Thanks for giving this a little chance. Of course you can tell me your thoughts.
T73
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He pulls out into the traffic, cutting off another motorist, and does a better than average job of tailing without arousing suspicious.
"You a cop?" the cabbie inspects me in the review.
"Private eye."
"This fella we're following," he asks. "what did he do?"
"Killed a pair of girls. Threw one in front of a bus and the other out of a window."
The cabbie rolls the stub of a cigar to the other side without a comment.
I settle back into the seat and let my heart rate return to normal.
Had I known I would be dealing with a top shelf sorcerer, I'd have brought totems and wards I've gathered over the years.
Magic is not my area of expertise, but I know few counter spells and can even do a few enchantments at a pinch, but I need the right material.
Casters that can throw a spell with just their force of will are a rare breed.
Rare.
And dangerous.
The lead taxi stops at a run-down two-story building of sagging brick and mortar with barred up windows.
My driver slows down and stops a block away.
Mr. Vulture climbs out and mounts the steps to the front door, throws a look over his shoulder and disappears inside.
"Want I should wait?" the cabbie asks.
"Please" I hand him a ten, get out and head up the block.
The building is in a sad state.
I can see why the bars were added.
Most of the windows on the ground floor have been smashed out.
The rooms beyond, far as I can see, are empty and dark.
Mr. Vulture might live here, or might be squatting.
One thing is sure - he's the only one living here.
I do a lap around the building.
There is no back door, just a fire escape too high to reach.
I get back to the front in time to see a light come on in an upstairs window.
At least I know where he is.
This time I have no intention of letting him get the drop on me.
I do another circuit of the building, pulling at all the bars until I find one with some play.
It's covered in rust and groans when you tug.
It will take some work.
I spit into your palms, rub them together, take hold of the loose bar and brace my foot against the wall.
The veins in my neck stand out and my face turns red.
The bar first bends, then comes free with a loud twang.
I fly backwards, rebound off the building next door and end up on my knees with little stars twinkling in my vision.
A goose egg has sprung up on the back if my noggin, but I've got an opening and the bar will make a decent weapon.
When the stars leave my brain, head back to their celestial orbit, I hoist myself through the window.
Jagged shards of broken glass rip at my coat and my pant legs, taking some flesh as well.
I drop through the other side into an empty room with high ceilings and a cold fireplace.
The hardwood floor is covered in thick layer of dust.
Cobwebs festoon the corners.
I knock the the dust off my coat, climb to my feet and have a look around.
A ghostly apparition hovers in a dark corner.
I give a yell, leap back and raise the rusty bar in defense, as if that would do any good against a non-corporeal being.
For a moment my heart pounds blood in my ears.
Then I realize the ghost is actually a grandfather clock covered over with a whit sheet.
A laugh work its way up from my chest.
I shake my head, breathe a sigh of relief and from the corner of my eye see a shadow detach itself from the deeper gloom.
Something crashes into the back of my skull and the lights go out.
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I swim up from unconsciousness.
An army of angry bees built a nest inside my head while I were out.
They are in there right now, buzzing and stinging and generally making life miserable.
Being awake is a mistake.
I want to go back into soft black of oblivion, but a tiny warning bell is jingle-jangling at the back of my mind.
There is a light on.
The glow penetrates the membranes of my closed eyelids.
Water drips and chains clink.
The air is cool.
I remember infiltrating the Vulture's hide out and getting the back of my skull bashed in as a result.
The pain at the back my head flares in response.
It takes some effort, but I peel open one eye.
I'm in a basement and I've been trussed like a Thanksgiving Day turkey.
My hands are tied together and suspended overhead by a simple metal hook passed through the ropes.
My feet dangle an inch off the stone floor.
The light is coming from a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling.
The decorator went for a look that says gothic castle meets fetish club.
Chains, whips, knives and other unpleasant looking instruments adorn the walls.
Dark red spots stain the floor.
At least it's not my blood all over the floor.
Not yet anyway.
I'll have to think fast if I will going to get out of this one.
