CHAPTER TWO
In. Out. In. Out..... But faster. That was the pace of my breathing. The rain was a baptism of grime but it could only wash out the stench of blood.
I arrived at my apartment. It was a bland, brick monolith. I took the stairs, pausing at my door to listen. From within came the soft, rhythmic click of computer keys. Elara, my wife, was working.
I slipped inside.
"David? That you?" Her voice floated from the study, a little tired.
"It's me." I walked to the doorway. She was bathed in the blueish light of her monitor, legal briefs reflected in her glasses. "Late one?"
"The Henderson case. It's a nest of vipers." She spun in her chair, offering a small, weary smile. "You're back late. Everything okay?"
That was it. The gentle loving interrogation that was the bedrock of a normal life. I met her gaze. "Stopped for coffee. Just needed to... decompress. Walked longer than I meant to."
Her smile softened. "If you wanted coffee, you would've just rushed home. It's dangerous out there at night... Plus, I heard siren noises." She slowly unbuttoned my shirt. "But I get it. Long week." She studied me for a heartbeat too fast. Could she see the phantom blood? Could she smell the silence I carried? But then, she took my wet shirt and flung it on her shoulder and turned back to her screen. "Lily was asking for you before bed. She drew you a picture "
I went to our daughter's room. The nightlight cast a soft, star-shaped glow on the walls. She was asleep, one arm flung above her head. On her nightstand was the drawing.
It was a stick-figure man, me, with a shock of black crayon hair. Next to him was a smaller stick figure, her. But between them, she had drawn a large scribble of black, a dark cloud that seemed to consume the space. From the cloud, she'd drawn jagged red drops, falling like rain on both of their heads.
IT WILL RAIN BLOOD!
It was my own words. A coincidence. It has to be. She was seven. She saw things. But the chill that spread through my chest was absolute. Was the darkness not just in me, but in the very air my family breathed?
I retreated to the living room, the blood rain drawing seared behind my eyes. Elara had made me tea. We sat on the sofa.
"She's been having nightmares again," Elara said softly, cradling her mug, "She told her teacher that the 'quiet man' visits her window."
My blood went still. "The quiet man?"
"Just a dream, David." She patted my knee. "She says he's very tall and wears a black suit. He just stands there and smiles. She says all the sound goes away when he comes."
I didn't respond. My mind was maelstrom.
The next day was Saturday. I was busy at the garden, thinking of my next target. I kept glancing at Lily's window on the second floor. Suddenly a movement caught my eye.
A figure stood in the dim ess of her room.
It was tall, gaunt and dressed in a black suit that seemed to drink the light. It's face was pale, smooth oval, featureless, except for a small wide sash of a smile. It stood perfectly still, looking down at me from the window.
The Quiet man. He was here.
I dropped what I was holding and ran inside, taking the stairs two at a time. I burst into Lily's room.
It was empty. The room was warm and normal. But the hair on my arms stood on end.
Lily was downstairs watching cartoons, perfectly fine.
But I knew I had seen him.
That night, the need to act was a physical ache. The urge to kill grew to a point it can't be suppressed..I had to go... and fast. Plus, the money I gain from it wasn't enough. I needed more. I had a target I hade been researching for weeks: MARCUS HENDERSON, the "philanthropic" property developer at the heart of Elara's case, a man who lied for a living. A fraudster. He didn't deserve to die... but he would get it anyway.
I told Elara I was going out for a walk to clear my head. The lie came easily. The nighttime was my best time. Just like other serial killers.
I put on my mask and moved toward Henderson's affluent neighbourhood. My tools in my pockets.
I was two blocks from his estate, melting into the deep shadow of the alley.
There was a sudden, absolute silence, the air grew cold.
I turned slowly.
He stood at the end of the alley, under a street lamp. The Quiet Man. His form was solid this time. His futureless face was tilted and he gave that small, wide smile. His eyes glowed in the abyss.
He took a step forward.
I held my knife in my hand. This was not a man I could kill.
He stopped ten feet from me. He lifted one long, pale hand and pointed a single, slender finger, not at me, but past me, in the direction of Michael Henderson's home.
Then his hand slowly turned, a finger curled, pointing directly at my own chest.
As suddenly as it began, the silence broke. A dog barked in the distance. The lamp above him brightened.
The alley was empty. He was gone.
I pushed the cold fear down, compartmentalizing it into a dark corner of my mind. Henderson was the goal.
I reached the high electric fence surrounding his property. It was a minor obstacle. Within minutes, I was across the manicured lawn. A security keypad glowed by the back door. I pulled a small device from my pocket, its screen lighting up my face for a brief second as it bypassed the alarm.
The lock clicked open with a soft, satisfying thud.
I stepped inside into the cool, air-conditioned darkness of a sprawling kitchen. The house was silent, smelling of polished stone and money. Somewhere in this labyrinth of luxury, Marcus Henderson was sleeping, dreaming of his next conquest, utterly unaware that his final balance was about to be paid.
I moved forward.
I found the staircase, my gloved hand gliding up the smooth oak banister. The master bedroom would be on the second floor. I took the steps one by one like a predator ascending to its prey.
At the top of the stairs, a long, dark hallway stretched out before me. At the very end, a sliver of light shone from beneath a door.
And from behind that door, I heard a sound that made me freeze.
It wasn't the sound of sleep.
It was the sound of someone weeping.