The Chrono Slasher: An Alice Bergman Novel, #3

CHAPTER ONE

SEVEN ROWS FROM THE front of the nave within Notre-Dame Cathedral, the man I’ve hunted for the past nine weeks kneels on the black and white diamond-patterned marble floor in front of his chair. He’s no priest. No saint.

A parasite.

God or not, no matter how much time he spends on his knees, forgiveness will evade him. He’s damned himself to hell for what he’s done. Honestly, though, it’s irrelevant. All that matters is what happens next.

Beads of sweat glisten on the back of his bald, misshapen head, the left side of his cranium cratered and scarred. Had I an ounce of empathy for the man, I’d inquire as to how the grotesque injury came about. But he deserves nothing.

Soon, the whole of Paris will know the name of the man I’ve come to call the Chrono Slasher: Jacques Milan. A horrible man. Ruthless serial killer. Friend of none.

A quick glance around the nave reconfirms that he and I are alone. The privacy both comforts and alarms me at once, given the man’s unique gift. And, speaking of said gift, it’s the only thing that keeps me from putting a bullet through the back of his skull. A relentless curiosity.

What can I say? Perhaps I’m part feline. Or maybe just a curious zealot. Either way, my mind refuses to contemplate anything else.

Sweaty palms and a racing heart root my feet to the marble floor. Both ailments cloud my judgment and ratchet up the tension in my shoulders. But the tension grows beyond me. A virus spreading throughout the entire nave. It leaves a dense, acrid taste upon my lips.

Two deep breaths slow my pulse as I clutch a golden FNX-45 Tactical FDE between my hands. The piece isn’t mine, and no matter how tight my grip, it still feels loose. Not a good combination, especially given that the fear of it jamming or misfiring ceaselessly runs through my mind. It scares me almost as much as he does.

Another slow, deep breath frees my feet. Clears my mind.

Now or never, Alice.

Eyes forward and barrel raised, I take several steps toward him. Jacques Milan— My voice echoes through the cavernous cathedral, shattering the silence. —place your hands above your head where I can see them and rise to your feet, I say in French.

Black, bell-shaped sleeves slide down brown, lanky arms disfigured with pinkish-red scars as the man raises his arms and rises from his knees. Two fingers are missing from his right hand. The middle one and his pinky.

Jacques steps into the aisle and turns toward me. As his head slowly rises, the shadows surrounding him withdraw, revealing facial features I’ll never be able to unsee. Pieces of skin hang from grayish, cracked lips, the lower one split and crusted with blood. A small nub and two gaping holes lie between his eyes and lips.

My God… he’s a monster.

Then, his gaze meets mine. No number of deep breaths could stave off the fear radiating from my bones as I stare into his unmatched eyes. Green with flecks of gold on the right; its yellow sclera fissured with angry red veins. An inkwell as black as death itself consumes his left eye. At least the part of it that remains intact.

A dry, raspy breath escapes from my parted lips as we stare each other down. Fear will not force me to break eye contact with the man. I won’t give in. Doing so would give him the upper hand.

Nostrils flaring, I inhale a mixture of stale sweat and incense. The former smells of my own brand. It triggers my mind to trace back to my last shower.

Days…

I shake off the query as the man’s head tilts slightly to the right. For a moment, I imagine he does so because of an unevenly weighted head, but then his lips pull apart, forming a crooked, gapped smile of nicotine-stained teeth. Tendrils of saliva and fresh blood connect his upper and lower lips.

Hairs rise on my nape. Thunderous drums pound in my ears. Sweat runs down the sides of my ribcage.

He smells my fear.

Just twenty paces separate us. Two hundred wouldn’t be enough. My left foot slides back several inches. Its traitorous act infuriates me, and I’ll be damned before I let the other one retreat as well.

Reflected light glints off the twisted silver cross that hangs from his neck on a cord of twine. It demands my attention. Pulls me forward a step.

Disfigured, like him.

Jacques slowly reaches down and grasps the wretched cross between finger and thumb. The impulse to do the same with my necklace is so strong that my left hand jerks back awkwardly, leaving the gun flailing in my right hand for half a beat.

Jacques doesn’t seem to notice, his attention glued to his own pendant. Beads of sweat roll down the small of my back as I shrug off the misstep and regrip the gun.

I motion with the barrel. Arms up. The words stick in the back of my dry throat like sand.

Jacques’s fingers linger on the cross a few more moments before his arm rises again. Simple, right? Yet such power. His rough, French accent turns my head ever so slightly as my mind works to decipher his words.

A speech impediment?

At first, I think I’m right, but then I see it. A dime-sized hole through the tip of his tongue. Could be larger. Another glance of the man’s features and the way he stands and holds himself reveals just how disfigured and maimed he really is.

