Page 72 of Dropping Like Flies
There was no anger in Flynn’s voice, only amusement. Is this how he’d been with Rupert and all the others? Were their last moments spent with a man who oozed charm? No wonder he’d been able to get men to go home with him so easily. Good looks and an affable personality honed by tending bar for years were a deadly combination. Literally.
I reached for the banister, the world pitching to one side as I made it down a step. Blackness threatened once more, and I blinked it back. To give in to it was to give in to certain death. I made it down another step, but I was way too slow. He’d catch me. He should have caught me already. What was he doing? Just as I thought that, he appeared out of the bedroom, a knife having replaced the baseball bat. The knife. The one he used to cut off men’s fingers.
It gave me an extra burst of energy, taking me down another few stairs. I wasn’t steady, but at least I was moving. He came after me unhurriedly, knife hanging loose from his fingers. I was halfway down the stairs when he reached the top. He stood for a moment, cocking his head to one side and studying me as I stared back at him. “You don’t look too good, Ben.” He tapped his temple with his free hand. “There’s a lot of blood.”
I knew there was a lot of blood. I could feel it running down my face, could taste it as it reached my lips. A few more stairs. The front door was how many meters away now? I reckoned about ten. Still standing open, the way I’d left it. The way he’d left it. An open invitation for me to waltz right in, my concern for Griffin blinding me to common sense. I should never have entered without back-up. I might have broken several rules tonight, but I would have done better not to add that one to the list.
A slight creak behind me had me increasing my speed. At least, I thought I had. It was hard to tell as another wave of dizziness enveloped me. I fought it again, keeping my legs moving even as I missed the last step and stumbled. I nearly fell, but stayed on my feet. The door was only three meters away now. I’d push it open. I’d run—or do what passed for running in this state—and I’d shout for help. A neighbor would hear me. They’d call the police and everything would be okay.
Something hit me in the back of the head. Not a baseball bat this time, thank God, but what I assumed to be a fist. I crumpled like a house of cards, struggling to breathe with my face pressed into my carpet. It made me think of the first victim, Duncan Whitaker, the one that Patrick had surmised had been suffocated by having his face pressed into the pillow.
The front door clicked shut and then Flynn rolled me onto my back, looming over me with a look of genuine curiosity on his face. “Did you really think that would work?” A few seconds passed before he answered his own question. “You did! Well, nobody could ever accuse you of lacking optimism, DCI Weaver. I like that about you.”
I felt worse than ever, the brief burst of adrenaline that had carried me this far, deserting me to leave me weak—weaker—and shaky. When he grabbed me by the ankle and dragged me back down the hallway, there was nothing I could do but accept it. The stairs were a nightmare, my head bouncing off each one, which did nothing for the pounding and the nausea. I was barely conscious by the time Flynn had me back in the bedroom and started divesting me of my clothes.
All I wanted to do was sleep. How many hours had I been awake now? It must be close to twenty-six. No wonder I was tired. Not tired, another part of my brain screamed—concussed. Right. He’d hit me. Twice. “Why?” I said as Flynn pulled my underwear off to leave me naked.
He paused, his brow furrowing. “Why what?”
“Why naked? Going to have sex with me?” I was cold now, which was never a good sign, goosebumps breaking out on my skin and my teeth chattering.
“No, Ben. I’m not going to have sex with you. You’re not my type.”
He heaved me up, the action taking a lot of effort when I was a dead weight. I was on the bed now, the surface much softer. “Why naked then?”
Flynn shrugged. “I don’t know. Force of habit, I suppose. We all have our routines. It’s just that most are more mundane. Like that first cup of coffee in a morning that some people have before they shower and some people have after. Or, like, always visiting the same restaurant and ordering the same thing.” He straddled me, one hand curling around my throat while the other held the knife. His grip tightened. Not enough to stop the flow of air, but enough to show me how easy it would be when he did it.
“You’re going to kill me,” I said, my words slurred.
“Have you only just worked that out?”
“Are you going to chop my fingers off?”
“Definitely. He wants a bigger prize and I’m going to deliver you to him. It will be the last sacrifice he needs to cross over and do our bidding. Imagine the headlines when the investigating officer falls prey to the same killer he’s been hunting. The press are going to have a field day with it.” His eyes glittered. “History will immortalize you. Consider it my parting gift to you.”
“You were afraid that I would catch you.”
Flynn laughed. “Is that what you think? No, I wasn’t afraid of that happening. You were stumbling around in the dark with no sense of direction. The only suspect you had was the one I gift-wrapped and presented to you. You would have kept stumbling around. What were you going to do, enforce a no shirt rule in Eclipse to check everyone for tattoos? Good luck with that. You don’t think that had that place come under too much scrutiny, I would have just moved on to somewhere else. There are plenty of gay clubs in London.”
I tried to think through the cotton wool stuffed in my skull. No, not cotton wool. Iron wool that scraped and chafed, and that kept expanding until it felt like had the baseball bat not already done it, it would split my skull open from the inside. Flynn’s words made no sense. If it wasn’t about the case, about his fear of me catching him, then what was it about? Why had he lured me here?
He leaned forward, bringing his face closer to mine while his fingers tightened ever so slightly around my throat. “Shall I help you out?”
I managed a jerky nod. If I was going to die anyway, I might as well die knowing the reason.
“Things were going well. It was a slow process to break through that hard exterior of his, but I was getting there… making progress. And then you turned up, the lost love he never got over.” His mouth twisted into an ugly shape that marred his good looks. “You ruined my plans for the two of us.”
“Griff,” I said, my utterance of his name almost a sigh.
“But don’t worry,” Flynn continued conversationally. “With you gone, he’ll need a shoulder to cry on, and I can be that for him. It might take some time, but I’m good at playing the long game. I can be as patient as I need to be. Eventually, he’ll be mine, and you’ll just be something sad that once happened to him.”
The future he’d outlined was nothing short of horrific. And the worst thing was that I could see Griffin falling for it. Flynn had done such a good job pretending that he was happy about the two of us being back together, that Griff would never suspect it had been an act. I was a detective, and I hadn’t suspected. And he would need someone to lean on. My only hope was the tattoo. I might have let on I knew about it, but Flynn didn’t know Griff knew about it, and I wasn’t about to tell him.
“And in case you’re thinking about this.” Flynn didn’t bother to pull the collar of his T-shirt down this time, just tapping where the tattoo was located. “Then don’t worry. I’d rather not have to get it removed when I like it, but if that’s what it takes, I’ll do it. I figure it’ll be some time before we reach the point of becoming intimate again, anyway, so there’s no rush.”
I had to find the strength to fight this. If not for me, then for Griff. If I died, I’d be leaving him to the whims of a man who’d murdered seven men. More, for all I knew. I brought my hand up, catching him a glancing blow to the side of the head. It wouldn’t win any prizes for punch of the year, but it was enough to make him rear back, his hand slipping from my throat. There was no point in bolting for the door. Not when I’d already proved how pointless that was. I went for the knife instead, my surge off the bed enough to throw him off me.
Seizing my opportunity, I threw myself on top of him, my fingers wrapping around the wrist that held the knife. If I could just force him to let go. When he bucked up to dislodge me, I squeezed with my thighs, riding him like he was a disobedient stallion and I was someone who refused to be thrown.
