Chapter 18
HARLOW
The corridor was silent except for the creak and groan of water passing through the pipes, and the buzz of electricity. Can lights illuminated the ceiling every few feet with a dim, cool glow.
Behind one of the doors, someone spoke in a low voice. They got louder for a few moments before dropping down again. Talking on their phone while pacing back and forth, unless I missed my guess.
The voice got closer again. "That's it baby, touch that clit for me. I want to hear you come…" His voice faded again.
I glanced over at Archer and grinned, even though he wouldn't see my mouth behind the mask I'd just pulled on. Two o'clock in the morning was as good a time as any for phone sex.
Archer shrugged and led the way to room six-six-nine. Out of his pocket, he pulled a card.
"Universal key," he whispered.
"I need one," I whispered back. Being able to get into any hotel room in the city would be useful.
He swiped it over the reader until it flashed green and clicked. Pushing his shoulder into it, he opened the heavy door slowly.
I followed him in, careful not to let it slam behind us. A door this heavy would wake the dead, much less Wolfgang Taylor-Francis.
The curtains were open, letting in the light from the city. Illuminating the entryway and stand that held a suitcase with the initials WTF embossed on them. Confirming we were in the right room.
Walking lightly on the carpeted floor, we made our way to the bedroom. A man lay half under the covers. A woman beside him.
She was naked, curled up like she wanted to make herself smaller. Her arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes wide open, staring at us. Her eyes were huge in her dainty face. Skin a pale contrast to dark hair.
Shit.
She lifted her head, but dropped it back down and curled up tighter. It was then I saw the bruises and the shine in her eyes. The fear, but not of us. She was terrified of the man who lay beside her. The marks he'd left on her body.
I held my hand out to her. She wouldn't want to see what we were about to do. She might have lain here night after night, wishing for it to happen, but the reality would haunt her. If I could save her from that, I would.
She glanced over her shoulder at the sleeping man before sliding out of bed and grabbing up something from the floor.
I was about to go for my knife when I saw her pulling on a dress, jamming it over her head and tugging it into place. She reached out and took my hand, squeezing it hard, her expression earnest, grateful.
I squeezed her hands back. She was young, no more than her early twenties. Familiar. His young wife or fiancée, unless I was mistaken.
She leaned forward and whispered in my ear, "Please, make it hurt." Before I could respond, she darted into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.
"I like her," I whispered.
"I don't like him." Archer had his knife out and pointing at Taylor-Francis. He pulled the sheets back from him and slid the blade right into the bottom of his foot.
Taylor-Francis woke with a squeal of pain that sounded like a pig.
"What the hell?" He jerked his foot away, sending blood spraying all over the white sheets. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." He drew his foot up and jammed his finger into the hole, making his hairy stomach bulge wider.
"Nice one," I told Archer.
Right in the arch of the asshole's foot. Now that was poetic.
"Thanks. I should have researched how long it takes to die from a stab wound to the foot." Archer sounded annoyed with himself.
"I don't know, but I have a feeling it's a long time," I said. Honestly, I was surprised he didn't have that knowledge on hand, but here we were.
"You're right," he said. "A stab to the stomach could take few hours. The foot would be much longer."
"What they hell are you talking about?" Taylor-Francis scrambled back up to the end of the bed, mouth hanging open. "What do you want? Do you want money? I can give you money. As much as you need. Just, please, don't hurt me."
I couldn't help noticing he didn't even look for his wife. I'd like to say I was surprised, but I wasn't. Men like him, they only looked out for themselves.
"I don't need money," I said. "I've got plenty."
"Then what do you want? I know people. Whatever you need, I can pull strings." He was becoming increasingly desperate, eyes frantic at the amount of blood drenching the bed.
"A nice slice of the groin, right through the femoral artery, works nicely," I said. "If you don't mind having your hand so close to a tiny penis."
Apparently his foot wasn't so bad anymore, because his hands flew up to cover his dick.
"Please," he begged. "I'll give you anything. Anything." He glanced down, at least self-aware enough to be revolted as he pissed himself on his own fingers.
"See, that's the problem with people like you," Archer said, stalking closer. "You're okay with hurting women, but when it comes to yourself? You're a quivering bowl of Jell-O." He didn't attempt to mask the contempt in his voice.
"I don't…" Now Taylor-Francis glanced around.
"It was an accident. Whatever she told you, I didn't mean it.
I'll be more careful next time." But his expression was angry, not repentant.
He'd convinced himself she'd brought us in somehow.
If we took his word for it and left, he'd take it out on her. He'd probably kill her.
"No, you won't," Archer said. "If we walk out of here, you'll do the exact same things over and over. Sable doesn't deserve the things you did to her."
