Chapter 6: Partners It Is

"It was good to see you again, Miss Roberts. I'll be back Sunday."

Shaking hands with the orphanage owner, King turned, walking down the street to the far parking lot and back to his car, a small, near unnoticeable smirk spread across his lips all the while. The man opened the door to his large, red truck, stepping to sit in the front seat, and sticking his key in the ignition and starting the vehicle, he clicked his seatbelt into the buckle. Then, as he reached for the gearshift...

A metal wire wrapped around the front of his neck, pinning him to the headrest—muting his cries instantly.

He tried to choke out a sound of distress, squirming and wriggling as he clawed at the gag. "Don't know if you're gonna be able to make that Sunday appointment," said a taunting, dark, all-too-amused tone.

He dared look to his rear-view mirror, as he was greeted with a mortifyingly devilish and bandaged grin, one anyone would recognize should they simply check the news. "Y-You're—! That murderer!"

One could almost hear the smile grow beneath Zack's hood as he taunted the victim. He put on a grandiose air, clearly having a little too much fun with this part. "Ding ding ding! What do we have for our contestant, Vanna?" Clearly crazed from the man's shock, Zack spoke exuberantly. "Thaaat's right—a one way ticket t'hell!" Petrified, the driver's eyes began to water in fear. Suddenly, the man attempted to reach for the key, the horn, anything, but as he did, the pressure on his skin grew more intense. "Ah-ah-ah," warned a playful tone, causing the the man to freeze up. "Don't even think about it."

"Oh, God, p-please—!" The man begged desperately, struggling for only a moment before Zack neutralized him again. He tightened the wire—shoving his foot against the back of the driver's seat. Then, Zack's tone took a dramatic shift from wild to serious.

"Drive," he growled, voice low and gravely and serious. "Try anything, and you're dead where you sit."

Huffing our heavy breaths from a pinched Adam's apple, King gave a nod after a moment. "Please, j-just—" he choked out a sob, "don't hurt me." An amused smirk returned to Zack's visage, showing wide beneath the dark hood.

"Ain't me ya gotta worry about, bud."

As per the forceful back-seat directing, they eventually rolled up to what looked like an old, dilapidated warehouse of some sort. Zack barked for him to pull into the parking garage, and he had no choice but to listen.

As King put the vehicle in park, his kidnapper kicked the back passenger's door open. The man in the front scrambled, as if he'd been given an opening in the action, but Zack was quick to yank the driver's door ajar, too. Before King could flee, the younger man grabbed him roughly, throwing the man on the ground. "N-No, don't hurt—!"

His pleas were abruptly silenced by the fist of irony as Zack punched him in the face.

He sputtered in agony, hand pressed firmly to a now-welling bruise. "Sorry, man," the younger laughed casually, grabbing the addressed by the collar, "not my usual style, but you're lookin' just a little too terrified, and she said I can't kill you just yet."

Sensibly, the man was terrified by the notion even so. "Wh-What, who—!" He couldn't finish his sentence before Zack started dragging him along, and he cupped a hand to King's mouth, gagging him. He took him inside, to a chair in a dully-lit corner. King's eyes widened in fear at the sight of a bloodied, brandished scythe resting against the wall. Zack threw him to sit as he forced his hands to the back. He tied the victim to the stool. (It was a simple knot though. He was just a simple guy.) King shed silent sobs, and through such pitiful tears, he looked up to Zack's hidden visage.

"Wh-What do you want with me?" he asked quietly.

Zack only exhaled a dark chuckle. "I keep tellin' ya, buddy. It ain't me," his sentence overlapped the sound of footsteps as he moved to the side, "it's her."

Out from the darkness behind him emerged a little girl with blonde hair and glassy blue eyes.

He stared back, little more than bewildered and confused as one might imagine. "W-Who are—" he sputtered as he studied her face as it was fluorescent with the hard, industrial lights. She blinked, waiting for him to realize; finally, a look of knowing showed. "Wait, you're... you're Adam's Kid!" Ray gave a polite, practiced smile, one fake and hollow as it was darling. "The one from the orphanage!"

"That's right. Hello, Mister King," she greeted simply. "I'm Rachel."

The man felt his hopes grow higher with her presence, though, Zack, of course, knew he was in greater danger now more than ever.

"Rachel," he repeated in a shaking voice, "w-what's going on here?!"

