This Is How You Die Read online

  I felt my nose buckle under the impact, felt one of my back teeth chip as my jaw clenched and then shifted, my molars grating against each other. I had taken plenty of beatings in my life; I knew how to maintain composure. While fazed, I managed to drag the knife back to him, to thrust forward with the blade. But he was too quick. He moved out of the way, swiveled until the back of my hand pressed against his chest, and then he clawed at my fingers.

  He was a dirty fighter, doing what he needed to get the job done, which, even as it was about to cost me my life, I respected him for. At first he dug his nails into the fleshy part of my hand, and when that didn’t work, he bit me. When that still didn’t work, he peeled my forefinger away from the handle of the blade and continued to peel it back until he heard it snap. That was enough to cause me to drop the knife, enough to give him the edge that he needed.

  As soon as the knife was pried out of my grasp, I fell to my knees and realized that the end was nigh. I’d had a good run, and although being stabbed in the back by a policeman wasn’t my first choice as a way to go, it certainly had a nice ring to it.

  I waited for the thrust to come, to end the agony that soared through my body, but it didn’t come. Eventually I looked up, craning my neck, blinking through the pain and the haze to see Lester standing over me. The vacant expression had gone from his face and was replaced by a crude smile, a smile I was sure had been on my own face a number of times over the years.

  “It’s better than you could ever imagine,” I told him.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Killing. It’s everything that you imagine it to be and so much more.”

  “I’m not a murderer, Herman. I’m not even a violent man.”

  “Says the guy who just broke my fucking finger.”

  He laughed and I couldn’t help but join him, but when I did, he seemed to take offense. He swung for me and his boot caught me on the chin, spinning me over and causing me to land in a heap, the back of my head clattering against the solid floor.

  “What the fuck was that for?” I spat, thrusting my neck up just enough for me to spit a colorful concoction of my own blood and mucus onto the dusty floor beside me.

  “You’re a filthy fucking murderer, you have no right to laugh, no right to smile. I don’t care why you did what you did. I don’t care if you had a bad childhood. You’re scum.” He dropped to his knees and hovered above me, the knife held tightly in both hands, experienced enough not to make the same stupid mistake I had made. “Did your victims ever smile, did they ever laugh?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  He kicked me again, a toe-poke into my ribs, but that wasn’t enough to sate my sense of humor.

  “Does this take you back, Herman? Does this remind you of your schooldays? All of the times those kids beat you up? If only they knew what you would turn into, hell, if only the teachers knew, they would have given them medals. You got exactly what you deserved.”

  I laughed. “Ironic, really, because so did they.”

  He hit me, another crunching strike with his boot, this time into my waist. It sucked the air out of my lungs, caused me to crunch into a ball. He seemed to enjoy that more than the others, but when I stopped hissing, when I stopped moaning, I laughed again.

  He gave me a blank stare. “Do I amuse you?” he asked.

  “You? God no, you’re hardly a bundle of fucking laughs, are you?” I scrambled up until I was leaning on my elbows, moving slowly. “I was just thinking how the roles seem to have been reversed. I’m the psycho killer here, yet you’re the one standing over me with a knife, taunting me.”

  “Now you know how it feels to be one of your victims.”

  I shook my head. “You know as well as I do that I can never know that. These people are weak, they don’t feel or think the same as I do. As we do.”

  He didn’t say anything to that but I could see that I had gotten through to him.

  “You and me are alike, and I know you see that. Only, it’s got nothing to do with Whitegate and it’s got nothing to do with being miserable. It’s about being disillusioned with life, about being fed up with the human race on the whole.”

  Lester nodded, it was faint and it might have been instinctive, but it was definitely a nod.

  “Take your kids, for example—”

  “Leave my kids out of this!”

  I held up my hands as best I could, grunting through the pain that the movement caused. “I’m just saying. Do you feel the love that all parents feel? Do you feel enlightened and enlivened that you have spread your seed?”

  He shook his head, another faint and almost invisible movement.

  “And why is that?”

  “I loved my kids.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  He shrugged and as he did so, I saw his grip on the knife loosen. He was a professional man, an experienced officer, but he was letting his guard down, letting his emotion get in the way.

  “My kids lost respect for me. After their mother died …” He trailed off with a shrug. “They stopped caring.”

  “And eventually you stopped caring as well?”

  “I still loved them,” he said, his voice picking up, fluctuating as emotion took hold. “But I didn’t like them.”

  “I’m sure the feeling was mutual.”

  He nodded in agreement and I clambered to my knees, grunting, groaning and hissing through clenched teeth, showing him I was no threat—I wasn’t capable of doing anything. He didn’t stop me, seemingly lost in his own thoughts as he idly watched.

  “Life has been cruel to you, but that’s the way things are,” I told him. “Most people suck it up and move on. But there are those who refuse to let it wash over them, the ones who decide to fight back, to kick life in the balls every time it threatens to do the same to them.” I was closer to him now, just inches from the loosening blade and from his defeated posture. “So why don’t you quit your job, ignore your kids, and join me?”

  “You’re a murderer.”

