Obsessions
By Yahweh
- 370 reads
He knocked the whisky back in one go and ordered another. It was his third in less than ten minutes. He wasn’t looking to get drunk, but the alcohol was all that helped, and he knew he would probably be drunk before the night was out.
The bar was full, busy as usual, crowded. None of it mattered to Jack Walsh. He had paid no attention to it when he first went in, and the whisky was helping him to pay even less attention now.
He had a gritty appearance with the two days’ worth of stubble on his face. His hair was black, flicked forward at the front and down at the back, giving it a pointed look. His eyes were dark with lack of sleep, and he looked like he could snap at any moment.
It had been five days since he had slept properly. Every time tiredness engulfed him, forcing him into a restless, unappreciated sleep, the dreams would come.
His wife was home alone, but it wasn’t home. A detached, ethereal, lonely house. Though the lights in the room were on, it was still dark. The doorbell sounded. She went to the door to answer it. The door opened, a flash of steel glinted in the eerie silvery moonlight, and the figure moved at her with a twisted, psychotic smile that bared his teeth savagely.
A hand gripped her throat, choking her, and she couldn’t scream for help. She instinctively grabbed his wrist with both her hands, trying to pull his hand away, trying to prise the fingers away from her throat.
It seemed to give him pleasure that she was resisting. The smile widened, and he seemed to laugh with a sound that came from hell. He pushed her into the house, straight down the hallway to the living room. He pushed her across the coffee table, pinning her down, still with his hand at her throat.
She choked with a cough at the back of her throat as he tightened the grip a little. He swept the blade of the six-inch long knife before her eyes so she got a good look at it.
In one quick flick of motion, he slashed her arm. Blood was instantly drawn, and she let go off his wrist and clenched the damaged skin. He slashed at her other arm, again drawing blood instantly, and she quickly clamped a hand on the wound.
With her attention focused on the two slashes on her arms, he slammed the knife down into the coffee table just inches away from her face. Her eyes almost jumped out of her head and they flicked to the left and landed on the blade that was half embedded in the wood.
Her heart was banging inside her. He could feel it. It made him laugh again, that twisted sound from hell, and he smiled savagely.
He pulled the knife free and held it high above his head. The eyes glittered, and he was still smiling insanely. He slammed it down, driving it into her chest, a great eruption of blood shooting out. Her eyes widened in complete shock, and her whole body froze in a complete state of motionless. Somehow there was no pain, but it hurt like nothing had ever hurt before.
He pulled it free and plunged it down again in one fluent motion. He did so several times until her chest was open, and there was no life in the body. But she was still alive, still knew what was going on, her eyes seemingly frozen wide open forever.
He raised the knife high above his head one final time and plunged it down for the final time.
And then Walsh would shoot up in bed in a great gasp of breath, covered in sweat, his breathing unbelievably heavy. In his dream, his wife was murdered in the same way as the other three victims had been.
The first had been a prostitute. Not unusual. The murderer could have been an irate customer, an angry pimp, even an unhappy boyfriend. The second had been a nurse. Not unusual, either. A nurse being killed happened. The unusual thing, at the time, was that she had been murdered in exactly the same way as the prostitute. The third was a student. Like the nurse, that also happened. But she had also been murdered in the same way, with the same weapon. It was now that a suspected serial killer was on the loose. It could be nothing else.
And that was the reason for the dreams every time he slept. Jack Walsh, a New York homicide lieutenant, had seen it all. But these deaths were too much. The cuts to the arms and stomachs of the victims looked like they had been tormented before being murdered. It turned the stomach. It meant the killer was sick in the head even more so than had he just been murdering his victims.
He had seen the gruesomeness of the eventual death first two victims, and that was enough. He didn’t look at the third.
It had slowly built inside Walsh, taking a grip. He had only ever had one case like it before, and that had also gripped him, driving him into the pits of despair and self-torture, just like now.
He knocked his fourth whisky back. It started to numb his body, which was what he wanted, needed.
After two more whiskies, bringing the total to six, he decided his body was numb enough. He pushed himself off the barstool and staggered out.