At first, she said nothing, simply adjusting in place to sit on her knees in front of him. In her hand, she'd been holding a Manila folder; she placed the article on the floor—opening it. It withheld different pieces of paper, and the first she took in hand looked to be a newspaper clipping. In her ever monotone voice, the girl began reading the article aloud.

"Sixteen-year-old Laura Palmer was found dead and buried in an abandoned trailer park, April 17th, 2018—seven months after her sudden disappearance. Palmer was under the care of her foster parents, Elijah and Judith Strand, who were detained three months thereafter for stealing from a convenient store. The couple were high on cocaine during the time of their arrest, and confessed to needing the money for drugs. While unconfirmed, sources believe Laura Palmer's foster parents sold off her off to an unknown party for drug money and substance. Her death followed in result."

Ray looked up to King, shock dawning in his eye. Undoubtedly, not from the story itself, but rather, from the little girl's deeper knowledge on the matter. Carefully placing the obituary back down, her slender digits reached for the next in the stack.

"Eight-year-old Henry Davis was found dead in his bedroom on Saturday, February 17th, 2018. Despite his young age, Davis' death has been ruled as suicide. The boy was found hanging from the boards of bunkbed, he had fashioned a noose from his adoptive father, Timothy Davis' leather belt. Multiple lashings were found on the child's body, matching the same size and width of the belt in question, and while unconfirmed, it's to be believed to be a case of child abuse. Timothy Davis is currently undergoing questioning about his involvement."

As the girl began shuffling through the papers once more, a whimper came fell from King's lips. This time, it seemed like she was looking for an article in particular. "Rachel, I-I had nothing to do with—"

"Twelve-year-old Jason Meyer was shot and killed by the police last Thursday, June 4th, 2016, after shoplifting a pair of shoes from a department store. Given that the instance was not Meyer's first criminal offense, Rookie Ethan King, the firing officer, says Meyer received multiple verbal warnings and was to be treated as a threat thereafter. However, his commanding officer, Adam Gardner, has spoken otherwise, claiming Isabelle had no violent intent. An investigation is currently underway about the situation, and King is facing intermittent suspension from the force in the meanti—"

"Alright!" King's voice escalated above Rachel's unmistakably this time. "I get it," he hissed through gritted teeth, "What do you—!"

His hostile inquiry was choked out by a firm hand against his jaw. Gagging him, Zack covered the man's mouth. "Ain't no one ever told you it's rude to talk over a lady?" he hissed, a smirk however showing beneath a laugh, "Not that I'd expect anything less from a dirty cop, you piece of—"

"Zack," Rachel cut in gently. He looked over his shoulder as she only gazed back with an empty look, but he took her meaning loud and clear. He exhaled a sigh in annoyance, but obediently he backed off, releasing the man as he gasped haphazardly for air, side-eyeing the killer in panic as he stepped away.

Ray moved in front once more. She said nothing this time, only staring with an unsettling nothingness. It took King a moment to work up the courage to look back to her. "What what do you want, Rachel?" he whined to her. "Why are you with this serial killer?" Ray looked back to the question curiously. Hm?

Why was she with Zack?

Rachel paused as a notion hit the back of her mind. When she thought about it, the reply was usually just, "because he's going to kill me". While that was still true, her answer felt a little bit different this time. Regardless, before she could give any kind of answer, an amused look showed on Zack face. "Hah!" he cackled. "Kid's a psycho, that's why! She can hardly carry all her problems, how do you expect her to take down a freak like you with a forty-pound scythe!" He made himself laugh uncontrollably with his own not-joke. Ray deadpanned, wondering if he even knew how to count to forty.

Equally, King didn't seem amused either, only panicking further. "A-Are you really just gonna let this insane freak kill me?!" he asked, and Zack only replied with a moderately offended "hey!" from behind her. Ray held her hand up to keep Zack calm, who only groaned in annoyance.

"I'm going to do what needs to be done," she replied cryptically.

Panic showed expressly in his eye with such an answer. "I-I didn't do anything to deserve this," he moaned between tears. "I-I didn't—!" He was made silent as Rachel held out another paper in front of his face.

"It's not about what you've done, Mr. King. It's about what you plan to do."

It was a photograph of a young woman. She looked to be around Rachel's age, if not a bit older. She had shoulder-length, red hair and freckles. King's eyes widened, as he seemed to recognize the girl. Ray didn't say anything, because she didn't need to. He sputtered, "How did you—?"

No newspaper article on that one, Rachel thought flatly, flipping the picture to look at the young woman's image. "She told me herself."

