Chapter 60
Thatcher
THREE WEEKS EARLIER
The first thing I register is water hitting me square in the face.
The second thing is the hand fisting in my hair, arching my head back so far that my neck screams in protest.
The third is the pain—a harsh, throbbing ache at my temple that pulses in time with my heartbeat.
I come awake choking, gasping, flailing against the restraints on my wrists and ankles. Rooke towers over me, an empty water bottle dangling from his fingers.
“Welcome back, Fox.”
Lord, I hate how fucking calm he sounds while I’m clinging onto my sanity.
I blink water out of my eyes and try to make sense of the space I’m in.
Concrete walls.
Exposed pipes running across the ceiling.
A single bare bulb overhead, casting deep shadows in the corners.
My ankles and wrists are zip-tied to a metal chair bolted to the floor. The plastic bites into my skin when I test it—tight enough to limit circulation, loose enough that I won’t lose my hands.
Fuck.
I’m in Rooke’s fucking basement, tied to a chair like some mob informant about to get his kneecaps rearranged.
…don’t beat yourself up, Champ. Everyone knew this would happen…
I ignore the echo of my past and try to speak, but all that comes out is a cough. Good lord, it feels like I swallowed a handful of gravel.
Rooke tosses the empty water bottle aside. “I’d offer you something to drink, but we’re on a bit of a tight schedule.”
He’s in the same clothes as before, but he looks neater. Shaven, hair combed, shoes instead of socks. Like he’s about to set out on a camping trip…which I suppose is exactly what he’s planning.
Once he’s disposed of me, of course.
Something tickles the back of my throat. I cough again, harder this time, and that’s when I notice the smell.
Gasoline…and smoke.
Thin gray tendrils of smoke coil down the basement stairs like a sentient fog searching for victims to suffocate.
The house is on fire.
The fucking house is on fire.
My head whips back to Rooke. “What—” I’m wracked by another cough. “What did you do?”
Rooke tilts his head.
“What needed to be done.” He studies me with a bemused light in his dark eyes. “The question is, what are you going to do, Fox?”
“You’re insane,” I rasp.
“Sociopathic is more accurate.” Rooke shrugs. “But I’m not particularly interested in your opinion of me, one way or the other.”
He turns and retrieves something from the workbench behind him. I take the chance to scan the basement, trying to figure out if there’s a way I can get out of this chair.
No windows. No other doors. Just the set of stairs leading up.
There’s the hum of an air conditioning unit, but I don’t see it anywhere. There’s a bank of what appear to be inverters and batteries for what I assume is Rooke’s off-grid setup and—
Photographs.
Massive, letter-sized photographs stuck to the wall directly across from my chair. Because Rooke had been standing in front of me this entire time, I didn’t see them until he turns away.
Rooke faces me again, something black and bulky in his hand. It takes me a moment to recognize it through the growing haze of smoke creeping in under the door.
A gas mask.
He dangles it from one finger, watching my face.
“You have a choice to make,” he says, his voice still maddeningly calm as smoke thickens around us. “Door number one ends with you walking out of here alive.”
“And door number two?”
Rooke’s warm, charismatic smile doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes.
“I leave with this.” He waggles the gas mask. “Don’t worry. You’ll undoubtedly suffocate before you burn to death.”
My lungs are already fucking burning. Each breath feels like inhaling fiberglass.
“Door number one,” I manage between coughs.
“There’s my good boy.” His grin turns smug. The fucker knew what I’d choose—because who wouldn’t choose life over death?
He crouches in front of me, close enough that I can see the glow of the lightbulb reflected in his dark eyes.
“You arrived, took a look around, got knocked out. That’s it. This conversation never happened.” He grabs my chin, tilting my head down. “I need to know you’re still compos mentis, Fox.”
“Got it,” I grate out.
“Excellent. Now, this has obviously been a traumatic event for you. You will take a leave of absence from the force. At least three months. Stress leave, compassionate leave, however you want it to appear in your records. But you will not involve yourself in the coming investigations beyond what’s required by law.
” His eyes narrow in warning. “Mine, or Kai’s, or Haven’s. ”
“Gotcha.”
He stands, patting my cheek before tossing the gas mask into my lap. “Good boy. I’ll make a terrific friend if you keep to your part of the agreement.”
Then he fists my hair again, yanking my head back. “You don’t want me as an enemy, Fox. If I find out you’re sniffing around, or trying to track us down, everything goes up in smoke.”
