Chapter 25 #2
His heart was beating too fast. Maybe no one would come to his rescue. Could he take Saylor in a fight?
Most likely not. Saylor wasn't a big guy. Size-wise they were evenly matched, but he suspected Saylor had training. Frode did not. If you worked in the forensic department, you were still a cop, right? He slid his gaze over Saylor, but all he did was stare at Frode.
"Saylor? What are you doing?"
"Jaxon."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. "Jaxon." Frode tried to smile but failed spectacularly. "What are you doing here, Jaxon? What do you want me to help you with?"
"I want you to remove your gloves."
"No." There was no hesitation in Frode's voice. He'd done one reading today; another one would knock him out. He could handle touching a few things in his house, but he couldn't read an object.
"Remove your gloves." Saylor's eyes where hard as flint, nothing like the bashful, smiling man he'd met in the grocery store.
"Say--Jaxon, I can't. I've done one reading today. I can't do another."
He sneered. "Can't or won't?"
"Can't." Could he run? It would give Saylor access to his house, which wasn't great, but he might not survive this encounter, so maybe it didn't matter what he did with the house. Where the fuck was Nikolai?
He looked Saylor up and down. Was he fast? Frode was pretty fast. Maybe he could run across the field to his neighbor? But he'd have to pass Saylor to get off the landing. If he survived this, he should look into installing a back door.
"I want you to read me."
"Eh..." Frode looked at Saylor, then around the yard, then back at Saylor again. "I don't read people. I can only read items."
"You will read me. Remove your gloves." He took a small step forward, and Frode didn't think he could get around him without getting cut. Had he used the scalpel to cut the victims? The police had never found a murder weapon.
"Jaxon." It was no more than a whisper. "What are you doing? Put the scalpel away and leave."
He sneered. "It's over."
"What is?" Frode didn't like how his voice shook, but he couldn't make it any steadier.
"I did it so they'd bring you in. Had to talk Altman through how to sell the rugs, how he had to charm the women buying them, so they'd tell him their names.
It's easy to find out things about a person when you have their names.
Bedell was working too slow for my liking, more focused on retiring than doing his job.
I believed we'd have to murder only two, but when nothing happened, not so much as a whisper about a serial killer in Berg, I knew we had to continue.
Sooner or later, they'd call you in. It was all going according to plan, but then fucking Nesterova was there. "
Frode nodded as if it made perfect sense.
"I'm not some sick fuck like Altman. I only needed you to see me."
"Okay." Frode held his hands up. "What...eh...Altman killed those women, right?"
Saylor snorted. "No. He gets off on scaring them, manhandling them. Sick fuck. Nothing gets him harder than a woman crying in fear."
Frode nodded since no words came to mind.
"He held them down for me." He waved the scalpel between his thumb and forefinger. "But he didn't like the blood. I had to be careful not to touch the rug. He didn't get it, stupid fuck."
Ice flooded Frode's veins. He didn't think Saylor told him because he needed to get a confession off his chest. Nope, he most likely planned on killing him. "And you...eh...did? Like the blood?" Maybe he shouldn't have asked.
Saylor gave him a disgusted look. "No, but I needed to do it, so they'd call you in." The duh hung in the air.
"Right." Not right! What the fuck? "Couldn't you have..." He waved a hand. "...asked me out for a cup of coffee?"
"You wouldn't have said yes. I see how you look at Nesterova. You're a whore for him."
Oookay. Not touching that. "Before I knew your name, I always referred to you as the cute forensic guy. Ask Hjalmar, he'll tell you."
Saylor smiled, and for a second he looked like a cute forensic guy or would have if he hadn't been holding a scalpel.
"A missed opportunity. It's too late now anyway."
"No, it's not. We can..." Frode's heart was blocking his throat.
Saylor huffed. "You're hot but not too smart." Then he rammed the blade of the scalpel into Frode's stomach.
At first, he believed it was one of those trick knives with a retractable blade because he felt nothing. Then blood soaked his shirt, and dizziness took over.
Saylor watched him without making a sound. Frode wasn't sure he was making any either. Maybe he was, but there was a roar in his ears, and his knees wanted to fold. He looked at the blood now trickling down onto the landing, then back at Saylor.
"You're quiet."
His voice was distorted, and Frode blinked, unsure of whether he'd spoken at all.
"The previous ones screamed until they couldn't anymore."
His words didn't make any sense, and Frode reached out to steady himself on the door, but his hand slid, and he toppled over. He didn't feel the impact, but he heard an umph leave him.
Saylor's shoes came into view, and Frode noted the toe on one of them had blood on it. Black dots danced in his vision.
Saylor crouched and said something, but Frode couldn't make out the words. Then Saylor tilted his head to the side, reached toward his belly, and pulled out the scalpel. Pain exploded in Frode's mind, and he believed he screamed, but then everything went dark.
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