Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
NOAH
Saturday morning
I'm already inside, dressed in workout clothes, blending in with the handful of early morning exercisers here for a class. I've been here twice this week, establishing my presence, making sure the staff recognize me so I become forgettable.
Stephan heads straight for the locker room and I wait five minutes, then follow. The locker room is empty except for Stephan as the early morning class has begun. He's changing into his workout clothes, with his back to me. I approach quietly, my footsteps silent on the tile floor.
"Stephan Sharpe," I say.
He turns, surprised. "Yes? Do I know you?"
"No, but you know the Kozlovs."
Recognition flashes across his face, followed immediately by fear.
He opens his mouth to scream, but I'm faster as my hand clamps over his mouth, cutting off the sound.
Marcus struggles, but I'm stronger, plus I have experience.
I drag him toward the showers, where the sound of running water will mask any noise.
I release his mouth and immediately wrap my arm around his throat, applying pressure to his carotid artery. He claws at my arm, his movements becoming increasingly desperate.
"Shh," I murmur. "It'll be over soon."
It takes three minutes for him to lose consciousness as I maintain the pressure for another two, ensuring brain death. Then I lower him to the shower floor and turn on the water.
I arrange the scene carefully that may convey a slip, or a fall, his head striking the tile. It's not perfect, but it'll pass a cursory investigation. Heart attack brought on by exertion, complicated by the fall.
I check for a pulse one final time and there is nothing.
Then I leave the showers and return to my own locker and change back into my street clothes. I'm out of the gym by 6:45, just another early morning exerciser finishing his workout.
I return to the hotel to find Chase awake, sitting at the desk with his journal.
"It's done," I tell him.
He looks up, his eyes searching my face. "How do you feel?"
"I don’t feel anything."
"What about an adrenaline high? Remorse?"
"No."
He nods slowly, then returns to his writing. I move toward him and read over his shoulder.
Noah returned and his expression was neutral, his movements no different than normal baseline. He reported the elimination with the same tone he might use to report completing an errand.
This is different from his personal eliminations. Those carry a sense of purpose. This was purely transactional, a job completed, a task checked off a list.
I find myself wondering if this is sustainable. Can Noah maintain this level of detachment? Or will the operational murders eventually bleed into his personal pathology?
Time will tell.
"You're analyzing the difference," I observe.
"Yes."
"And what are you discovering?"
"That you're capable of compartmentalization. Personal murders are more intense and violent because they are driven by possession and control. Operational murders that you do for the guys are more clinical, a simple task."
"I don’t understand why you enjoy this so much.”
“You don’t need to, Noah. I just love learning more about you.”
The next day Chase and I are having breakfast at our kitchen island, and I’m fully aware of his shift in mood.
His normal routine when he eats a bagel for breakfast is to cut it into halves, before eating one half within five minutes, each bite he takes he chews approximately eleven to fourteen times, depending on the size of the bite.
Today he has taken one bite, but only chewed around four times before struggling to swallow it.
He has barely spoken and refuses to look at me.
“Tell me, Chase, we don’t have secrets,” I say as I take a large gulp of the tasteless coffee. I don’t take much pleasure from food and drink, only looking at it as a source of sustenence rather than enjoying the taste.
“Tell you what?”
“You’re not yourself, and you’re panic eating. Out with it,” I say as I place my cup down and watch him, waiting for an answer. He runs his hands through his hair and sighs, before looking at me with what I have learnt is a sad look.
“I have been thinking about something, but I’ve been unsure how to approach it.”
“Directness.”
“You are insufferable, you know that? Okay, I’ll just say it, I want to write a book. Become a self-published author and write a thriller. Under a pseudonym name, of course.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? What do you mean okay? I thought you’d be pissed with me like you were about the psychology book?”
“That was different, you were using me as a test study. This is fiction.”
“Well…fiction and real-life. I want to use all of my notes and findings to create the story. Obviously no real names.”
“It’s better than your original idea. When are you starting?”
“You’re fine with this? Really?”
“Yes. Nobody would believe what you are writing is real life, and if it makes you happy, do it.”
Chase jumps up and grabs me around the neck and starts kissing my face and neck all over.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
I don’t get the excitement, but I enjoy the response. Any opportunity to have his mouth on me and I’ll take it.
“What are you going to call yourself?” I ask as he sits back down in his seat.
“C. Shadow.”
“Clever,” I say, loving that he has used the name he calls me.
“I had to include my shadow somewhere,” he says, and I’m fucking preening.