Chapter 5

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 sound through the air. "You're are a funny guy. 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 puddle up for my inspection. It's a well made piece of equipment. Thick leather and solid stitching. Probably handmade. Was it too much to hope for a cheap, mass produced Halloween prop? He slaps it into his open palm with a loud thwack.

"Alright, I'm a detective."

He nods. "And why were you following me?"

I snort as if that should be perfectly obvious, but he only wait for my answer. "Because you tried to kill Sissy with that spell," I say.

He looks at me like I am the dangerous psychopath in the room. "You think I brought down the scaffolding? I have every intention of killing Miss Sissy Tease," 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 realise 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 lightning fixture on Sissy'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 would miss a lowly private eye. I can take my time with you." He takes a curved blade from the wall and test the edge with his thumb nail. "!I don't normally go for guys."

"Me neither," I tell him.

He placed 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 child's backpack. A fine mess I've got myself into. He's a killer, but not the killer. My client is out there right now, totally exposed, no protection, while I'm 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 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 tells me.

I fake a laugh just to show him that I got the joke. The sound of his feet recede up the stairs. It's 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've given me a few seconds to come up with a plan.

The hook is attached to the ceiling with rusty-looking bolts. They might give him if I bounce up and down. Also, a wall display full of sharp objects is close enough, I might reach it with my feet. If I could get one of those weapons between my feet, I might be able to stab him with it 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.

I swing myself towards the wall and managed to plant one foot on a shelf containing a collection of scalpels, knocking several to the floor in the process. They make a musical jingle on the concrete. Before I can attempt any upward pressure my foot slips off and I swing back.

Words are exchange overhead. Then shouts. There is a scuffle. Something heavy lands on the floor, shaking dust loose from the ceiling. A dozen of scenarios race through" my mind. The worst being Sissy or Lora. Either could have foolishly followed me. But can't worry about that now. I swing myself as the wall again and again until I get a foothold. I am now at an angle with one foot on a shelf and my body leaning. It takes every scrap of strength left, but I push off from the shelf lifting myself high enough so 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 waist still bound in front, I struggled to my feet. My jacket is wadded up in the far corner. With any luck the revolver is still in the pocket. Alternatively, there is an assortment of weapons hanging on the shelf nearbly. There's an Arabian sword that was certainly designed to kill people efficiency. There's also an industrial-sized meat tenderizer, caked with blood, hanging next to the sword which offers a slower, perhaps more deserving death for this psycho.

I select an Arabian sword 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 frane. He's dragging the limp body of the cabbie by the cabbie by the collar and he 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 round the door frame and swing like a batter trying to knock one over the outfield fence. The blade passes through his neck with a wet thwack and a crunch as it separates the spinal column. His head, with a surprised look frozen on his face, pops into the air, hit 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 come 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 lightning fixture, or the one that killed Joanie or 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 the long sigh.

"He's dead?" the cabbie ****** his chin at the body on the floor.

I give you a single nod.

The cabbie is 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 towards the ceiling. He passes the lit cigarettes to me and lights another for himself.

I take it this smoke and say, "You came in after me."

He shrugs. "When you didn't come out after a while, I figured you needed some help."

"You were right," I say. "Still, not many would do that."

He shrugs again then sticks a pudgy hand out. I take it. He says, "Hank Harper."

"Jack Jericho."

I retrieve my jacket from the corner and begin to rummage around the torture chamber. At last, I find my revolver in a drawer. I roll the cylinder out, check thet the chambers are loaded, and return its comforting weight to my pocket.

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