29. Chapter 29
Alfred Tennison, by all accounts, is average. He’s in his mid-fifties, with thinning brown hair, but he is in decent shape for his age. I guess you’d have to be, considering what he does on a regular basis. His glasses sit skewed on his face, like he’s rushed this entire setup. Usually, every picture we’ve ever seen of the man has him put together, not a hair out of place, and blends in seamlessly into any crowd.
He’s different right now, unhinged in a way I’ve never seen him. You couldn’t tell by his words, but his appearance tells me this vendetta with me wasn’t exactly planned. His clothing hangs off of him, telling me this past year hasn’t been good to him.
It also means Tennison is a new level of dangerous, which scares me more than anything.
Lennox tries to lift his head, but he’s already weak from the blood loss. My heart clenches painfully in my chest at the sight and the fucking regret at having a hand in putting him in this position.
“I’ll get you out of here, Len,” I whisper.
“Well, he may be getting out, but you certainly aren’t. I’ve come all this way; I plan to talk, get to know you, and who knows, maybe have a little fun while we chat.” Tennison’s words are sharp as he spins his knife around again.
“No. You were right on the phone.” My eyes barely shift from Tennison, tracking as Sheriff takes a step in Lennox’s direction. It’s a smart move; if I can keep Tennison talking, then maybe Sheriff can get to Lennox and get them both out. “It’s time we end this. Talking seems unnecessary, no?”
“It seems you’ve learned nothing while chasing your tail trying to get to me. Talking is everything, my boy. Tell me, what do these people tell you about me after you’ve rescued them?”
The hair on my arms rises because I know where he’s taking this, but it’ll keep him talking and that’s important, even if it makes me uncomfortable as hell.
“Do they tell you about the conversations we have? Or do they just tell you my name? Do they tell you how long we play for? Or do they only tell you my name?”
“They tell me your name.”
“Precisely. You know why that is?” He tilts head at me in question, and it only makes him look like more of a threat, menacing.
“Why?” I growl.
“Well, let me back up.” He slowly walks around Lennox, leaving a clear path for Sheriff. It’s clear Tennison doesn’t really care about Lennox anymore, and for us, that’s the best-case scenario. “Do you know why I don’t kill any of them? Why I leave all these witnesses to this so-called crime?”
I stay silent. Why answer him? Why give him power when that’s what he thrives on?
“Because if you kill them, you can’t watch for years to see the damage you’ve done. Sure, there are some who have family that’s affected, but it’s not the same. Being able to check in with the people I’ve had chats with? It’s the game that never ends. It’s also why they don’t ever tell you more information about what happens to them. You see, fear is a wonderful thing. It makes people … compliant. It really is wonderous what the human body will take when it’s in self-protect mode. And the mind is even more fascinating.”
I feel sick. Bile is very quickly working its way up my throat, and I’m trying like hell not to show him any weakness, even though that’s all I feel right now. My fists clench tight as I see Sheriff out of the corner of my eye cutting Lennox’s hands and feet free.
Tennison glances over his shoulder. “I did enjoy our time together. Talk soon, Lennox Hutton,” he says before turning his attention back to me. Sheriff quickly gets Lennox out of the cabin, and my shoulders barely sag in relief.
“I’m sure you have questions for me. Please sit,” Tennison offers, and I almost laugh.
“No, thanks. I will ask those questions, though.” He nods, predicting my response, I assume. “Why me?” I ask the biggest question. I don’t even care anymore why he does what he does. I don’t care what his future plans are—I don’t plan to let him walk out of here alive anyway.
“Simple. You are the one who got the closest. You almost had me a year ago. You remember, don’t you?”
My mind floods with my last case on the Task Force.
We had a tip-off that someone saw Tennison on the outskirts of Messena, New York. We raced there, thinking we had finally gotten there in time, only to get a call that police found the victim after a walker had heard screaming.
I wrack my brain, trying to figure out how we were close because that felt like the time we were furthest away from actually catching him.
A blurry vision of a man pointing us in the direction of the cabin floats into my mind, and I rear back.
“The man who directed us. It was you,” I whisper.
“I’ll admit, it wasn’t my best disguise, and I was convinced you saw right through it. You stopped and stared at me for a moment longer than you should have, and I thought the gig was up. I always followed you closer between you and your partner, Mr. Woodcroft, because you always seemed to be closer to finding me. Every single case, you got closer but just never quite reached me. And then you quit,” he sneers out in disgust.
He’s slowly making his way to me, but I have nowhere to go. I’m trapped because our movement and success in getting Lennox out have shifted me away from the only exit.
“Let me get this straight; you came after me because I was close to finding you and when I quit, you were mad about it?”
A man like Tennison was always going to be deranged, but this feels extreme, even for him.
“You stopped playing the game, Oakley,” he says, his voice suddenly getting louder. “I wasn’t done yet. I wanted to see who would win. Could I still dodge you? Or would you actually catch me? And we were so close before you went and ruined everything.”
My chest physically hurts, knowing that the last year of victims is directly because of me. If I had just stayed, if I had worked harder and caught this bastard, no one else would have gotten hurt. No one else would have to suffer lifelong scars.