Before I can formulate a plan, the door swings open.
The Vulture comes in with a leather paddle in hand and asks, "Who are you?"
Several options come to mind.
I could lie and say I'm a cop and that I have the place surrounded.
It's an old trick, but I was a cop once and can act the part.
Or keep it simple and tell him that I am his worst nightmare.
Maybe if I say it with enough conviction ...
Finally, there's the option of trying to lighten things up a bit. "I'm the Ghost of Christmas past.", I tell him. "You've been naughty."
He laughs, gives the leather paddle a few practice swings, making whooshing sounds through the air. "You're a funny chic. But if you don't tell me what I want to know, I'm going to hurt you. A lot."
One look around the makeshift dungeon is enough to convince me he means business.
He holds the paddle up for my inspection.
It's a well-made piece of equipment.
Thick leather and solid stitching.
Probably handmade.
Was it too much hope for a cheap, mass produced Halloween prop?
He slaps it into his open palm wit a loud thwack.
"Alright, I'm Detective."
He nods. "And why were you following me?"
I snort as if that should be perfectly obvious, but he only waits for my answer. "Because you tried to kill Maura with that spell.", I answer.
He looks at me like I am the dangerous psychopath in the room. "You think I brought down that scaffolding? I have every intention of killing Miss Maura Isles," he says. "but not until I bring her back here to have my ... fun with her."
A horrible weight settles in my stomach as I realize he's no sorcerer, just an everyday, run-of- the-mill serial killer.
He didn't kill Deedee or Joanie.
Which means whoever tried to drop that lighting fixture on Maura's head is still out there.
He reads the,expression on my face and says, "Someone else is trying to kill her? Well, that's the least of your worries. I don't suppose there are too many people who will miss a lowly private eye. I can take my time with you." he takes a curved blade from the walk and tests the edge with his thumb nail. "I don't normally go for old chics."
"Me neither.", I tell him.
He places the edge of the blade against my left cheek. "Let's see how funny you are without your face."
I screw my eyes shut and prepare myself for the searing pain of the blade dragging across my skin, opening my face up like the zipper on a children's backpack.
A fine mess I got myself into.
He's a killer, but not the killer.
My client is out there right now, totally exposed, no protection, while I am about to get an amateur facelift.
Before Mr. Vulture can start cutting there is a knock at the upstairs door.
He looks up at the basement ceiling like he can see right through the floor.
I can say, "If you have company, I can come back later."
He takes the blade away from my face and goes to the basement door. "Hang around." he says.
I fake a laugh just to show him that I got the joke.
The sound of his feet recede up the stairs.
Its too much to hope that the police are on the front step.
Maybe the cabbie called the cops.
Doubtful.
With my luck it's probably a door-to-door vacuum salesman.
Whoever it is, they give me a few seconds to come up with a plan. The hook is attached to the ceiling with rusty-looking bolts.
They might give if I bounce up and down.
Also, a wall display full of sharp objects is close enough I may reach it with my feet, you may be able to stab him when he comes near.
Another option is to swing my body high and try to catch a hold of the nearby shelving with my feet and pull myself off the hook.
Funny choice of words, getting myself off the hook.
I push the thought out of my mind and swing myself toward the wall and manage to plant one foot on a shelf containing a collection of scalpels, knocking several to the floor in process.
They make a musical jingle on the concrete.
Before I can attempt any upward pressure, my foot ships off and I swing back.
Words are exchanged overhead.
Then shouts.
There is a scuffle.
Something heavy lands on the,floor, shaking dust loose from the ceiling.
A dozen scenarios race through my mind.
The worst being Maura or Lora.
Either could have foolishly followed me.
But I can't worry about that now.
I swing myself at the wall again and again until I get a foothold.
I am now at the angle with one foot on a shelf and my body leaning.
It takes every scrap strength left, but I push myself high enough so I that the ropes clear the hook and I crash down on the cold stone floor.
Just in time, too.
Footsteps sound on the stairs.