He stepped into an ice-cold New York night, where anything could be in the darkness, the black sky studded with diamond stars, and allowed the wind to carry him home.
Walsh woke suddenly. He became aware of two things at the same time. He had slept on the couch, and bright sunlight was invading his eyes. It was morning.
The weather meant nothing to him, and hadn’t for some time now. Usually, a morning like the one he had just woken up to would seep through him, make him feel as though the day was full of promise. But there was no promise, and it felt like a black cloud was hanging over him threateningly.
He had a bad taste in his mouth and a headache. Neither was a surprise considering the amount of whisky consumed the previous night.
A sound from the kitchen made him look in that direction. It was his wife, Kate. It wasn’t as late as it had been lately when he came out of a drunken stupor, as she left the house at nine o’clock.
He got up and walked to the kitchen doorway. As he got there, his wife looked at him.
‘How much did you drink last night?’
She was a strong person in nature and will. Her auburn hair was long and it matched the beauty in her eyes.
There was no beauty in the eyes or face this morning, though, or the last week. They were just full of worry for her husband, what he was doing to himself.
He groaned inside at her question. He didn’t need it at the moment. He knew she wasn’t starting, but the mood he was in, matched with the hangover, it was the way it felt.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, a touch of impatience in his voice. ‘Is there any coffee?’ He walked into the kitchen.
‘No, there isn’t,’ she said, her voice matching the impatience in his, though her impatience was over him digging himself into the whole that he was. ‘Because I didn’t know when you would be coming out of your pit.’
‘I’ll make some,’ he said, ignoring her last remark.
‘You didn’t exactly answer me.’
‘That’s because I don’t know exactly. I didn’t know I was supposed to be keeping count.’
‘The fact that you don’t know should tell you something.’ She was looking at him despairingly.
‘Should it?’ He knew where this was going, and was hoping his flippancy would deter her from pursuing it. He knew it wouldn’t.
‘Yes, it should. You’re drinking too much. The only reason you’re doing it is because of this case. I keep telling you not to let things get on top of you in this way.’
‘You want to try it when you have to look at what I do. This guy is a psychopath. You’ve got no idea.’
‘Then pass the case onto someone who can handle it better,’ she said, pleadingly.
‘I can’t. I’ve got to see it through. I can’t let him win.’
‘This isn’t about winning or losing. It’s about catching a criminal. And even if it was about winning or losing, you don’t have to be the one to win, just as long as he loses. For him to lose is for him to be caught. You don’t have to be the one to do that,’ she said, with furious passion, fuelled by what she was seeing Jack do.
‘Yes I do,’ he said, quietly, his voice the exact opposite of her passion. ‘He’s drawn me in, got me hooked. I have to see this through to the end.’
‘Even if that’s you dead.’ She could see things going that way, and she hated saying it.
He remained silent. They simply looked into each other’s eyes, hers full of passion, his empty and fraught.
‘I have to go to work,’ she said.
His eyes fell on the microwave clock and saw that it was earlier than usual for her leaving, and he knew she just wouldn’t to get out of the house and get away from him.
Nothing more was exchanged between them. She simply picked up her bag and left.
Walsh parked in a vacant space at the police station. The black cloud that was hanging over him, despite the sunshine, had converted itself to the sky, blocking out the sun completely. With it came the rumble of thunder.
When he walked through the homicide department to his office there was a tremendous clap of thunder and the rain came in a great rushing downpour, beating
against the window. The sky was as black as night, the city slate grey, and it suited him.
It certainly suited the mood of the department. It was a sombre place anyway, dealing with death every day, but with the current case, a picture of each victim was displayed, giving a stark reminder.
Detective Martin Young jumped out of his seat and said, ‘Lieutenant, we’ve got a lead.’
‘What?’ Walsh turned to face Young. He couldn’t believe what was just said, and somewhere he felt a stirring of liveliness.
A flash of lightening fell across Walsh’s face, and Young thought he looked worse than ever. Thick, black stubble across his face, eyes gritty from tiredness, and a face that looked twenty years older than it was.
