Page 58 of Not This Way

She felt the rain pouring down her face, and she reached out, patting him on the shoulder. She then nodded at the two cops who’d first spotted Callen. She gestured at them to approach.

She turned, and as they drew near, she murmured, “Get him someplace warm. Get him some food.”

“Is he under arrest?”

“No. No, don’t arrest him.”

The cops nodded and moved over to help console Mr. Thompson.

Rachel turned away from the scene, shaking her head bitterly. She drew closer to Ethan.

“Find anything?” the tall southerner asked.

She stood by the side of the police cruiser, ducking under the umbrella Ethan had procured. She nodded as she did. “Yeah, I think so,” she murmured, glancing back at Mr. Thompson. “Someone called his wife. Someone aggressive.”

“Think they’re the killer?”

“Very possibly,” Rachel said softly. “We need to run his phone records. Find out who called. Where from.”

Ethan gave a slow sad shake of his head, but turned back toward the car.

Rachel glanced once more at the body under the tarp, on the other side of the stationary vehicle. Then she turned back and slipped into the car, already pulling her phone to request the necessary information.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

The Servant stood in the shadows of his small motel room, rain streaking down the windowpane like dark rivulets of blood. He raised his binoculars to his eyes, peering out at the crime scene illuminated by harsh police lights. Through the distorted lens, he saw Ranger Blackwood and Ranger Morgan climb into a cop car, their faces etched with determination and sorrow. He knew their faces now—knew their names. He’d been doing some digging of his own.

As the vehicle pulled away, the Servant’s gaze lingered on a man standing near the perimeter of the crime scene. The man’s face was contorted in anguish, hot tears streaming down his cheeks as he clung to the cold comfort of a nearby officer. The Servant felt a pang of empathy deep within him, an ache that gnawed at his conscience. It was an odd sensation for someone who considered himself a mere instrument of fate; it was a connection he had not anticipated feeling. He blinked away his own tears, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding rain. “But I’m going to bleed again.”

The scents and sounds of the night pierced through the atmosphere of the motel room: the musty odor of damp carpet, the distant wail of sirens, the relentless drumming of raindrops against the window. The man closed his eyes and breathed it all in, allowing the sensory feast to heighten his awareness and sharpen his focus.

His mind raced with thoughts of his next move, each detail meticulously planned and executed in his imagination. The familiar thrill coursed through his veins as he envisioned the terror and chaos that would soon unfold. Yet, mingled with this sinister excitement was a flicker of remorse, an unsettling reminder of the lives he had shattered.

“Bleed again? Yes, but only when the time is right,” he told himself sternly, shaking off the lingering guilt. But even as he spoke these words, he knew that the urge to act was growing stronger, fueled by the conflict within him. The man’s destiny was intertwined with those who crossed his path, and like a moth drawn to the flame, he could not resist the call of fate.

“Rachel,” he murmured, the name rolling off his tongue like a dark incantation. “Ethan.”

Their faces swam before his eyes, etched into his memory by the brief glimpse through the binoculars. He wondered what secrets lay hidden behind their stoic expressions, what unknown depths of pain and determination drove them forward. They were, in many ways, as much a mystery to him as he was to them.

But that would soon change. As the rain continued to fall outside the motel room window, the Servant prepared himself for the inevitable confrontation. And deep within the recesses of his heart, a small voice whispered a chilling truth: the day of reckoning was fast approaching.

He turned his attention to the small, flickering television set in the corner of the dingy motel room. The local news channel was broadcasting a report about his most recent crime. He leaned in closer, captivated by the grainy images of the scene he had left behind. The reporter’s voice was hushed and somber, her words painting a vivid picture of the horror that had unfolded.

“Another gruesome discovery this evening as police uncovered the body of Emily Thompson, age thirty-two,” she said, her face pale beneath the harsh glare of the camera lights. “Authorities have yet to release details, but sources close to the investigation suggest it bears striking similarities to the string of unsolved murders that have plagued the area in recent weeks.”

The killer watched with interest as the camera panned across the crime scene, lingering on the flashing lights of the police cars and the grim expressions of the officers. A thrill coursed through him at the thought that he remained a specter to them—a phantom whose true nature eluded their grasp.

“Still no closer to catching me, are they?” he mused, a wicked smile playing upon his lips. His long, slender fingers tapped rhythmically against the arm of the rickety wooden chair, betraying his eagerness to continue his work. His clothing was nondescript, designed to blend into the shadows—a dark hoodie concealing his face, with worn jeans and scuffed boots completing the ensemble.

“Two more hours… yes, two hours should be enough time to prepare.” His voice was barely more than a whisper, but it held an undeniable note of excitement. In his mind’s eye, he saw the faces of Rachel and Ethan once more. They were connected to this twisted tapestry of fate he wove, and he knew that their paths would cross again soon.

He reached for his bag and pulled out a wickedly sharp knife. The blade gleamed in the dim light, reflecting the twisted desires that burned within his soul.

“Time to get to work,” he murmured, his eyes glittering with cold determination. He cleaned and sharpened the knife with meticulous precision, each stroke bringing him closer to the moment when he would once again stand over his prey, consumed by the intoxicating power that washed over him in those final moments of life.

“Rachel, Ethan,” he whispered, tasting their names on his tongue as he plunged the knife into the air, imagining the terror they would feel when they realized how close he had been all along. “Your time is coming.”

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