An abomination. God’s punishment.

His words finally sink in, but their reference point lost. I don’t follow.

Jacques motions toward the raised, golden altar behind him with his head. I speak of the Christ. A single deed to rid humanity of its sin. Once, for all. Simple. Powerful.

Christ.

The word reminds me of Mother. Of home. I can’t wait to unshackle myself from Paris and the filth that accompanies it.

I shift my weight, fully aware of the consequence it might bring about, especially while handling a weapon that isn’t mine. Is that why you kill? You believe you’re already forgiven?

His head tilts farther to the side. Awkwardly so. You wear a cross, but you’re no believer, are you?

There’s no hint of accusation in his tone, yet his words pierce my heart. Draw blood. Send anger coursing through my veins. Jaws clenched, I can’t help but lash out at him, a vile murderer condemning me. You know nothing about me or what I believe.

Our bodies speak for us. Tell the truth when our lips lie. Jacques, arms still raised, takes an awkward step toward me. Then another. The unsteady, yet bold moves leave me breathless. I can see the pain in your eyes, Detective. The way you reached for your cross when I grasped mine nearly drove me to tears. You’re lost, but there’s no need for you to be. I can help you find solace.

You help me? I’d be pissed if the suggestion weren’t so ludicrous. How can you stand there and act like you’re the better person between us?

Better? He chuckles. We are all sinners, Detective, yet salvation is close at hand. His fingers grasp at the air above his head as he inhales through the two holes above his mouth. Ahh. Can you feel it?

Salvation? What would you know of it? The ground you stand upon bulges with the bodies of your victims.

Jacques’s gaze pierces me. Sends my heart into a frenzy. Come now, Detective. The ground you tread does not differ from mine. In fact, I’m inclined to believe that it’s our similarities that drive fear through your veins.

I’m no killer! My banshee voice shrieks through the nave, but the ancient, stained-glass windows hold strong.

His right eye glistens in the pale light as his smile fades. Nor am I, he whispers.

Anger flares. Tightens my grip on the gun. Eleven bodies say otherwise.

Do they? Jacques takes another step. Three more. Only a dozen paces separate us now.

My finger slides down and caresses the side of the trigger. One more step, and I’ll send you straight to hell.

Jacques’s brow wrinkles as his gaze falls to the floor. Mine follows his, and it’s then that I notice his bare, disproportioned feet. One foot lacks all toes, and the other foot part of its heel. One more step will end my suffering, and I so long for it, but doing so will not save…

Drops of water splatter on Jacques’s feet and pummel the white tile he stands upon. When our eyes meet again, I notice the light glistening off his tear-streaked cheeks. Several drops cling to the underside of his narrow jaw. Sparkling little jewels.

This time, it’s my feet that draw us closer. Dangerously close. I steady my hand and level the weapon toward his gut, easing my finger away from the trigger.

Silence gathers around us as we continue to stare at one another. Two strangers. Different worlds. United by death.

He’s the killer.

I remind myself of this fact repeatedly, yet I’m one, too.

But we’re not the same.

Empathy he doesn’t deserve creeps into my voice. Finish what you were going to say, Jacques. Killing you will not save what?

Jacques’s gaze returns to the floor, and the pool of tears puddled at his feet continues to grow. A waft of booze masked with peppermint hits my nostrils when he exhales. After a handful of seconds in utter silence, he finally responds with a hollow whisper, Him.

CHAPTER TWO

Nine weeks earlier…

AIRPLANE TOILETS ARE BY far the worst. Not only are they cramped, but they smell just as bad as an outhouse. Plus, I’m always afraid of flushing while still seated. The hole that opens in the bottom of the toilet might only be a few inches in diameter, but it sounds like it could suck me right out of the plane. Never a good thought.

I stand up and smack my head on the wall in front of me. It’s almost impossible to turn around. Ugh! Why do they have to make these bathrooms so tiny? There’s no way any couple could ever join the thirty-thousand-foot club in here.

And why would anyone want to?

After pumping the sink several times with one hand and cupping as much water as I can with my other, I splash it onto my face. Despite it being lukewarm, it’s still refreshing. Crouching down, I stare into the mirror and begin wiping off the remaining water from my face with a hand towel. Ghastly, bluish-black sacks hang beneath my eyes, evidence of months of insomnia.

Pushing on the sacks somehow makes my reflection worse. Lord, I’m a disgusting mess.

Just as I’m about to turn away, I notice something odd happening with my eyes. The vibrant green hue of my irises dulls and grows darker. Becomes more of a hunter green as they shrink in size. My normally large pupils shrink to beady pinpoints, and the sclerae become pink with angry red veins. Then, I notice the pea-sized mole nestled between my cheek and the right side of my nose.