Young was in his late twenties. His brown hair was cut short and close to his head. He didn’t possess a great deal of physical strength in his thin, wiry frame.
Young continued, ‘A cab has been identified at the scene of every murder, before and after. I’ve gone through the security footage from the hospital again on the night the nurse was murdered. On the ward where she works a guy is seen walking into the ward. This occurs eight minutes before her shift ends. He’s only on the ward for about a minute before he leaves again. I’ve gone through all the footage of the entrances and exits. He doesn’t leave until she does, at exactly the same time. Her leaving occurs about five minutes after her shift ends. About forty seconds later a cab is seen passing the same exit, in the direction the nurse walked when leaving.’
‘My God. Can we get a picture of him?’
‘The tape is with the lab. We’ll be finding out soon.’
‘How did this come about?’
‘We were making follow-up enquiries with the neighbours and one of them said they had seen a cab on the street. She hadn’t mentioned this in the previous statement she had made, but she was absolutely certain about it. It coincided with one of the neighbours of the third victim saying a cab was seen driving down the street-’
‘Which corresponded with the time of death,’ Walsh said, completing the sentence. He remembered the statement. ‘When the picture comes back, we need to track this guy down.’
They had quite a wait. Walsh sat in his office, the thunder continuing to explode outside, the lightening flashing, and the rain hammering against the window, threatening to smash the glass any moment. He was restless. The waiting was frustrating him, the anticipation building, threatening to burst out of him. He couldn’t believe there might finally be a break.
Through the glass of his office, he could see Young working his way through paperwork while he waited, but he couldn’t concentrate on anything.
When the picture was delivered by courier, Walsh jumped out of his chair like a flash of lightening had hit him. He took the envelope. As he tore it open, Young and the other officers in the department gathered in a group to get a look.
The picture wasn’t great, but it was certainly good enough to get identification.
The picture showed a balding man in his forties, his hair a long stubble around the side of his head and at the back, and grain was covering his face. He was thin, tall, and had a strength to him that wasn’t obvious.
Walsh allowed all the officers to get a good look. They were in this just as much as he was, though not as emotionally attached.
He gave the photo to Young and said, ‘Let’s go.’
Driving through the city in the storm was terrible. The road was full of cars and taxis, which was to be expected in this sort of weather. Young was driving and Walsh was looking out the window, into the pouring rain, as another explosion of thunder sounded, followed by a flash of lightening, thinking. If the murderer is the cab driver, he could be in one of these cabs.
It gave him a restless feeling again. It felt as though his limbs were going to explode if there wasn’t movement of some sort. If the traffic would move, that would do.
The traffic was moving again, slowly, but moving.
They finally arrived at the cab office. Walsh didn’t notice the rain and dark at all. He was focused on the possibility of finding the murderer within the walls of the office only.
He had a hand on the butt of his 9mm Beretta in the holster at his hip. Young saw and looked at him nervously. Walsh took his hand away, but said nothing of the incident.
They stepped into the cab office, bringing a gust of ice-cold wind and dash of rain. Through an opening in the wooden wall they were eyed by the female controller. Stepping up to the opening, Walsh showed his badge.
‘Lieutenant Walsh. This is Detective Young. NYPD.’ Walsh gestured for Young to show the image, and he continued. ‘We’re looking for this man. We believe he works for this company.’
The controller looked, and said, ‘Yeah. Zachary Ryan.’
‘Where is he?’ Walsh asked, and was conscious of his hand going back to the butt of the Beretta, which went unnoticed by both Young and the controller.
‘Out in the city somewhere, driving. That’s what cab drivers do.’
Walsh was in no mood for sarcastic comments, and said sharply, with a touch of irritation in his voice that he didn’t try to hide, ‘Get on the radio and get him back here. But don’t tell him that we’re waiting for him.’
The girl moved away from him, stunned, and put the headset in place. She did as Walsh instructed.
She listened to Ryan’s response over the radio.
Looking at Walsh, her expression suggested that Ryan was suspicious. Walsh went tense inside, his hand clenching into a fist. He couldn’t let him slip away, not after getting this close.
