Chapter 23
LOOK UPON THY DEATH ~ROMEO a sickly sour. Quickly becoming a rotten bitterness that roils our stomach.
The higher we reach, the further we descend immediately afterward. A crushing low.
A torrid pit of hell awaits us at the bottom.
Maybe that’s where London and I made our first mistake. Believing we could bottle our perfect piece of heaven. Immortalize it. Exist only for each other.
Maybe we still can.
My ears pick up the low thump of bass as I walk past the Blue Clover. I pull my jacket hood over my head, dodging a drunken, laughing group. Getting back to Maine was harder this time. Before, the authorities assumed I wouldn’t return—now they’re expecting me.
Luckily, Agent Nelson left me a trail of breadcrumbs. This is where he wants me. Which means he has leverage. He has her.
Let him take me.
London’s haunting words have set my course since I escaped the Rockland jailhouse. This is her design, and as she’s the dominant force, I’ve conceded to her request. Though it wasn’t easy; I caught up to Nelson twice, and both times I waited. And watched.
No one can run forever.
There are only two certainties for men like us. You’re either caught or killed.
But unlike Nelson, I have an anomaly—a beautiful dark angel who defies convention.
I notice the shiny lock on the warehouse door. It hangs open, an invitation. There’s no stealthy entrance on my part as I slide the door open. Nelson wants me here, London wants me here…so here I am.
Let the games begin.
I walk inside, and as soon as I see her, my heart lurches. It only ever beats for her.
Suspended above the garage on a hydraulic car lift, London floats there like the angel she is—a vision.
Her mouth and eyes are covered, but she can hear me. She’s been stripped of her clothes—her flesh on display, all except for her thin bra and panties. Wire ropes project from her wrists and waist….holding her aloft…like a beautifully disturbed marionette.
The cables are anchored around the lift’s arms—the yellow steel beams that support an automobile—and she dangles from just below.
The cables flow above the lift, stretched taut above like piano strings, and fold over a second lift bar to drop down like rain.
But instead of raindrops, padlocked weights dangle from the cables.
I tear my gaze away momentarily to study the mechanism. Within seconds, I’ve broken down the system.
The lift is set on a timer, lowering her every minute. The countdown will end with London submerged in an eight foot shipping container.
It’s beautiful, really.
The trap London and I began to design that first night here, now complete, realized to its full potential. A trap I could truly appreciate, if not for Nelson’s fingerprints all over it, corroding it.
“I thought to myself,” Nelson’s voice sounds out, “it’s unfortunate that you’ve never had the pleasure of starring in one of your own traps.”
I push the hood off and unzip my jacket. “What’s in the container?”
“A concentrated sodium hydroxide solution,” he replies. “Your recipe.”
I smirk and toss my jacket aside. “A copycat down to the last detail.” But I realize London’s exposed flesh will be submerged in the solution, and this sobers me.
“That’s just the perfectionist in me. I do have a whimsical side. Like the addition of the locks…just for you. It’s a metaphor.”
I’m already tired of his voice. “Very clever.” I glance around and notice a covered rubber tub beneath the dangling locks.
“Go ahead,” he encourages, “open it.”
I stride to the tub and toe the lid open.
Keys.
Hundreds of gleaming keys fill the bin, and they’ve been filed into lethal-looking weapons. The edges knife-sharp.
A hiss echoes through the garage, and the hydraulic lift lowers a notch. I look up at London. She’s strong, but her body reacts from the jolting motion, her muscles quaking with involuntary tremors as she sways only feet above the container.
The weighted locks above my head clang together, moving another few inches higher.
“I knew from the moment I found the doctor alive that she was the key to you,” Nelson says. “I admit, for a while, you eluded me. You’re a conundrum. A psychopathic killer in love… Not only is it ridiculous, but it goes against every FBI profile we have.”
“I’m not a profile.”
“You will be now. See, I struggled—with every kill—to get inside your head, but I don’t have to share your obsession to beat you. I just needed her.”
London is so much more than a mere obsession.