  “I’m more than just a murderer. I’m one of the most prolific murderers there has ever been,” I informed him. “The fear and the respect I get is unparalleled, and that fear and that respect will continue long after I’m dead.”

  He looked me in the eyes and I sensed a great deal of emotion. He wasn’t a murderer, I knew that and he knew that, but he was fed up with his lot in life. He was angry, bitter, and although he would never take that first step, he wanted the satisfaction of vengeance.

  “You can’t tell me that murder has never appealed to you.” I locked him into eye contact and moved closer, until he couldn’t see my hand edging for the knife. “You can’t—”

  “You’re right.” He backed away. “I do want revenge, I do want to hurt those who have hurt me.”

  Just when I thought I had him, I realized that he had been fucking with me.

  “But you’re the one who has made my life a misery these last few years; the one who has given me sleepless nights because I can’t get the faces of your victims out of my mind; the one I have to thank for losing my appetite because I couldn’t get the smell of rotting flesh out of my nose. Yes, my kids hated me, and no, that wasn’t entirely my fault. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I couldn’t look at my daughter without knowing that her face could be the face of one of your victims, without realizing that all the love I had for her could be exploited and taken away with one thrust of a knife. Maybe it’s got something to do with the fact that I couldn’t look at my son without seeing Darren Henderson or Barry Barlow, the ones you butchered, cutting short their young lives and the lives of their parents, their brothers and their sisters.”

  “They deserved everything they got!” I spat, feeling a surge of anger at the mere mention of those names.

  He ignored me. “And in the end, my worries about my children weren’t unfounded, because my nightmares came true, and that was your fault.” His expression twisted, a menacing look spreading th
ickly across his face. “They were kids!” he roared. A veil of spittle flew from his mouth. Strands of saliva stuck to his chin and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. “How could you even think for a moment that I would want to end up like you? You disgust me.”

  “I’m so much more than you could ever be,” I said, growing increasingly incensed.

  Lester shook his head. “You’re nothing. And as for your legacy and your legend, let’s just see what happens when the world learns that the most prolific serial killer in the country was taken down by a depressed cop.”

  I knew how things were going to play out and I knew I was at a disadvantage. I was weak, nearly keeled over and vulnerable to attack. I had no weapons, nothing but my own fists, but I did have the element of surprise. The last thing he was expecting was for me to charge at him with little regard for my own safety. After all, no one in their right mind would run at a man holding a knife. But that’s exactly what I did.

  The charge was effective—he didn’t have time to prepare the weapon. I felt it stick into my waist, rip through my clothes and dig into my flesh, but his grip was weak and before it penetrated much further, he dropped it. He grunted upon the impact, the air knocked out of his lungs, and then he fell backward with me on top of him.

  He was surprised and fearful, I saw it in his face—the same expression that had been on all of their faces. He was stronger, more experienced, but when it came down to it, they were all the same.

  I ignored the pain in my stomach and the blood that soaked my shirt, and I pummeled my fists into his face, relishing the sound my knuckles made as they crushed against his jaw bone, his cheek bones, and his temples. I broke his nose, crushing it against his face and decorating his flesh with its crimson innards. I broke some of his teeth, the crushed enamel collecting at the back of his throat along with blood and mucus, threatening to choke him on his own body fluids. I also broke his jaw, leaving his mouth a twisted mess. I gave it every last ounce of energy that I had, gritting my teeth like a marathon runner on the final sprint as I pushed through the pain.

  He tried to stop me, and he was strong enough to land a few powerful punches, but I had more experience than anyone when it came to being hit. I could deflect those punches like I had deflected Darren Henderson’s punches. Back then I had dissociated, gone to my special place, a beautiful place where I killed Darren in so many beautiful ways, but now I was already in my special place. And no punches and no pain could stop it from being so beautiful.

  Lester Keats was a bigger and better nemesis than Darren Henderson had ever been. He took a lot more to catch and a lot more to defeat. I had been terrified of Darren, overcoming my fear using sheer determination alone. I hadn’t been as scared of Lester, but only because I was a man now. Much more than that, in fact.

  “You know,” I said, stopping, breathless. “I actually thought about avoiding you,” I told him, grinning at his mangled face as he tried to breathe, tried to spit out the blood collecting at the back of his throat. “I thought you were a worthy match, that you might actually put an end to everything I had worked so hard to create, but …” I shook my head. “I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  I stood up, kneeing him in the groin for good measure. He tried to scramble to his feet, but he was punch drunk, barely conscious.

  “If this were a film, this would be the point where someone would burst in and save you.” I walked over to the knife, and as I bent down to pick it up, I felt a sharp pain in my torso. The blood was pouring heavily now and the pain was increasing, but I would live. It would be a reminder of our battle, a scar fittingly deeper and bigger than anything Darren had left. “Do you have anyone lined up?”

  I held the knife above him. His eyes were open and seemed to be looking at me, but his face was so swollen and so bloodied it was hard to tell.

  “A partner that you argue a lot with but really, deep down, you’re best buddies with?”

  He choked out an inaudible reply.

