Page 73 of Requiem & Reverie

At the door, I pause and turn around, mentally teasing out one nagging question that’s bothered me from the start. “I’m curious, Simon. My profile’s been dead for a while now. How the hell did you manage to track me down in the beginning?”

“I’m afraid … I don’t know what … you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play stupid, asshole. The email you sent to me a couple months back. You hired me to come after you, remember?” Christ, he must be delirious, on top of everything else. Guy definitely isn’t going to make it through the night. “How did you stumble upon my profile?”

“I … never paid you … to come after me.”

Confusion muddles the memory of that email, still stuck in my head, and I frown back at where he lies with his eyeballs out, nothing but a torso and head. “Don’t lie to me. There’s still time to cut out your tongue before you die.”

“At this point … what would be … the value in lying?”

I ponder that for a moment, then continue on, up the stairs, shutting him inside what will become his tomb in a matter of hours. On the way, I polish off the rest of my drink, letting the burn of whiskey cleanse my sinuses of that putrid, shit, infection smell still lingering in my nose.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I answer to Milo. “What’s going on, Chief?”

“I got a job for you. End of the week. Jackson will get the details, but it’s out of state. Two days tops, and first-class flight. You in?”

“I’ll wait for the details to answer that.” Passing through the kitchen, I stop to refill my drink. I have my reasons for considering each job more carefully than before—namely the woman I wish I could keep locked away, so my enemies will never find her. Since Nola isn’t one for cages, or walking around with a bodyguard, all hours of the day, I have to settle for being judicious and vigilant. To keep her under the radar and ensure that no one ever finds out she’s carrying my baby. “Be sure Jackson takes his anti-fuckup pills before you send me anything.”

The growl at the other end is Milo groaning. “That kid … I don’t know where the hell they recruit ‘em, but I promise, no future fuckups.”

“Good. I’ll wait to hear back from you.”

“Voss … it’s good to have you back,” he says before clicking out of the call.

Tipping back the whiskey, I make my way to the bathroom. “Lights on.” The soft ambient glow reminds me of the night back in Chicago, when Nola and I fell asleep in the hotel and only the faint city lights filtered in through the heavy drapes. “Heat shower.”

Phone still in hand, I set my drink down on the bathroom counter and dial her number. It rings once. Twice. Three times. At the fourth ring, it goes to voicemail. I don’t bother to leave a message, and instead, click the phone tracker app to see she’s at home. The fact that I’m eight hundred miles away doesn’t keep me from watching this woman like a hawk.

An obsessed and slightly perverted hawk.

The night before, I had her get naked and masturbate in her bed on camera, while I watched, and I’ll surely be looking for an encore later tonight. For now, I undress and hop in the shower.

My thoughts revert back to the conversation with Simon. It’s futile to put too much stock in his words, considering the guy is straddling life and death and probably doesn’t have a clue what the hell is spilling from his mouth. It’s a wonder he can still remember his own damn name.

Killing him feels like I’ve closed the chapter on the shitty history of my past, and can focus on my future with Nola. I’ll never give up this side of me, though, because the moment I become idle is the moment I risk the ability to control the urges that call to me, sometimes. If I’m being honest, a part of me is disappointed that I’ll be forced to go back to menial and mindless kills.

Finishing up quickly, I flip the shower off, and while sliding the door open, I notice there’s a message lighting up my screen. Nola, no doubt. After wrapping a towel around my lower half, I grab my phone and drink, exiting the steam-filled bathroom to my bedroom.

Another sip of whiskey, and I stare down at the screen. It’s not Nola’s phone number flashing across there, but a message to my CryptMail account.

I click on the link, and my blood turns ice cold. No. No way.

The echo of the question on the screen bounces inside my skull, and I shake my head in disbelief.

Want to play a game?

Epilogue

The city slept under a cover of darkness, as Carl clicked out of the CryptMail account and set his phone on the table beside him, where he sat staring out the window. In the distance, he could make out Willis Tower, with its dual peaks piercing the blackness above it. The wasted efforts of man to put himself that much closer to the heavens.

Of course, Carl knew better than anyone, it didn’t take heights of a building to feel like a God.

Tipping his head back, he took in the scent of death on the air—the tinny flavor of blood that hit the back of his throat, and the putrid odor of infection festering beneath it all. The piss poor attempt to mask it with bleach and other disinfectants, which failed to hide what his surroundings had become. Nothing but a contaminated compost pile.

It brought to mind the days when he’d been forced to scrub all traces of blood from the old shed, to eliminate all vestiges of his sacrifices, the small animals he would take and spend hours observing. Studying with a keen and amused eye. Diversions that often satisfied his sadistic predilections. How differently those little creatures perceived pain, nothing like human beings, whose minds and emotions often got in the way of instinct. Even in the thick of their tortures, animals would claw and writhe with the will to survive.

He loved capturing that divine moment of transcendence in their eyes, when he could almost witness the soul leaving the body, their suffering more than any living creature could bear.