CHAPTER 47

Marcus couldn’t put a name to the emotion that had overtaken him. The only other time he had felt the same way was his last night as a cop back in New York. It was like knowing that he was in the right place at the right time—not even the right place, but the only place…the only place that he could have possibly been at that moment. He knew that he could run away and never look back, but he also knew that for whatever reason, he would never choose that path. He would press forward into unknown and dangerous waters and fight his way to the other side.

Maybe he would be the hero, or maybe just another casualty. Either way, he would find out soon enough.

The rain poured out of the heavens as if all the angels wept in unison. He was soaking wet, but he didn’t rush into the building to find shelter. He took his time and examined the perimeter.

Satisfied, he slipped into the back door of the abandoned school. Cobwebs filled the corners, and eerie fingers of light lit the hallway when lightning struck and illuminated the world outside the windows. The flashes appeared to show dark figures around each corner. He knew that this was only a trick of the light, but he also knew that around one of the corners lurked a dark presence that could prove deadly.

Although he hadn’t slept in what seemed like an eternity, his mind was sharp, and his senses were attuned to the slightest sound, the slightest movement.

At the end of the corridor, he reached a stairwell that led up to the second floor or down to the basement. He checked up and down with his gun at the ready. There was no sign of Ackerman, but he could feel the killer’s presence close by. He decided to check upstairs and began to ascend. The stairs creaked beneath his weight.

He heard a slight noise from above and looked up just in time to see a shape hurtling toward him.

The stairs ascended to a landing before turning and leading up to the second level. He dove for the landing and narrowly missed being crushed by what he then recognized as a falling body.

He took cover in the only place he could, the spot where the railing of the stairwell curved upward. The area was just wide enough for him to hide behind.

He looked up to the place from which the body had fallen, but he didn’t see anyone. He looked back down at the body and recognized Lewis Foster, the Sheriff’s right hand man.

Foster was bare-chested, his abdomen split open by a deep gash. The deputy looked like a surgery patient who had gotten up in the middle of an operation and walked off.

Marcus couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man. No matter who he was or what he had done—enemy or not—no one deserved to die that way. Then again, he could think of one person who did.

Foster’s dead eyes stared at him and burned into his soul. He had seen that look of death too many times. People died every day without the aid of a killer like Ackerman, but he couldn’t do anything about those deaths. He could, however, make sure that no one ever died at Francis Ackerman’s hands again.

An eerie voice echoed down the stairwell from somewhere above. “Marcus, come out and play.”

He looked up but saw no signs of the killer. He ascended the stairs, staying low and keeping his weapon fixed on the next floor.

When he reached the top, he found the madman standing in the middle of the hallway with his arms stretched out at his sides. In his right hand, Ackerman held a small object, but from Marcus’s vantage point, it wasn’t clearly discernible.

Their eyes met. One set of eyes shined with madness while the other shined with determination.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Marcus. I’ve been waiting a long time.”