As if only realizing now that the air is barely breathable, Rooke pulls his own gas mask over his face.
It’s surreal watching his eyes behind that mask. When he speaks, his voice is muffled and tinny…and even more intimidating than before.
“The faster you get out of here, the better your chance of survival. Remember that when you feel compelled to…linger.”
My eyes dart to the photographs on the wall. There isn’t much light to make out what’s on them, but it’s obvious they’re portraits of some kind.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” I grate out. “The second I’m free, I’m calling for backup. You’ll have every cop in the state on your tail before you hit the county line.”
Rooke smiles again.
It’s not a nice smile.
“Trust me, you’ll have a change of heart the moment you’re out of here.”
“Like hell.”
He just keeps smiling.
The smoke is making my head swim. My thoughts feel sluggish, disconnected. I need to make a decision. I need to—
“Fine,” I cough out. “I’ll do it.”
Rooke tilts his head. “Do what?”
“Take leave. Not come looking. All of it. Just—” I tug uselessly at the restraints strapping me down in the chair.
I don’t mean it. Obviously, I don’t mean it. The second I’m out of here, I’m calling dispatch, putting out an APB, hunting these three down like the fugitives they are.
Rooke tosses me a box cutter from his pocket, and I flinch when it lands in my lap.
“If you behave yourself, you’ll get a reward.”
“The fuck are you on about?”
“Christmas dinner.” His eyes gleam behind the plastic visor. “Show me you understand our arrangement, and you can come spend it with me and the—family.”
There’s a strange hitch to his voice at the end there.
Then again, I can barely breathe because of the smoke, so it’s probably that.
My laugh turns into a hacking cough. “I’m not having dinner with someone harboring fugitives.”
Rooke tilts his head. The gas mask makes his expression unreadable, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Aren’t we all fugitives?”
Dread slithers down my spine.
Rooke leans closer, his masked face inches from mine. “You’re a good person, Deputy. Truly good, in a way I’ve rarely encountered. And truly good people understand that there’s a need for apex predators.”
He cups my jaw.
“You’ll forgive us for our sins,” he murmurs. “Not because you want to. Not even because you understand why we did what we did. But because deep down, the part of you that you pretend doesn’t exist…it knows sometimes, the only way to fight evil is to be evil.”
I try to jerk away, but his grip holds firm.
“I hope to see you at Christmas, Fox.” His thumb swipes over my lower lip, a smile gracing his own lips as I tug out of his grip.
Then he’s gone. Up the stairs, into the smoke, disappearing like a ghost.
I don’t waste a fucking second.
The box cutter is just within reach. I twist my wrists, feeling skin tear against plastic as I stretch for it. My fingers close around the handle. I flip out the blade, awkward and backwards, and start sawing.
Smoke fills my lungs. My vision blurs. The zip ties are tough, resistant, and my hands are slick with what might be sweat or might be blood.
…gonna need ya t’keep it together for me, Champ…
The plastic finally snaps.
I yank the gas mask over my face with shaking hands, gulping filtered air like a drowning man. Then I free my ankles, stumble to my feet, and lunge closer to the wall of photographs.
Ten photos.
Ten people.
Ten dead people, photographed post-mortem, their eyes closed, their expressions peaceful, their skin bearing that unmistakable waxy pallor that says nobody’s home.
My saliva turns bitter.
I’ve seen a lot of death. Cinderhart showed me things that would make most people quit the force and take up accounting.
But there’s something about these photos—the care with which they’re arranged, the almost reverent quality of the lighting—that turns my gut in ways a bullet-riddled corpse never could.
This isn’t violence.
This is worship.
A noise between a laugh and a growl escapes me. All those months playing nice, swallowing my instincts, pretending to be Deputy Fucking Friendly while the real me screamed that something was rotten in this town.
And now here I am. Trapped in a serial killer’s basement, staring at the faces of his victims, seconds away from being engulfed in flames.
Nice work, Thatcher.
Really stellar police work.
…the faster you get out of here, the better…remember that, in case you feel compelled to linger…
I scan the workbench. The usual—hammers, wrenches, screwdrivers—neatly arranged, immaculate. As if Rooke cleaned them regularly…because which man in his right mind doesn’t deep clean his tools at least once a month?
I hurriedly flip open one of the smaller toolboxes, expecting more tools—
A class ring. A watch. A worn leather wallet. A tennis bracelet that catches the light above.
Trophies.
I grab what I can and shove them into my jacket pockets even as the ceiling above me groans and showers sparks.
Then I run.