“If you try to remove her from the trap,” Nelson continues, “I push the button on the lift controls. She might survive the dunk…but she won’t be very pretty anymore.”
I grit my teeth and whirl around, looking for the man behind the voice. “You could just shoot us both. Save us the trouble.”
He tsks. “Do you think I’m doing this for you? For her? I don’t give a fuck how you two twists kill each other in the end. She dies by your hand—by your death trap—that means I get to go back.”
“You’re not going back, Nelson. You enjoy my persona too much. It might have started out as a way to get inside my head, to hunt me, but as time went on, you got comfortable in my skin. Because otherwise, I’m here.” I raise my hands. “You’ve caught me.”
My voice echos around the garage.
I let my arms drop. “You don’t want to capture me. You want me dead. So you can continue to use my methods to kill. It’s the perfect ruse.”
At his intense silence, I have my answer. Nelson doesn’t intend for either me or London to leave here alive.
“Being on the run is exhausting,” I say. “I know. It wears on a man. Shows us what we’re made of. I’m never going to stop hunting you, Nelson. The FBI is the least of your worries.”
Another shrill whistle from the gears on the lift, and London descends lower. A warning that Nelson is ready to start the game.
Even if I save her, we’re not simply walking away. The only way Nelson gets to be the hero is if we die. He’ll become the insulted agent who went rogue to capture an escaped killer.
Except London becomes a victim in the process.
Two deaths have to happen here. That’s what’s needed.
“Only one key unlocks her shackles,” Nelson says. “Dig in.”
I look up at London, beautiful and angelic. Her dark hair tangled in disarray, mascara smudged down her porcelain cheeks. Duct tape covers her eyes and mouth, and yet she’s speaking to me, urging me on.
It ends here, she said in this very place as I held her in my arms. She saw the design before I could recognize it myself.
I start with the locks, inspecting each one. A Houdini lock and three other puzzle locks. I used to solve these as a kid. I could use the bump key I keep in my pocket to open the locks right now—but that’d be breaking the rules. London would suffer.
Nelson wants blood.
I roll my sleeves up and kneel before the tub of keys, noticing an odd glint beneath the surface. Swiping my hand over the top, I push aside a number of keys.
Razorblades.
“Damn, this is going to hurt.”
I fortify myself, and a sort of calm encases me as I sink my hands into the sharp objects. From my peripheral, I see London kicking her feet, seeking the edge of the container. She won’t reach it. She only has five minutes before her toes touch the solution.
Five minutes is more than enough time.
I can assume Nelson wouldn’t put the keys to the locks anywhere near the top of the pile; he wants me digging, razors shredding my skin. I work my hands all the way to the bottom of the tub, gritting my teeth against the acute pain.
I’ve had worse done to me. I’ve done worse—I’ve scarred my flesh deeper than these razors can cut. I dig through the bin without a single wince for Nelson.
I don’t need to try every key here. I know what I’m looking for. I know what the grooves of the teeth will feel like, how they’ll slide into the keyhole and turn easily with that satisfying click. My favorite sound other than London’s soft voice.
This trap was designed for me.
A buzz sounds, then I hear the hiss of the lift. London’s body lowers closer.
Blood stains the silver key as I pull it free. I inspect it quickly, then lay it on the concrete. I dive back in. Fine slashes assault my wrists. Blades carve into my flesh, flaying my skin. But I press on until I find the second, and the third.
Sweat stings my eyes and I’m shaking with adrenaline by the time I unearth the final key.
I rest my forearms on the edge of the tub and take measured breaths. Then I get to my feet, the keys gripped in my bloodied hands.
On the Houdini lock, I twist the beveled screw on the backside loose, then slip in the key and twist. The lock pops open, and I toss it to the floor, the sandbag falls free. “Hang on, love. I’m coming to you.”
The next puzzle lock is just as simple. I realize—while I’m sliding the gold flap on the front sideways to align the inner mechanism—that this isn’t the trap. Nelson knows I can pick a lock—can pick any lock. I’m waiting for the real fun to begin.