A winters kill, p.26
A Winter's Kill, page 26
The person was doing something under the chassis, pulling, sliding, unclipping.
Then the person turned and faced Carolyn. He held something in his hands, something compact with limbs.
More blood cascaded into Carolyn’s eyes. She tried to wipe it away, splattering blood onto the snow. She aimed at the person, one handed. The green florescent aperture hovered and wavered over the fuzzy shape backlit by the Jeep’s headlights.
She wiped her eyes again.
Ritter came into focus.
Carolyn fired.
Sparks burst off the chassis behind him.
She fired again, and again and again, driven by fear.
More sparks flew. Ritter was still standing.
The aftermath of Utah came flooding back to her once more. History about to repeat itself. Carolyn knew it. Ritter was going to escape, vanish, never to be seen again.
She settled.
Held her breath.
Aimed again.
The red dot settled over Ritter. Center mass. No mistake this time. No repeating the past. Fist-sized holes into the motherfucker’s chest. The only prison sentence he deserved.
Carolyn squeezed the trigger.
Pain tore into her and she screamed.
The bolt hit her in the shoulder.
Carolyn tilted off balance. Compensating she fired, wild shots, emptying her magazine, hitting nothing.
And with that, another ghost had just been set free to haunt her again for the rest of her life.
Ritter stepped forward, re-cocked the crossbow, slid in another bolt.
Carolyn sank to her knees. Her arm hung at her side, her gun held loosely in one hand, empty magazine, spent on trying to kill another monster.
She stared at the bolt in her shoulder, knew what it was, knew what she was about to become. The image of Mary Jane Westerman came back to her.
Carolyn stared down at the snow in front of her, thinking how beautiful it looked, crushed glass, drizzled in red that ran down her arm and dripped off her fingertips. The artwork spreading.
Then a voice screamed at her deep from her past. Her instructor from the academy.
Subconsciously her left hand moved to her left hip, searching under her jacket. The right side of her shoulder, arm and torso was numb, gone, not there.
She looked at her gun, tilted it, tried to find the magazine release, but it wasn’t there. She struggled to remember where it was on the side of the weapon. It had to be there, ergonomics built into the design meant it should be easy to find, second nature for her.
Her thumb pressed and pressed at the frame, searching but not finding. Tears rolled down her face, hot and bloody. She gritted her teeth. Her brain screamed at her, drowning out the voice of her instructor.
It was too late.
She brought her left hand up, saw a fresh magazine there, in the palm of her hand, rotated and indexed perfectly.
She struggled some more. Still couldn’t release the spent magazine. Her mind, not the weapon was jammed. Jammed with rising panic.
Carolyn looked up.
Ritter was now twenty yards away. He had moved closer. All his kills were from within ten yards she remembered from the case files.
His face was obscured. Something in front of his head again like she had seen moments before. His eye was huge, magnified through the lens.
Through the scope Ritter saw her shape, her torso perfectly segmented into four equal quarters, the crosshair over her left breast.
A quick kill. A winter’s kill. The last of the season. There would be other seasons, he was certain.
The magazine slid out of her gun, plopped into the snow.
Carolyn painstakingly slid in the new one. Couldn’t raise her right arm. Feeling almost gone.
She swapped hands, her left hand taking the gun from her dead right hand, like it was another person's hand, no feeling, no sensation in it.
She brought her left thumb up and over the slide, hit the slide lock of the left side, felt the welcomed thud as it shunted forward into place, feeding a round into the chamber.
She brought the gun up.
The next bolt hit her flush in the chest, before she could fire.
Heart shot.
The killing shot.
51
Carolyn lay in the snow, on her back, arms outstretched.
Christ the Redeemer.
Wings of red slowly unfurling from under her.
An angel taking flight, leaving this evil earth, turning skywards, heading towards the heavens in search of justice and redemption.
Darkness passed over her face, covering her for a moment, shrouding her body, protecting her.
Then it was gone.
Hodges didn’t look down. Didn’t need to. She was dead.