‘Can you just return to base, please?’ She didn’t know what else to say.
There was a moment of complete silence, the three of them waited with bated breath, the girl because she didn’t know how Lieutenant Walsh was going to react, Young because he wanted to see a murderer caught, and Walsh because he wanted to be the one to lay his hands on the murderer, whatever the cost.
She listened again. She slid the headset off in an act of relief that Walsh recognized. She said, ‘He’s coming in. Fifteen minutes.’
Walsh released his fist. Fifteen minutes was too long for him to wait.
He stood in the doorway, allowing the icy wind to blow in with the rain and dark from outside, the flashes of lightening and explosions of thunder seeming as though they were right inside the office.
The girl was pulling her coat tighter around herself to combat the cold, as was Young, who looked at the lieutenant. Walsh’s hand was back on the butt of the Beretta, almost caressing it.
Young approached him cautiously. ‘Sir, perhaps you should let me handle the questioning and arrest.’
Walsh turned to him. ‘Why?’ He looked and sounded irate at what Young had said. ‘Don’t you think I’m capable of handling it?’
‘Check where your hand is,’ Young said, quietly, so no one would hear and look, and soothingly to try and calm what was already looking like a flared situation.
‘So? I think you’d have a justified reason to worry if I was brandishing a . . . Oh, I don’t know, let’s say a six-inch knife. What do you think?’
‘I know this case has been getting to you. I’m not the only one to have noticed.’
‘What do you mean you’re not the only one to have noticed? Have people been talking about me behind my back?’ Walsh turned fully to Young now, his hand slipping from the Beretta.
‘No. Kate spoke to me.’
‘Kate? And what did she have to say exactly?’
‘Just what I said, and that you had been drinking a lot.’
‘Well, she had no right. In the future, if I want your expert opinion on me, I’ll ask for it.’
‘She was, and is, worried about you.’
‘Let’s focus on the job we came here to do.’
‘I know what I came here to do. I came here to question a possible murder suspect. Did you come for the same thing?’
Walsh was furious at that comment and glared at Young, but he walked back into the cab office.
Walsh turned back to the storm, which he was quite enjoying.
On the corner opposite, a balding man in his forties, an unobvious powerfulness about him, his hair like long stubble at the side and back, wearing a leather jacket was standing motionless in the rain, watching Walsh. Walsh’s eyes fell upon him and for a moment he just stared. Everyone around him were busying themselves with trying to find shelter, or at least had an umbrella up.
Zachary Ryan!
‘There he is,’ he said in disbelief.
‘What?’ Young said, not quite realizing what he meant. ‘Who?’ And then as he realized what Walsh meant, he said, ‘Ryan? Where?’
Young arrived at Walsh’s side.
‘There,’ Walsh said, pointing. ‘Watching us.’
Ryan smiled savagely when Walsh pointed, and there was a trace of humour that he hadn’t spotted him before. Immediately, Walsh knew that Ryan was his man.
‘Put out an APB on him,’ Walsh said, and set off across the road, drawing his Beretta.
He dodged between the oncoming traffic, horns blaring at him in annoyance, but they soon settled down when they saw his gun.
Ryan laughed in delight, knowing that Walsh would never get across the road, between the cars, in time.
Walsh was chasing Ryan, almost knocking people down in his desire to get him.
Young put out a description of Ryan, and gave the number and licence registration of the cab.
He slammed the door shut and chased in the car.
The speed with which he was going was dangerous in New York anyway, but was worse with the heavy weather. He saw the running figure of Walsh along the street, straining to catch up with Ryan, who Young couldn’t see.
He pushed the car forward, almost colliding with another car, both vehicles swerving just in time to avoid a collision, both slamming on the brakes, and both slipping on the rain-soaked street.
Young immediately pushed the car on, in pursuit of Walsh, ignoring the other driver completely.
It took him no time to catch up to Walsh, but still, Ryan was nowhere to be seen. He leaned out the window.
‘Where is he?’ Young shouted.