A young girl sat dreary-eyed on a swing set in the fading sun. After much shouting, deliberation, and a firm slap on the cheek, she was alone to cope with fate to come. She'd have perhaps tried to run, as others had in the past, but ultimately, it was never any use. They were always found, always brought her back. They'd gone so far as to put up a gate around the back playground anyway.

Such was the life of Maria Williams on this fine, horrible Wednesday.

As a deep huff unearthed itself from her lungs, the sound was drowned out by the shrill echo of a creaking chain. Before, she'd been by herself, but now, at her side was another little girl who swung back and forth. Maria couldn't quite see her face, she had her hood up. "He says you can believe in his word," the stranger muttered softly, "but you're right to distrust him."

A brow raised in the other's direction, as she'd been caught off guard. When did she get here? "Who... who are you?" asked the red-haired girl cautiously. "Are you new here?" And most importantly, what was she talking about?

The hooded child shook her head, a few strands of blonde falling from beneath her cloaked face. "Actually, I was here before you."

Maria stuck out her lip as she replied bitterly, looking little more than offended. "Then why isn't he taking you instead?"

Oh, honey, "He tried," she said casually, and to the other's surprise, "but I don't think it worked out the way he wanted." Naturally, the curious statement caught her attention.

"You... got away from the place he sent you?" Slowly, the other girl's moderate swinging swayed to a stop, and she nodded. Maria's eyes lit with a certain hopefulness, if only to be talking to this particular someone. "How?" she asked urgently. "How did you get away?"

"Hmm," pondered the girl beneath her hood, "it doesn't really matter now," she concluded ultimately. That was a story for another day. Or days. Weeks maybe.

Regardless, such a response seems unfair. "It does to me," she replied, her voice not much more than a quiver. A long pause lingered in the warm summer air.

"Are you scared?"

Maria looked back over with frustration. "Of course I am! He took you, so you already know what's gonna happen!" she hissed. She had to wonder if Miss Roberts, the orphanage owner, might very-well have realized as much, too. How could she not? The long hours she and King would spend together alone in her office might've had something to do with her agreeability. They were there presently. (Interesting, however, that he wore a wedding band.)

Regardless, King really should've given children more credit, it'd seem. "And you're next?"

"On Sunday, he's taking me to the city," resentments was clear in her tone, "and dumping me off, just like he did with Laura." Dots connected in the back of her company's one-track mind, and beneath a shaded gaze, an ever-vacant expression somehow yearned for sympathy.

"I'm sorry," an empty voice clipped.

A strange look appeared across Maria's visage, her brow twisting with confusion. It was strange how someone could sound so sincere and insincere at the same time. "If you were really so sorry, you'd try to help me," she replied bluntly, pouting and annoyed. A pensive pause followed in the evening air, only followed by her mysterious company rising to her feet.

"Okay," answered the girl simply. "I'll help you."

Maria's eyes grew wide and hopeful with the reply. "Really?" she asked. A few sandy footprints brought the hooded figure to stand before her company. Finally, the yet-seated girl could discern a face beneath the dark hood.

"Really," she nodded, and the optics staring back swelled with a lost, azure nothingness. A false smile tugged at the corners of her lips. A chill ran down the girl's spine as she looked up at the blonde, a bead of sweat dripping down the side of her neck.

"Who are you?" she asked once more, much more sincerely now, standing to look her in the eye. Holding out a harmless palm, the girl introduced herself truthfully.

"Call me Ray."

Cautiously, the other took the offered hand, however giving no shake. Then abruptly, without another word, Ray let go her palm, walking past the other girl and towards the back fence. "Hey!" Maria called quickly. "What... what are we going to do?!" Didn't she just say she'd help?

Looking back over her shoulder, Ray gestured to place her pointer finger over her own lips. "All you have to do is stay quiet, and don't tell anyone." Turning back to the gate, the sight of a much taller, lankier figure emerged from the trees behind (undoubtedly impatient to help her back over the wire fence, Ray knew.) Maria couldn't see him well in the setting sun, like Rachel, he had his hood up. Certainly, it's seem as though they'd like not to be seen too closely. The stranger scaled the gate and, less-than gingerly, helped the smaller girl, practically throwing her over the barrier. He muttered tensely to her as he climbed the gate himself.

Needless to say, it was all very unsettling.