He went past Carolyn’s body in a blur.
The world inside his head had turned white, white hot with just a single blemish of darkness at its very center.
A blemish that Hodges now ran at.
Ritter saw Hodges come out of the darkness, run past the body of Carolyn and on towards him. Three hundred pounds of fury and rage.
Ritter reloaded then backed up fast, wanted space, widen the gap. Didn’t want a quick kill this time. He was going to take his time with this one. Break new ground. Make Hodges the first male in his collection. Tyler Finch was just for fun, an experiment. Ritter testing the idea of an urban kill plot rather than a woodland one.
Skin this fucker, too. Flay him open, turn him into a human bloody canvas of skin and blood vessels.
The first bolt hit Hodges in the arm.
It didn’t slow him.
He kept coming like a massive bull, all that was missing were the horns.
Ritter reloaded, took aim, fired again.
The bolt pierced the thigh this time.
Still didn’t slow him.
Hodges ran faster, the gap shortening, his manic speed gobbling up the distance between them.
Ritter reloaded, mild panic rising, fluid movements practiced all summer long. But under different test conditions, alone in his lair, without the stress of another monster bearing right down on him.
Not the same.
The bolt fumbled in the flight rail. Precious seconds lost as Ritter seated it correctly.
He fired.
The next bolt hit Hodges low in the torso, a glancing shot, went in then partially out his right side.
Still didn't slow him.
He ran harder. The rage inside him molten white now, intense, inhuman, smothering everything else he felt.
Ritter stumbled backwards, couldn’t reload fast enough. A massive wall of hatred bearing down on him.
Another bolt into the rail. Ritter drew the cocking mechanism. Half brought up the cross bow to aim.
Then a freight train hit him.
The bow was ripped from his grasp. Massive gorilla-like hands twisted the limbs, bending metal, shattering carbon fiber.
Ritter surged forward, enhanced, powerful, his bloodstream on fire, a toxic river of synthetics flowing through him.
Yet it was no match for pure human rage.
The crossbow took flight through the air, spun like a boomerang, spinning end on end, never to return to its owner.
The same hands that had shaped metal and bent steel for decades, now took hold of Ritter, lifted him off the ground by the throat, feet dangling.
Ritter struggled, kicked, and let out a gargled scream as massive hands slowly began crushing his neck.
Hodges squeezed. Muscles bulged and strained, natural strength, conjured up from within. He looked deep into Ritter’s eyes, beyond things made of flesh and blood and into a black and sinister place where the memories of dead women roamed, their screams still echoing in the dark recesses of an insane mind. The memories of his dogs also roamed there, tails wagging and fierce eyes, that now lay still and cold and dead, deep in the earth.
Hodges saw it all, reflected back into his own mind, in his own memories. And in the moment, he did what the dead couldn’t. He did it for them.
In horror, Ritter’s eyes bulged as a huge hand shifted and covered his head then slowly twisted. The other vice-like hand around his throat remained in place, and began to twist as well, but in the opposite direction.
Ritter screamed again, a choking, drowning wet sound. He felt his vertebrae twisting, turning, unhinging. Cartilage separating, ligaments tearing. Blood vessels twisting, knotting, then bursting.
Ritter's head kept turning, and turning, screwing around, front to back.
Then everything snapped, and life escaped his body in a sudden jolt. All that remained was a limp carcass of nothingness.
Hodges released the body. It slumped backwards and into the snow.
The average human body contains between nine and twelve pints of blood.
Hodges lost thirty percent of his own blood while carrying the body of Carolyn Ryder almost two miles through the snow and darkness, back to the log cabin, following the tracks the Jeep and the snowmobile had made.
There was finally enough cell phone signal for Hodges to use Carolyn’s cell phone to call the police. The Sheriff’s Department and State Police descended on Ritter’s log cabin like an invading force, and after securing the scene they soon discovered Olivia Bauer chained up in the basement. The kitchen at the rear of the cabin looked like a wrecking ball had gone through it.