He's coming back and he's dragging something heavy along with him.
I can hear a weight thud-thudding on each step.
With my wrists still bound in front, I struggle to my feet.
My jacket is wadded up in the far corner, so is my shoulder holster.
But with any luck the Glock is still in it.
Alternatively, there are an assortment of weapons hanging on the shelf nearby.
There is an Arabian sword that was certainly designed to kill people efficiently.
There's also an industrial - sized meat tenderizer, cakes with blood, hanging next to the sword which offers a slower, perhaps more deserving death for this psycho.
I select an Arabian from the wall.
It's curved and dangerous and sharp.
Then I position myself to the left of the door, ready when he walks in.
He'll never see it coming.
The basement door swings in.
The Vulture fills the frame.
He's dragging the limp body of the cabbie by the collar and he's still got the knife in hand.
The cabbie is wearing a nasty gash on his forehead.
It's hard to tell if he's dead or just knocked out.
Before the Vulture can react to the empty hook, I step around the door frame and swing the sword like a batter trying to knock one over the outfield fence.
The blade passes through his crunch as it separates the spinal column.
His head, with a surprised look frozen on his face, pops into the air, hits the floor and rolls.
A line of blood spurts out the ragged neck hole, spraying me right in the face.
The headless body topples.
The cabbie groans, sits up and shakes his head.
His eyes open and he looks first at the headless body, then at me with a bloody sword in my hand.
The Vulture is dead.
Even if he wasn't the one that brought down the lighting fixture, or the one that killed Joanie and Deedee, he was a sadistic maniac.
The world's a better place without him.
I sit down on the stone floor next to the cabbie and let out a long sigh.
"He dead?", the cabbie thrusts his chin at the body on the floor.
I give a single nod.
The cabbie reaches one shaking hand into his pocket and comes out with a cigarette.
It takes him three tries to light it.
But he finally gets it burning and takes a long drag.
A line of smoke curls in lazy arcs toward the ceiling.
He passes the lit cigarette to me and lights another for himself.
I take the smoke and say, "You came in after me."
He shrugs, "When you didn't came out after a while, I figured you need some help."
"You were right.", I say and smile slightly. "Still, not many would do that."
He shrugs again, then sticks a pudgy hand out.
I don't hesitate and take it.
He smiles and says, "Hank Thomas."
"Jane Rizzoli."
I retrieve my jacket and shoulder holster from the corner and then begin to rummage around the torture chamber.
At least, I find my Glock in a drawer.
I pull the clip out, check that its still loaded, and return the comforting feeling of the shoulder holster including the weight of the gun back on my body.
I and Hank limp upstairs, locate a phone and dail 911.
Ten minutes later half-dozen patrol cars surrounded the building.
Their blue lights blaze through the barred-up windows of the dilapidated house.
My old partner, Vince Korsak, is the first one at the door.
He puts on some weight and the blood vessels in his bulbons nose are darker than I remember.
He even got more gray hairs.
He's the only guy on the force who believed I were innocent of my wife's murder.
He still is, for that matter.
He gives you a nod.
I nod back.
"Rizzoli, what have you got yourself into this time?"
I take the cigarette out of my mouth and blow a cloud of blue smoke. "You should thank me." I say. "I put down a freaking serial killer for you."
"Uh-huh" Korsak says. "Let's have a look."
You lead Korsak and two officers downstairs to the body.
He gives a low whistle at the sight of the basement cluttered with torture devices and splashes of blood.
A search of the house turns up a shoe box full of tokens from past victims.
I am eager to get out of here.
I need to get back to the club and make sure Maura is alright, but the police have a thousand and one questions.
Statements have to be taken.
It's standard procedure.
You endure the line of questioning out of the respect for Korsak.
He does his level best to avoid asking me questions I have to answer to, like, Why did you follow a dangerous suspect into the house instead of calling the police?
He questions the cabbie as well and then cuts the two of you lose.
"Jane." he says, stopping you at the front door. "Keep your nose clean, huh?"
"You too, Vince."
