kill Palmer so soon.”

Burns turned away as his stomach rolled. He winced as he had to focus on not throwing up. “He’s losing control though. What’s to say he can’t even go through with his own plans?”

Mercer threw the gloves into a dedicated biohazard bin and started walking back to where they’d parked. Burns followed close behind.

“If that’s the case, we need to find Palmer before the copycat loses control completely.”

They got in, Mercer in the driver’s seat and Burns in the passenger.

Burns sighed. “Is it bad that I hope the killer wants to mess with Marcus a little longer?”

Mercer turned to look at Burns. It was hard for Burns to understand what his partner was thinking—it was always hard since Mercer was cold and serious about everything. If he had any human emotions at all, he was good at masking them.

“It would be the best outcome,” Mercer said.

Burns snorted. “Apathetic as always.”

“Emotions have never been good for police work. Being impartial gives us the best chance to be the most effective.”

Burns looked over at his partner. He held Mercer’s eyes. “Are you telling me you have no emotional investment in this? You don’t care about Marcus not even a little since working with him?”

Mercer raised a brow. “Are you saying you do?”

Burns turned away. He ran a hand over the bottom of his face. “It doesn’t seem fair. Not after how much he’s already been through.”

The silence that settled in the car made Burns uneasy. He knew Mercer kept his distance from cases. Burns envied that about him. Burns had too much empathy for people. He questioned why he became an agent sometimes, why he set himself up for such failure and misery when he knew he’d carry the job with him for the rest of his life.

“I can’t say I feel the same,” Mercer answered. “But it’s admirable you care that much about a stranger.”

Mercer started the car. As they drove off, Burns tried to not think about what Marcus might be going through at that moment.