Because of me.
Worthless.
Trash.
Not worth the dirt on my shoes.
How did I ever think I was worthy of living a good life?
“I can feel you struggling right now, and it just feels” — he takes a deep breath— “like the end, you know? Feels like the big lead-up. One will win, one will lose. Years of work. Years of trying to find a suitable partner, and it all comes down to this.” His smile is deranged, excited.
His words pierce my brain, and I finally realize his pattern. He looked for people that could keep up with his brain. Intelligence was the connecting factor. This last puzzle piece should feel triumphant, but I don’t know have time to focus on it.
I know I have one chance to take him down. Luckily, the Task Force set me up with all the protective gear I would need to face Tennison, but for whatever reason, it doesn’t feel like enough. There are weak spots within the gear, and knowing Tennison, he knows every single one.
“So, how do you want to play this?” I ask. I’m not sure whether I’m trying to agitate him or just trying to get a clear answer.
While I await his answer, I slowly reach behind me and grab the knife that’s holstered at the base of my back. It’s poetic, really; I could have gone with a gun and made life easy, but taking Tennison down with his own medium feels more like justice.
His eyes snag on my arm as it moves, and he lunges suddenly. Catching me off guard, he knicks my bicep.
“Fuck,” I curse as I step back and deflect his arm.
“Come on, now, don’t make this easy for me.” He lunges again, but this time I catch his arm, holding it in place as I ram my other elbow into the back of his head. Releasing him, he stumbles to the back corner with a smirk on his face. “Much better, thank you.”
This time, I lunge at him, but he side-steps it easily.
“What do we think, Oakley, long-lasting psychological effects or death? The first feels so much more fitting, but death is the ultimate win. I can’t decide which would be a better fate for you.”
“Fuck you,” I spit at him and lunge again, this time catching his side. A graze, but I’m getting closer.
His villainous laugh enrages me. I’ve never felt like I wanted to kill someone before, but that’s all changed. I don’t care how it happens, but Tennison will not leave here alive.
He fakes me out by thrusting his knife again, but moving it just in time to slice open my forearm. Blood spills out, but I can barely feel it.
I move to my left as fast as I can and send my knife backward toward his neck, but I only manage a superficial cut.
“It feels liberating to be cut the way I usually do to others. Makes me feel more alive than I have in a long while,” Tennison muses.
I spin around, realizing we just made a circle around the cabin and I missed the fucking exit yet again, when he spears the side of my stomach with his knife. Right where the vest I’m wearing has a gap. It sends me crashing to my knees as the sharp pain radiates through my middle. I reach to cover it in a lame attempt to stem the bleeding when the cabin door is ripped open.
A war cry like I’ve never heard sounds out, and I realize it’s Willow.
My heart plummets. She’s not supposed to be here. She’s supposed to be safe and sound in my apartment, or literally anywhere but here. What the fuck is she doing here?
But my worry is quickly replaced with pride when she swings a baseball bat at Tennison’s head. He goes down near the little fireplace, and his eyes roll back in his head—making me aware of how hard Willow actually hit him—before falling to the side. His head hits the sharp corner of the fireplace, and blood pools instantly underneath him. His knife drops to the ground in a sound that signals finality.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” I look up and see Willow starting to shake, the baseball bat falling from her fingers as she stares at the scene. Her face is pale, too pale.
“Hey, hey. It’s okay. Everything is okay.” I slowly climb to my feet, wincing at the pull on my wound but not giving a shit because Willow needs me.
Her unfocused eyes meet mine and finally clear a little. They trail down the length of my body and then stop when they see me clutching my side.
“Oh fuck, you’re hurt.” Her eyes well with tears, and mine blur as well.
Everything that could have possibly gone wrong did, and it’s all my fault.
She races to me, side-stepping Tennison, and presses her hand to the stab wound. It burns so fiercely I cry out as Willow starts to sob.
“It’s okay. We’re okay. We’re safe,” I mumble into her hair as I wrap my arm around her. I see the trail of blood I leave on her from my fucking forearm, and it just makes me angrier at the situation.
The cabin is suddenly flooded with men, and I don’t focus on anything except Willow.
“Fuck, brother.” Woodcroft stops us at the door.
“We need to get to the hospital,” I grunt out. I don’t give a shit about me, but we need to check on Lennox.
“Ambulance is right behind us.”
“Took you fucking long enough,” I growl at him. The pain in his eyes is so quick and so blatant that I almost feel bad. But my logical brain is nowhere to be found right now.
“We tried,” he whispers.
“Not fucking good enough.” I lead a still-crying Willow outside the cabin just as an ambulance drives up. They usher both of us in, and the drive takes a full half an hour since we need to go to the bigger hospital in Rosedale.
Neither of us says anything as the paramedics work on me. But Willow slowly starts to calm down, holding my hand the entire time.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper before they pump meds into me that make me feel sleepy as hell.
If she gives a response, I don’t hear it. I just fall into an uneasy sleep, reliving the whole afternoon.