Cut to the Bone(53)

He shook his head. Thank God Emily had more sense than to think he cared whether hers were tiny, huge, or covered with polka dots. Just that they were his.

Were his . . .

The doughnut left a powdery mess bouncing off the screen.

The Executioner sprang as the target pulled even. He chopped his arm into her throat, clamped his hand over her mouth, and used her momentum to spin her into the shrubs.

“Buh-bye,” he hissed.

The knife plunged.

The woman screamed.

Because of his hand, nobody heard.

“Get a move on,” Emily ordered herself. “Massage won’t catch the Unsub.” Dehumanizing the serial killer with FBI-speak for “unidentified subject” made her stomach hurt a tiny bit less. She wished the cure for her and Marty was that simple.

Damned impressive, that dagger, the Executioner enthused as he scrambled up the north riverbank. If I do say so myself. It worked superbly on the veal calf he’d used for thrusting practice, but a human kill presented different challenges than meat that didn’t move.

Like Bowie, he loved - loved - using a blade. The targets knew beyond all doubt they were dying at the hands of someone who totally, thoroughly, wanted them that way.

He smiled at how well that would work Friday.

Emily’s Nikes slapped cadence as she rounded the curve. The delay to work out the kink allowed dawn to brighten enough to see the river rippling. Birds flitting after insect breakfasts. A tiny figure in sharp silhouette entering the SUV atop the north riverbank.

She felt a happy shiver. Some runs were a slog, endured strictly to keep her thighs from jiggling. Today’s was an unalloyed joy, a standout. She wished she could run forever, get herself away from all the crap that was suffocating her-

The terrified shriek grabbed Emily by the throat.

She ripped the Glock from under her shirt and broke into a sprint.

The Executioner sped south on Washington Street, heading for Royce Road and home. He flipped on the radio in case they identified her right away. He hoped so. Be a kick for him and Bowie to watch the frantic coverage together.

Emily raced up to the stroller moms pointing wide-eyed at the shrubs.

“Dead,” one breathed. “Dead.”

Emily hissed. It was the jogger who’d minutes ago asked for Paula’s number. Her head was canted, her eyes filmy. She leaked blood from a dozen cuts. A hank of hair was cut off mid-skull and stuffed into her mouth.

I didn’t even ask her name . . .

She heard a freight train of steps. Nearly upon her, closing fast. She swung around, ready to trigger a killing blitz.

It was a park district policeman, leveling his gun at her chest.

“Drop the weapon!” he ordered. “Now!”

Emily froze. One wrong move and he’d mow her like hay.

“I’m a Naperville Police detective,” she said, slow and calm, letting the Glock slip from her hand without moving the rest of her body. “I have my badge. Do you want to see it?”

The cop put a tree between them. The muzzle didn’t waver, and he didn’t reply. Smart move, she thought. Bad guys will lie about being a fellow officer, hoping you’ll relax long enough to jump you. “It’s under my T-shirt,” she continued. “My name is-”

“Emily Thompson,” the park cop said, lowering the gun. “Thought I recognized you, but I wasn’t sure enough to take the chance. Sorry.”

She squished into the blood to feel for a pulse.

“Anything?” the cop asked, waving back the gathering crowd.

“No,” Emily said. “I hope this is random, not our serial killer-”

“Serial killer?” one mom gasped to another. “Again? God in Heaven, there’s another monster loose in Naperville! Let’s get out of here!”

Emily slapped her head, knowing she’d just screwed up bad.

“Serial killer” had just leaked to the public.

“Out of my way, you idiot!” Marty roared at the minivan in front. He spotted a gap and flooded the engine past the slowpoke.

He’d left his house a few minutes ago, heading for the station, trying to convince himself Emily was history, so move on. Lots of fish in the deep blue sea, etc.

Then the emergency radio net blared an all-points on a female jogger just stabbed on the Riverwalk.

He slammed the red flasher on his roof, cranked siren to max, and lit up every police radar getting there.





7:14 a.m.

“Don’t worry about it, Em. Really,” Branch said, patting her like a third grader. “A lesser cop could never screw up this spectacularly.”

She winced at the sarcasm, shame turning acidic. Her slip of the lip would be all over the news the moment one of those women reached a phone.

But something worse was closing fast.