She froze, suddenly listening. A faint sound was echoing back from the dark attics beyond.
“Hush!” she whispered. “Hear that?”
It was a strange kind of stumbling, limping gait: a dragging sound, followed by an unsettling thump: Draaag-thump. Draaag-thump.
Hayward moved into the next room, almost pitch-dark now. Pulling out her flashlight, she used it to illuminate the dark corners. The room contained thousands of plaster faces—death masks—staring at them from every square foot of wall surface. Some of the masks showed signs of recent damage: someone, apparently the killer, had slashed at the masks, gouging out their eyes, leaving smears of blood everywhere.
The lights were off in the next room. Crouching beside the door frame of the next room, Hayward gestured for the men behind to stay put.
She leaned forward, listening intently. The strange sound had ceased: the killer was waiting, listening. She sensed, rather than knew, that he was near: very near.
She could feel the level of tension within their little group rising. Better to keep going: the less thinking the better.
Hayward ducked forward, swept the room with her flashlight, then ducked back again as quickly as she could. Something was crouching in the middle of the next room—naked, bestial, bloody… but definitely human, and surprisingly small and thin.
She gestured to the others, held one finger upward, then rotated it slowly toward the doorway: one perp, in the room beyond.
There was a tense moment as they gathered themselves. And then Hayward spoke in a firm, clear voice: “Police officers. Do not move. We’re armed and we’ve got you covered. Walk to the doorway with your hands up.”
She heard a scrambling noise, a thumping and banging like a beast shambling on all fours.
“He’s running!”
Gun drawn, Hayward ducked around the corner just in time to see a dark figure scuttle into the darkness of the room beyond. This was followed by a tremendous crash.
“Let’s go!”
She ran across the room to the far doorway, paused, gave a quick look into the next with the flashlight. There was no sign of the figure, but there were plenty of nooks and crannies where the killer could hide.
“Again!” They charged into the next room, immediately spreading out and taking cover.
This was the largest attic room yet, filled with gray metal shelves tightly packed with jars. In each jar resided a single staring eye, the size of a cantaloupe, roots dangling like tentacles. One shelf of jars had been thrown to the ground, and the eyeballs lay ruptured, oozing jelly amid the glass and preservative.
A quick search disclosed the room was empty. Hayward gathered the team.
“Slowly but surely,” she said, “we’re driving him into a corner. Remember that people, like animals, get progressively more dangerous as they become cornered.”
Nods all around.
She glanced around. “The whale eyeball collection, it seems.”
A few nervous, steadying laughs.
“Okay. We’ll take it one room at a time. No hurry.”
Hayward moved to the edge of the next door, listened, then ducked her head around, flashed the light. Nothing.
As they moved into the room, Hayward heard a sudden, rending scream from beyond the far doorway, followed by the tremendous crash of glass and the sound of running liquid. The men jumped as if they’d been shot. A strong odor of ethyl alcohol drifted back.
“That stuff is flammable,” Hayward said. “If he’s got a match, get ready to run.”
She moved forward, raking the next room beyond with her flashlight.
“I see it!” O’Connor cried.
Draaag-thump! A shriek like a banshee, and then a dark figure, scuttling sideways but with horrifying single-mindedness, came rushing at them, gray flint knife raised in a fisted hand; Hayward jumped back as it crossed the threshold, knife slashing the air.
“Police!” she called out. “Drop your weapon!”
But the figure paid no heed, shambling crablike at them, knife still slashing the air.
“Don’t shoot!” Hayward cried. “Mace him!”
She dodged the figure, drawing it around, while the other three cops flanked it on both sides, holstering their guns and pulling out their riot sticks and Mace. Visconti jumped forward and Maced the attacker and he howled like a demon, spinning and whipping the stone knife around blindly; Hayward deftly stepped in and gave a sharp, plunging kick to the inside of one leg, sending him sprawling. A second kick sent the knife skittering across the floor.
“Cuff him!”
But Visconti had already sprung into action, slapping the cuffs on one wrist and then, with the help of O’Connor, wrestling the other flailing arm down and cuffing it as well.
He screamed and bucked maniacally.