The girl, Ray, she supposed, looked back to her. Despite everything, Maria thought there was something to be noted in how oddly assured those blue eyes looked as her slender digits gripped the chain-link fence. That same empty smile peered back to the foster child, and it almost looked like the man behind her was grinning, too.

"Just leave the rest to me."

"Next Sunday, you planned to take this girl to a group home in the city," Rachel announced knowingly, which was also to say, "to her death,

He struggled for a response, knowing whatever his answer, he couldn't sneak past her keen eye of incrimination. "That's—that's not true, I, I wanted to help—"

"On the surface," she cut him off, "the home is a loving and providing place for children, but behind the closed curtain, that isn't at all the case, is it?" Rachel asked. "In truth, the children sent there are extorted and sold in sex trafficking. Isn't that right?" A near inaudible gasp passed through King's pale lips. Incidentally, "That's where you wanted to take me, too, right?"

He was shocked, as if stuttering for an answer. "B-But—I didn't! I sent you to a psychiatrist instead!"

A pause. Ray exhaled a deep, deep sigh from her nose.

Truth be told, she almost would've rathered the group home.

Another cackle resounded from beyond the little girl, "Too bad for you, bro! Turns out me and Danny go way back. Old coworkers, y'know?" Zack grinned. "And let's just say he's no longer employed."

The disconnected chains linked together in King's mind, he whined an expletive beneath his sobs as Zack only laughed louder. The older man grit his teeth. He knew there was no hope with the lunatic behind them, but the person in front of him: she was just a little girl, right? "Rachel," he said, tone more hushed and private as if Zack wouldn't hear somehow, "A-Adam told me about you, you—you're not like this," he cried, "t-this isn't you."

Perhaps she would've entertained his half-hearted bargaining otherwise, but his chosen notion wasn't one of remote consideration. "With all due respect, Mister King," Rachel's lids drifted half-closed, "you don't know anything about me."

What he'd say next caught her off guard. Not because it was profound or anything, but, on the contrary, it was true. He leaned in closer, whispering in a shaky voice. "I know that you're like me, Rachel."

To which she tilted her head, curiously. The girl said nothing, letting him explain himself.

"Back at the orphanage," she said, "that puppy, the one you sewed back together. It bit you, so you killed it, right?" Zack's eyes widened at his knowledge of the revelation, and Rachel was silent. She, too, was somewhat surprised he'd made the same connection—but she supposed it was obvious, should anyone really consider the fact of the way she was found after her parents died. The parents that she also killed and sewed back together. Images flashed in Ray's mind of all three she'd loved and killed. It was as if King could see the memories in her eyes. For the first time since they'd taken him in, a smile showed on the captive's face. A conniving, self-satisfied smile. "That's right," he chuckled, knowing she knew exactly what he meant.

Unfortunately for him, she absolutely did.

"You're right, Mister King," Ray finally replied, "I killed my puppy, because it's just as you said," she paused, "I'm like you."

He tilted his head, unsure if he followed her roundabout thinking. King gave a confused "huh?" noticing her odd change in tone. Unfortunately, he was quick to understand. King's empty heart flooded with distress as he was hit clear in the face with the specific realization that—oh God, dear Lord.

"I've killed the weak, the ill, the spent," and in the end, it was all simply to say, "I'm someone who deserves to die."

This little girl was absolutely crazy.

Ray stood, her posture signaling a sense of panic from the man in front of her. "Wait—wait!" She paid him no mind, turning nearby to where Zack's scythe rested against the wall. She took the weapon's bar in hand, knowing the Grim Reaper behind them was certainly ready to clock in. She lugged it as she turned slowly. Zack was right, it was a bit much for her to hold. The killer looked back to the girl with a calm, satisfied smirk as she armed him with it.

King's panic grew more intense. He shouted for them to stop and let him go, hollow promises of how he'd never misbehave again, about he didn't mean to take it this far. It was as all as empty as the air. One killer turned with a few slow steps towards the other, and gold turned red with a lust for blood as he stared him down with a shark-tooth grin. King screamed louder, and louder, and louder, only feeding more intensely into Zack's modus operandi. Calmly, Rachel closed her eyes, clasping her hands together at chest level.

Dear Lord in Heaven,

please allow me to save others, and let me be saved. Through these acts of intended heroism, please forgive my sins, and allow my soul to rest in peace.

A bloodcurdling scream echoed among crazed laughter. Blood splattered erratically across her pale visage and her cohort's bandaging. An uncomfortable squelching resounded at untimed intervals for a minute straight.