‘I don’t know,’ Walsh shouted back. ‘He disappeared. I’ll stay on foot. You drive.’
Young shot the car forward and turned a bend. Walsh ran down an alley.
Walsh paused for a moment. Things were suddenly quiet, the sounds of the city seemingly far behind, and the darkness of the alley seemed to be pushing in on him. The only sounds were the pouring rain, his own heavy breathing, and the sound of his shoes hammering on the ground when he began running again.
He ran out at the other end of the alley, the city’s sound hitting him again, and he ran up the street. As he ran up the road, he saw Young, in the car, stuck in the heavy New York traffic.
Walsh wrenched the door open, making Young whip the gun from his holster and point it at the intruder. Walsh held his hands up.
‘God,’ Young breathed.
‘Anything – anything at all?’
‘No, nothing. Patrol cars in the area are on full alert.’
Walsh clenched a fist in frustration, and got in the car when the traffic started moving again.
He directed Young down a wide alley, which led to the rear of a row of establishments.
It was no good. Ryan was nowhere to be found, and wouldn’t be now. Walsh flung the door open. In a furious rage he kicked the side of the car and slammed a fist onto the bonnet with such anger that he dented it.
At the police station, a check was made on Zachary Ryan. He had been in US Rangers, from the age of twenty-three to thirty-three, reaching the rank of lieutenant. He’d had various occupations after leaving the army, but had been a cab driver for the last six years.
Walsh was furious that he had been lost. He closed the file, and drummed a clenched fist on it. He then slammed his fist down on it and drove it into the wall of his office in anger, slamming his fist down several times in the empty space, making the items on his desk dance.
He fell back into his chair, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and took a glass and a bottle of whisky from it. As he poured some, Young came through the open door. He looked at the bottle and what Kate Walsh had said echoed in his mind.
‘What? Are you the whisky police now?’ Walsh asked, acidly.
Young decided to ignore not only the remark, but the bottle as well. ‘Ryan’s picture has been released to the news stations. His face will be all over the TV tonight.’
‘Good.’
Zachary Ryan’s face was all over the TV news that evening. There was a number to call with any information. Young was watching it as he prepared dinner for his girlfriend, Diana, and himself, as she would be home soon.
The picture of Ryan displayed was the security footage still. The empty, expressionless eyes, the unnaturally calm face, absolutely no emotion there at all, was creepy. Young stared at the image on the screen. It was almost as Ryan’s eyes were staring out of the screen at him, and the image was coming to life.
It was dark outside, darker than it usually would be at this time, and it crowded in on him, despite the lights being on. It had been that way all day, and it seeped into his very soul. It wasn’t like Young to feel anything like this, but this was certainly getting to him. The rain was still hammering down. There hadn’t been a break in it all day.
It started beating against the window more forcefully now, the wind blowing wildly outside. A low, lonely whistle sounded through a gap somewhere in the apartment, and he shivered at the sound. Young was captivated by it for a moment, frozen to the spot, staring out the window.
A tremendous explosion erupted and he physically started. He snatched up a knife and held it threateningly, sucking in great lungfuls of air, his eyes wide in shock. He realized it had been thunder overhead. Nothing to worry about.
He dropped the knife on the counter, and breathed. ‘God,’ he said to himself. ‘Pull yourself together.’
He ran a hand through his short hair and looked out the window. Somewhere, far off in the distance, there was the flicker of blue-purple lightening, and a rumble of thunder followed.
He continued with his preparations.
There was another eruption of thunder overhead, but a crashing sound with it. It had been the door. Diana didn’t usually do that. Had she had a bad day? He went into the hallway and saw the door open. He walked towards it.
Young called out, ‘Diana?’
He stopped at the doorway and called again, ‘Diana?’
‘No, not Diana,’ said an unnaturally calm voice.
Suddenly Young was hurtled to the floor, and he was being pinned down, a hand about his throat, choking him.
Young’s hands immediately went around the wrist. His eyes went wide. It was Ryan.
He was smiling savagely, teeth bared terribly, eyes glittering insanely. But the truly terrifying thing was that he seemed to be enjoying himself.