The blood loss suffered by Hodges however wasn't in vain. Following the blood trail, and the directions given by an almost unconscious Hodges, a separate contingent of deputies and troopers arrived at dawn to another crime scene of carnage and mayhem. They found the twisted wreck of a Jeep Wrangler, a damaged snowmobile with its track ripped from its housing, and the body of a man that, at first glance, resembled some sick stage prop from a low-budget horror movie.
The deputies and troopers initially thought the body of the man was lying face down in the snow, the back of his head clearly visible with the neck twisted like a rubber band. On closer inspection they realized that from the neck down, the body was indeed facing upwards, towards them, the chest and feet pointing skywards.
One young deputy retched into the snow while a trooper studied the body, thinking that bears had finally moved into Iowa.
But there was only one bear in Iowa, and after his hemorrhaging was stopped by paramedics, he was taken to the nearest hospital for an emergency transfusion, then surgery, to remove the three crossbow bolts that were embedded in him.
Doctors and nursing staff were even more astounded when a rumor circulated that the patient had endured such wounds while carrying the body of a woman two miles through the snow to get help.
52
Special Agent Dan Miller placed the paper cup of coffee down on the table and gave Aaron Wood a nudge.
Wood woke instantly. He looked his usual disheveled, unkempt self, but was instantly awake. Miller could see in the man's eyes that his mind never stopped turning, even while he slept, which was usually in the back of a police car, in an airport lounge or at his office desk usually around 4:00 a.m.
Wood stretched, grabbed the coffee cup that was the size of an ice bucket, and drank half of it in one go.
Coming around to the other side of the hospital bed, Miller looked down at the sleeping form of Carolyn Ryder. “Doctors say she’ll pull through. She’s strong.”
“She’s a fighter,” Wood replied.
Wood had arrived late last night, taking a chopper to the airport then the last plane out. He’d been by Ryder’s side ever since.
Miller looked at her some more. Her arm was bandaged and so was her chest. Christ, she had more tubes in her than the London underground. He turned to Wood. “You got a second?”
“Sure.” They left the room together, not before Wood squeezed Ryder’s hand.
The FBI had taken over one of the visitors rooms. A police guard had been placed outside Ryder’s room, just as a precaution until she was conscious and they knew more about what had happened in Willow Falls. Carolyn’s sister was the only person, other than Wood and the law enforcement officers who were allowed to see her.
The visitor’s room was small, with a long laminate table and a scatter of worn plastic chairs.
Wood sat down and stared at the crucifix on the wall. It reminded him of the body of Clarissa Mulligan, the first victim the police had found in Willow Falls, whose pictures Carolyn had first sent him.
In the middle of the table was a large evidence plastic bag. “What’s this?” Wood asked as Miller sat down opposite him.
“This is what saved her life. She must have strapped this on under her jacket before she went up to Ritter’s cabin with Beau Hodges.”
Inside the sealed plastic bag was the lightweight bulletproof vest Ryder had purchased at the last moment when she was in the gun store in Willow Falls.
“It’s a civilian issue, not law enforcement spec but it is still level IIIA protection. Did the job,” Miller said, waking up the tablet device he was carrying.
"Can you buy these over the counter?" Wood asked, turning the vest over in his hands.
"You can in most states provided you're not a felon," Miller replied without looking up from the screen.
“Good thing she had the sense to wear it.” Wood noticed a small tear in the center of the vest where the crossbow bolt that was aimed at her heart had struck.
Miller sifted through reports on his tablet screen, crime scene photos, and autopsy results. “We still can’t find the crossbow.” He looked up at Wood. “The one that Ritter used to shoot her and Beau Hodges.” Miller folded the tablet case so it formed a stand and placed it on the table between them. “Don’t really need it anyway,” he said. “Found plenty of evidence in the cabin, Ritter’s home in Chicago and inside the wreck of the vehicle.”