And then, all that echoed was the sound of Zack's scythe dropping to the floor, followed by his heavy, audible breath. He panted deep as his rush began to slow with the embrace of his kill. With blood splattered across her face, Ray opened her dead, azure eyes, greeted by a satiated, devilish grin—one somehow relaxed. Her hands fell to her sides as she expressed to aloud her final sentiment.

"Amen."

"Zack?"

"What is it?"

The faint light of day poured in sunrays though a shattered glass window. Rachel laid flat on the floor, while a few feet away, Zack sat with his back to the wall. They'd taken care of buisness, and now came the hard part: sleeping through another day till they could move on.

"Before, when Mister King asked what I was doing with you," a momentary pause lingered, and her brow knit together in the slightest, "do you remember what you told him?"

Resting with his arms behind his head, Zack gave a hum while he pondered. "I told him I was here for the heavy lifting," he shrugged. Y'know, take out the trash. For whatever strange reason, something uncomfortable pounded in the core of Rachel's chest. She couldn't quite explain it, as she was never one to, but it didn't quite feel right when he put it that way.

"It's not like that," she said softly.

Zack exhaled a single laugh. "Ain't it?" Ray sat up with a gaze pointed his way. She shook her head "no". The young man wasn't sure he was in the mood to entertain her behaviors right now. He rolled his eyes, looking off to the side. "Right," he sighed, "it's because I haven't offed you yet."

She'd adjusted to sit in her knees, facing him. "It's not just that," she corrected him quickly. He groaned, because, he really wasn't in the mood for her to pull all this right now (or honestly, ever.) Her going so rapidly back and forth between humanity and hysteria was gonna give him whiplash one of these days.

Dare he indulge, dare he ask: "Then, what?" he sighed. "What could it possibly be, Ray?" He passed the girl an unamused look, no sense of humor showing even vaguely. "You gonna try to tell me we're friends now?" That lingering word fell from his lips with a poisonous vitriol.

Friends?

No.

After a moment, Ray began scooting closer on her hands and knees. Zack exhaled an awkward "hey", as he couldn't help but feel a bit uncomfortable when she acted so unpredictable (but, at least it wasn't like that time she knocked him down and crawled on top of him, spouting insanities about their promise to God.) This time, while she was close enough to touch, she made no contact, only looking him in the eye with a grounded reality as she spoke in sincerity.

"It's because we're partners."

Because this, like escaping the building, was something only achievable when the two of them were together. Sure, she did the plotting and he did the killing, but it's because they worked together that things went their way. It's because they were two sides of the same, rusted coin.

Zack was caught off guard to say the least. Her bold however sensible statement seemed to resonate in a sort of happy medium from what he'd thought she'd say, and what he wanted to hear (which was to also say—nothing at all.) Looking her in the eye, he cracked a lopsided smirk. An idea, however unfortunately, popped into his head.

"Partners, huh?" he repeated; Rachel nodded affirmatively. "Well, if that's the case..."

Suddenly, the man reached forward in a swift motion, breaking the distance that tensed between them. To her surprise (and what would've been anyone else's violation,) he slid his hand in her pocket. Pulling out her stolen switchblade, he swiped it open.

"Then prove it."

Before she could follow his thinking or begin to ask how, Zack held up his other, bandaged arm. As spontaneous as he'd always been, the boy placed the blade to his palm, cutting the wraps and dragging the edge across his skin, if nothing else, to prove a point. Ray gave a near inaudible gasp in alarm, but Zack was quick to quell her concern. "This is how promises are made out in the real world," he explained. Flipping the blade to hold the handle out to his company, he asked, "Think you can handle it?"

Ray looked down with her ever-vacant stare, eyebrows knit together yet.

Reaching out, she took the pocketknife in hand. Her answer came natural. Placing the sharp edge to the skin of her palm, she dragged it through the smooth surface, thick bubbles of blood appearing in an instant down the line. Despite the fact, no sense of pain showed on her expression, but only intensity.

At which Zack held out his bleeding palm, and delicately, Rachel took it in her own.

Her blonde lashes drew to a close as she let herself drown in the moment, in the promise's maturity. She tilted her chin down, her forehead but an inch and a half from his now. With their oath now renewed in both trust and blood, Rachel earned her claim. "Partners," she reaffirmed. Gripping the girl's hand a little tighter, he, too, honored the notion with a laugh. Closing his eyes to match, the space between them grew thinner, but ever existent.

"Partners, it is."