  “I’ll take that as a no. What about someone who you thought was dead or missing?”

  Another choke. There was also some movement, a wriggle or a spasm, but I didn’t know if it was intentional.

  “Again, that’s a no. It’s not looking good for you, is it?” I rested a finger thoughtfully on my chin. “Okay then, what about your kids? You used to love them and I’m sure they felt the same way about you at one point. Years of arguments and hatred later, I think it would be rather apt for them to show up, save your life, and make your happily-ever-after come true—what do you say?”

  I was silent then, waiting—only the sound of his moaning, grunting, coughing, and spluttering breaking through the silence. I checked my watch, tapped the top of the timepiece, and then I raised a finger, remembering something. “Ah right, they can’t, can they? Because I killed them.”

  “I. Will. Not. Play!”

  I frowned at the bloodied mess before me. “Excuse me?”

  He was trying and failing to pry himself up. “I. Will. Not. Play. Your. Games.”

  “Who said anything about games?”

  “This. This is what you enjoy,” he said, breathless from the struggle, the words grating and bubbling out of his throat as if spoken under water. “And I want no … no part in it. Kill me. You fuck.”

  “Well then, there’s no need for that.”

  He summoned some energy from somewhere and used it to throw out his arms and legs, like a wounded animal kicking its last kick. He caught me in the shin and threw me off balance, but I retained my footing before falling over.

  “Kill me!” he yelled, his voice screeching. “You fucking piece of shit. Kill me!”

  “You’re not—”

  “Shut up and kill me!”

  “Well I—”

  He lashed out again and this time he managed to sweep my feet out from under me. I toppled forward, landing next to him, at which point he threw himself on top of me. We fought again, but there was little strength left in him and I managed to get to my feet, with him on his knees as he tried and failed to follow me up.

  “What is wrong with you?” I asked him. “I just wanted a—”

  “What is wrong with me?” He spat. “That’s rich coming from you!” He laughed maniacally and I felt the excitement drain out of me. This was supposed to be my moment, my crowning glory, but he seemed to be having more fun than I was. I had been dreaming of such a kill for a long time, a worthy adversary, a long and drawn-out vengeance, but he—

  “Well!” he spat again. “Get it over with!”

  In his anger, he managed to scramble to his feet, looking like a sleep-deprived zombie as he rocked back and forth, seemingly unaware of where I was or where he was, or so I thought. He reached out and grabbed the knife in my hands. His bloodied and soppy appendages clasping around the blade and my flesh.

  He looked at me and I could just about see two small pupils poking through a swamp of blood and swollen flesh. “I. Will. Not. Play. Your. FUCKING. GAMES!”

  He drove forward, his hands still holding the knife. I felt it sink into his waist and, with his face inches from mine, I saw the smile slowly develop and I felt his final breaths leave his body. I tried to rip the knife free. This wasn’t how I wanted it to be, this wasn’t how I wanted him to die. It was supposed to be my kill, my time to shine, but this, this was barely even murder. As weak as he had been before, once the knife was inside him, there was little I could do to pry it free. His body was reluctant to let it go, desperate to die, clinging onto the steel blade as it sucked the remnants of life from him.

  When I finally ripped it out, it was already too late.

  Lester was still smiling when he fell to his knees, his hands cupping the blood gushing out of his torso. “You’re not a legend,” he said, almost giggling despite his imminent demise. “You’re just a lost child.” He fell backward, hitting the floor with a thump and a moan. He laughed as he made contact and then, as the last of his laughter and the last of his life drained awa
y, he added, “And a fucking prick.”

  I watched him breathe his final breath. I did not smile. I did not enjoy it.

  I bent down over him and checked his pulse, making sure he was gone and sighing in disappointment when I realized he was. Not that it mattered—if he were still clinging to life, there would have been very little I could have done to prolong it, very little I could have done to make it enjoyable for me.

  I was annoyed. He was my greatest adversary and yet had delivered me no satisfaction. He had been better to me alive, and that was a thought I had never had about anyone else. It was almost enough to make me want to give up killing, to pack my knives away, settle down, and try to live the normal life.

  I chuckled to myself.

  As if that were ever going to happen.

  EPILOGUE

  “… And what about Herman, Keats believed that he and The Masquerade were one and the same, do you think it was Herman who got to him?”

  “I don’t—”

  “—Surely you see that this has to be more than a coincidence?”

  “Look, I really—”

  “What about the town of Whitegate? Should they be worried? Do you think he wants to seek revenge?

  “Forget about them, what about the general public! This guy is nuts and he’s still out there, what are you doing to protect us?”

  I grinned to myself as I watched the press conference unfold on television. I had never seen Chief Inspector Atwood before, but I liked him. He was Lester’s boss and he had been put in charge of the investigation, struggling to field a barrage of questions from journalists who refused to let him answer one before moving on to the next. He looked strong, defiant, like he took no shit from anyone. He reminded me of the big, hairy, cigar-chomping detectives of old, the ones who had probably only existed on eighties television shows but whose images had been imprinted onto the minds of an impressionable generation.