Wood leaned in as Miller began to scroll through the screen, bringing up images taken by the team who were still processing Ritter’s house in Chicago. “He is Robin Hood. We have confirmed that,” Miller said. “We found DNA and blood samples in the back of his vehicle belonging to Clarissa Mulligan. We also found this.” Miller spread a finger and thumb, enlarging an image on the screen.
Wood squinted. “Quite a collection.”
Miller nodded. "The lab guys reckon he had formulated his own performance enhancing drugs. Some of the stuff they’ve tested so far is fifty times more powerful than EPO. Found a hard case full of the stuff next to the car wreck, including auto-injectors. Ritter also had a stash in the basement of the log cabin. The team in Chicago said he virtually had a drug lab setup in his home. We’re checking on the hospital to see if he was stealing supplies. They’ve gone into damage control, hospital board has called in big shot lawyers. But we’ll find out, one way or another.”
“So he was self-administering the stuff, enhancing his strength,” Wood said.
“Not just his strength," Miller said ticking off fingers on his hand. "Endurance, agility, reaction times, recovery times, you name it. However, the lab guys told me it was starting to destroy his physiology, destabilize him. Prolonged use."
"So it gave him superhuman strength?" Wood asked.
"Looks like it. Initial toxicology indicates red blood cell counts off the charts. Same with his testosterone levels." Miller laughed. “The lab guys just hope he hasn’t sold or told anyone else his formulations. If this stuff gets out into the open market or the black-market it will make the next Olympics look like the latest Marvel movie without the need for special effects.”
Wood said nothing, just stared at the screen, thinking about Ritter’s other victims, how he had managed to simultaneously lift them up with one hand while shooting them with his crossbow with the other, pinning them to the tree.
Miller looked at Wood. "Here's the kicker," he said, a wry smile on his face. "He was dying, Ritter. Probably didn't even know it."
"Dying?" Wood asked. "What from?"
"From all the crap he was pumping into himself. Short term gain for long term pain. The side effects. It had given him cancer. Autopsy report showed lymphatic tumors, probably from all the drugs."
Wood sat back stunned. Ritter was dying, a victim of his own abuse to become superhuman.
"They gave him maybe twelve months to live by their estimates," Miller added.
Aaron Wood knew it was irrelevant that Ritter had cancer. Carolyn had found him and stopped him. How many people would he have gone on to kill until the disease finally claimed him?
"But she got him," Wood said. "Ryder got him."
"Ryder found him, worked it out, but I think it was her companion Beau Hodges who turned him into a human pretzel."
"So this Hodges guy," Wood asked, "what's his story?"
Miller had already interviewed Beau Hodges as soon as he regained consciousness after surgery. "He's a local hunter, someone who Ryder confided in. He says she came and saw him with this notion about someone up in the hills hunting women, capturing them, then releasing them to only hunt them again." Miller continued to scroll through his tablet.
"So it was him who killed Ritter?"
Miller nodded. "Looks that way. Killed him in a frenzy, with his bare hands, ain't seen nothing like it. But Hodges had an unfair advantage in the end."
Wood looked perplexed. "Unfair advantage? How so?"
Miller smiled and put down the tablet. "Despite all this crap Ritter had in his bloodstream, Hodges had the most powerful drug known to mankind flowing through his veins." Miller leaned forward, a knowing smile on his face. "Something capable of turning any ordinary person, man or woman, into a raging superhuman, making them capable of anything. Something we have both seen plenty of times."
Wood was lost.
Slowly, drawing out each word, Miller put an end to Wood's confusion.
"Pure, unadulterated hatred."
Wood smiled, contemplating what Miller had just said. It was a powerful drug indeed, the worst kind known to man. He'd witnessed the horrific aftermath of its use more times than he cared to remember. “I heard the local police are missing one of their own,” Wood asked.
Miller nodded. “A guy called Tyler Finch, local police officer from Willow Falls. They found his police cruiser near an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town a few days ago. Our tech guys are going over the place now. Found some blood but not much else.” Miller leaned forward.