There was the flash of silver, and Ryan ran a six-inch knife in front of Young’s eyes, smiling as he did so.
Oh, my God! Young thought. I’m his next victim! This is how he does it.
The first slash came. Straight across the right arm, drawing blood instantly. Pain seared through Young, and his hands dropped from Ryan’s wrist and his left hand snatched at the wound.
Ryan slashed across Young’s left arm now, instantly drawing blood again.
The knife went high above Ryan’s head, trembling with the anticipation of another kill. Young’s eyes were wide, staring at the point.
Ryan drove the knife down, and Young’s face contorted into the most unimaginable fear, an attempt to be ready for the pain. There was a slamming sound, and Young opened his eyes. The knife had been driven into the wooden floor beside his head.
Ryan was laughing, an insane, psychotic sound that could only come from hell. He was laughing at the torment he was subjecting Young to.
Young’s strength was beginning to drain. He blinked his eyes to try and keep his focus. Somehow, he didn’t think he had to worry about that. Ryan kept his victims conscious so they would know when death was occurring.
There was one more savage, insane smile from Ryan, one last piece of torment as he showed Young the blade of the knife, and then nothing.
Walsh was in his office staring out at the storm that was trying to get in. Another flicker of lightening, another explosion of thunder. Both the whisky bottle and glass were still on the desk.
He wanted something to come in about Ryan, but doubted that it would. New York City wasn’t exactly full of good Samaritans.
The phone on his desk rang, its sound shattering the silence. He snatched it up with irritation, and answered the same. ‘Lieutenant Walsh.’
It was Diana. She spoke quickly, distraught. ‘I’ve come home and found the door kicked in, a knife mark in the floor, and blood. Martin’s not here.’
Walsh couldn’t believe it. Surely this guy wouldn’t pick on a cop. He might have been psychotic, but he certainly wasn’t stupid. But an act like this was stupid. The whole police force would come out in force to get him.
‘Don’t touch anything. I’ll have a forensics team sent there, and I’ll come right over.’
Walsh’s mood was getting darker, matching the weather. Several times he punched the dashboard in frustration over something another driver had done, but he knew it wasn’t that. It was Ryan.
The forensics team was already at the apartment. As soon as Walsh stepped into the doorway he could see the door had been kicked in, and almost straight away his
eyes fell upon the hole in the wooden floor where the knife had been driven in, and the traces of blood.
His fist clenched again.
Diana came into the hallway. She had been crying heavily, her face was fraught with worry.
‘How are you?’ Walsh asked her.
‘How do you think?’ Her voice was very quiet, and seemed a great distant away. ‘He’s killed Martin, hasn’t he? Killed him just like all the rest.’
Walsh shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. It doesn’t fit with what he’s done already.’
‘So it definitely is your serial killer, then.’
Walsh cursed himself for not stating the thing he should have, and that was that it might not even be the serial killer. He did so now. ‘I’m not saying it is. Just if it is.’
It didn’t cut very much ice with Diana, and he could see that.
The news appeal had to be updated.
Young surfaced from the pitch black to find yet more black surrounding him. His eyes were covered. He was in a sitting position, and it felt like a chair. His hands were bound together behind the back of the chair, and his legs were tied to the legs. His head hurt. It had been hit, that’s what had plunged into darkness.
The silence was eerie. The rain sounded muffled, and had menace. There was the quiet sound of a detached voice. It was a TV.
‘Is anybody there?’ He tried to keep the fear from his voice, but he was so petrified that he was sure he didn’t succeed.
There was no answer.
Even with the TV on, he felt unbelievable loneliness, the fear inside definitely a living thing taking a tighter grip.
He tried listening to the TV. He heard his name spoken in connection with Ryan, but nothing else. It was a report of his abduction on the news.
The news item changed, and the TV was turned off.
Now Young knew there was definitely someone there, he tried speaking again. ‘Hello? Zachary Ryan?’
Still nothing. Footsteps sounded and then a scraping sound that he couldn’t place, immediately followed by the same sound.