Of course he'd know her name. He would have researched her before we got here. Some of it might even be accurate. When it came to famous people, the Internet wasn't known for being a source of facts. Some ridiculous rumor was always circulating. Usually multiple.
"It was an accident," Taylor-Francis insisted. "She fell."
"Falling doesn't usually leave handprints," Archer pointed out. "I'd be willing to bet that in less than one percent of falls, handprints were involved. When they were, it was only because someone was trying to stop them from falling."
Taylor-Francis seized on that. "That's what happened. She tripped and I tried to save her."
"Do you usually catch people on their breasts?" I asked. I'd seen finger marks there.
"I have a theory," Archer said.
"If your theory is this guy is a lying fuck, I agree," I said.
"So do I, but that wasn't my theory," Archer said. "My theory is he has no heart. That's my hypothesis. My proposal is that I test this hypothesis by carving a hole in his chest and taking a look."
"No!" Taylor-Francis scrambled back so fast he fell off the opposite side of the bed with a thud. Looking dazed, he clambered to his feet and pressed his back against the window. "Don't come any closer."
"What will you do, beat us to death with your tiny penis?" I asked. I was careful not to look at it. Life was traumatic enough without subjecting myself to a sight like that.
"I'll scream," he said, frantically looking for Sable, who was definitely not coming to his rescue. He tried to back up as Archer and I closed in on him.
"I usually prefer things to be less messy than this," I said, sighing at the bloody footprints on the carpet.
"They'll charge the cleaning fee to his credit card," Archer said. Then he lunged at Taylor-Francis, and driving the knife deep into his chest. His other hand went over the man's mouth, containing his cry of surprise and pain.
For a few long moments, they stood like that, until Taylor-Francis started to slide down the window and onto the floor.
I helped Archer to lower him and lay him out while he took his last, gurgling breaths.
Archer slid his knife free before making a series of incisions, carving through skin and muscle before he grunted. "Seems I was wrong."
Slicing carefully, he removed Taylor-Francis' heart from his chest cavity and held it up towards me.
"I like you, Harlow," he whispered, sounding shy behind his mask.
"That's so sweet." I reached behind me for a pillow, slid off the case and wrapped the heart up carefully. "I don't think anyone's given me an actual heart before."
"Yeah, well… He didn't need it anymore." Archer cleaned his knife on the side of the sheets and slipped it away. "We should get out of here."
"Good idea." The sun would be up in another hour or two. We needed to be long gone before then. Holding my gift carefully, I stood and headed over to the bathroom.
Just as I got there, Sable opened the door a crack. "Is he…"
"Yeah," I said softly. "Maybe give us an hour or two before you 'find' him. Have a long soak in the tub or something." She wouldn't have seen me smile, but hopefully she heard it in my voice.
"I will," she said, nodding vigorously. "Thank you. Is it wrong that I'm relieved?"
"Not at all," I assured her. Besides, if I thought it was wrong for her to feel good about his death, what did that say about me and Archer for doing it? "Maybe donate some of his money to a woman's shelter."
"Of course I will." She seemed to like that idea. The next few days were going to be rough, but the police would find evidence that somebody stronger than her killed Taylor-Francis while she was in the bath. She was dainty, too small to carve his heart out.
I wished she didn't have to see him lying like that, but that was unavoidable.
There was too much blood for us to sneak away with his body and not have people asking questions.
Not to mention, it would be harder to find her innocent without proof of a crime she couldn't have committed. Blood was too easy to misconstrue.
I gave her a nod and opened the door, stepping out into the corridor, Archer right behind me.
"As romantic dates go, that was nice," I told him. "Thank you."
"It's true what the meme says." He took my elbow and led me back towards the stairs. "Women don't want flowers and chocolates, they want the hearts of their enemies and a cottage in the woods. I'll have to work on the second one."
"I don't need a cottage in the woods," I said with a laugh.
We hurried down into the darkness and through the tunnel that led back the way we came. Carefully wiping down door handles and banisters as we passed.
Finally, we reached the door we'd used to enter the tunnels and quickly changed into the clothes we left in a bag beside it, stuffing our black outfits and masks inside in their place.
By the time we were finished, we looked like two regular people, out for an early morning run.
Me in lycra and a tank top. Him in a T-shirt and loose shorts.
Tossing the bag over his shoulder, Archer took my hand and we walked away just as the sound of sirens started approaching. No part of me was concerned. This was New York City. These sirens might not even be about Taylor-Francis. If they were, we'd be long gone before they arrived.
Instead of panicking, I smiled to myself. The world was a slightly better place than it was when the sun set last night.
"One down, how many more to go?" I asked. The adrenaline was still rushing through me. I wanted to take them all on at once.
"One that matters for now," Archer said. "Granger Fairfield."