It seemed like a lengthy period of time and then the scraping sound again, quickly followed by the exact same sound, and then footsteps. Was it a garage door?
His legs were untied from the chair, and he was hefted up over Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan was walking. Young’s heart was thumping, panic rising.
‘What’s going on? What are you doing? Where are you taking me?’
There was no answer. Ryan stopped walking, and another sound Young couldn’t identify. He went down with a heavy thump, and then a bang of something shutting over him, the darkness closing in with it. Fear gripped him tighter.
There was the scraping sound again, and then he heard a muffled sound of something opening, he was rocked in his enclosure, and then a thump. The next noise identified where he was.
A car engine roared to life. Young knew he was in the boot of a car. There was a brief pause for Ryan to close what must be a garage door, and then the journey began.
When the car came to a stop, and Ryan turned the engine off, the boot was opened and he was back over Ryan’s shoulder. Young was briefly aware of the cold, stinging rain on his face, the ice-cold wind cutting into him, before it disappeared.
He was aware of entering somewhere, the bang of a door closing behind them.
Ryan was walking, and then definitely up stairs. Young was bouncing gently on Ryan’s shoulder
Behind them, there was the sound of a door banging.
Ryan stopped briefly, and then began running up the stairs, Young bouncing wildly on Ryan’s shoulder.
‘Police!’ It was Walsh!
Young could sense Ryan’s panic and despair.
He could hear Walsh running after them.
Young had no idea how many flights of stairs there had been. There was the unmistakable bang of a door, and then ice-cold wind whipped stinging rain into his face again. The wind seemed to be blowing harder, as though they were high up on a roof.
Ryan ran again, and then stopped.
Young was pulled down from Ryan’s shoulder, an arm wrapped around his body, holding him in place. Another bang of a door, which must have been Walsh.
The cover on Young’s eyes was pulled away.
Ryan had the knife ready. Young was held in front of him like a shield against Walsh, who was standing about ten feet away, pointing his Beretta. They were standing on the very edge of the building. The cover was pulled from Young’s eyes to heighten his fear.
Walsh had a savage look on his face, Ryan a psychotic pleasure.
A clap of thunder exploded above, followed by a flash of lightening, and they just stood there in the black of night, the storm raging.
‘What will you do, Lieutenant?’ Ryan asked, with great amusement. ‘You wanted me, dead I think. Well, you’ve nearly got me, dead or alive, it’s up to you. But what about the good Detective Young, here?’ He laughed savagely and psychotically.
Ryan continued, ‘To kill me - wouldn’t that make you as bad as me? But wait! You’ve got reason.’
He dropped the knife on the ground, and pushed Young away from him. With his bound limbs he fell to the ground a few feet away.
‘Now you have your opportunity! But you don’t have the reason. So what will you do? Do your duty and arrest me? Or do what you really want to do and kill me?’
Walsh understood why Ryan had called the number on the TV news. He wanted this, the ultimate confrontation, one final game to play. His hand tightened on the grip of the Beretta. He didn’t want to be like Ryan, killing an unarmed person.
But Ryan wasn’t innocent.
Ryan looked so smug. He had Walsh trapped between duty and personal desire, with the best opportunity to do either one.
Walsh lowered the Beretta and holstered it. He started forward, and said, ‘You’re under arrest.’
He could see on Ryan’s face that it mattered not one bit to him. He was still smiling insanely when he put his hands together for the cuffs to be put on.
Walsh took them from his belt, and as he reached out to put them on, pushed.
Ryan lost his balance, eyes wide and arms flailing to stop from falling. Walsh stepped back, out of Ryan’s reach.
He toppled over the edge, head first, and Walsh just walked over to Young, who had a shocked look on his face.
‘Let’s go.’
That night, Walsh sat on the couch that had been his bed several times since the investigation had begun, a bottle of whisky and a glass with a measure in it in front of him.
For that moment, he had turned into Zachary Ryan, the thing he despised and that had driven him into despair. But here he was, still in despair with the whisky in front of him again. He knocked it back in one go and poured another.
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