What the hell—

Hello, Alice. You miss me?

Voices are my thing. I never forget one no matter how long it’s been. Reagan?

Two hands reach through the mirror and grab hold of its sides. I stutter backward. Slam into the bathroom door as the impossible happens right before my eyes. The mirror expands in width and height, and Reagan begins pulling himself through it and into the cramped space with me.

Reaching back, I fumble with the door lock but can’t seem to get it to unlatch. I risk a quick glance over my shoulder and see the problem, but it’s too late. Reagan’s fat, sausage-fingered hands wrap around my throat and slam me against the door repeatedly.

The latch gives out, and the door flies open and slams against the back of the plane. We tumble out of the bathroom and onto the floor. The combination of landing on a hard surface and Reagan’s excessive weight coming down on top of me knocks the wind from my lungs. I can’t catch my breath as his fingers tighten around my neck.

Clawing at his hands does nothing, nor does punching him in the gut, and his girth has my legs pinned to the floor. He grins deviously, then smashes my mouth against his dried, cracked lips.

His tongue probes for an opening and leaves a trail of slobber across my lips and down my chin when he finally pulls back. I relish the moments we’ve shared.

I’d spit in his face if I could, but a grunt is all I can manage.

Reagan releases his hold on me and rolls to the side, then stands. I gasp for air and massage my neck, but the reprieve is short-lived. He grabs me by my hair, yanks me to my feet, and shoves me against the airlock door. I scream, but no one comes to my rescue.

Pressing himself against me, he yells in my ear, Time to fly, Detective. Hope you packed your parachute.

The airlock door swings open, revealing the night sky. Reagan grunts as he shoves me out of the airplane.

Wind rushes through my hair and billows my shirt and pants as I plummet toward a dark plane. At first, what my eyes see makes no sense, but then I realize it’s the ocean rushing up to meet me.

God, no!

* * * * *

The jolt and screech of wheels touching down on the runway pulls me out of my nightmare and thrusts me back into the uncomfortable leather seat of our Boeing 777 just moments before impact with the dark ocean. My heart thunders in my chest, but not from the jolt. Seth’s hand caresses the top of mine as our eyes meet. That simple gesture chases away the nightmare. My pulse slows, and I force a lazy yawn, but Seth’s no fool.

His brow furrows. Another nightmare?

Reagan’s beady green eyes fill my mind. It’s noth—

Words catch in the back of my throat as a second and third jolt come in quick succession before the plane finally settles on the runway. The taste of grilled chicken and vegetables mixed with stomach acid bubbles up the back of my throat, an unwelcome encore from our earlier dinner. Or lunch. At this point, I’m uncertain as to which meal it was supposed to be. I swallow hard, forcing it all back down.

A few deep breaths settle my roiling stomach, but then my entire body careens forward as the wing flaps rise to slow the airplane. My hands punch the back of the seat in front of me with jarring force. Guilt draws me back into my seat as angry brown eyes stare at me through the narrow crack between the seats. Fringed by deep troughs of cracking foundation, the eyes belong to a middle-aged white woman. Given the accent she spoke with when addressing the flight attendant on several occasions during our forever-long flight from Dallas, TX, I’m certain she’s British.

Sorry, I mouth to her. She responds with an eye roll that sends her eyeballs all the way up into the back of her head before she finally turns around.

Not sorry.

The captain’s voice fills the large cabin, welcoming us all to Paris-Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris, France in both English and French. He drones on about the current weather, time, and various connecting gate assignments, but his voice fades as my gaze meets Seth’s grayish-blue eyes once more.

Concern fills them and wrinkles his brow further. Your nightmares are becoming more frequent.

You think I don’t know that? I say through gritted teeth. Regret sweeps in, forcing me to bite my lower lip and look away. I’m sorry.

Seth slides his arm around my back. Squeezes me gently. I know, and it’s okay.

No, it’s not. The cabin blurs. I blink back angry tears, then quickly wipe my eyes with the back of my hand before facing him again. You deserve better than me.

You’re probably right, but you’re better than the best of them, so I guess that means I’m stuck with you unless I want to be alone in life. The corners of his mouth rise, parting his lips and exposing a set of pearly whites. A dimple in the center of his left cheek deepens.

God, I’m the luckiest person in the world.

Even after fifteen months of marriage, I still don’t understand what he sees in me. Lifting his arm back over my head, I slip my hand into his and intertwine our fingers. His soft skin sets me adrift on a blissful sea.

He graces my forehead with a soft kiss. You sure you don’t want to talk about it?

I look around the plane. No one seems to be paying attention to us, but it still makes me uncomfortable. Not right now. I’ll tell you everything later. Promise.

Fair enough. His gaze moves beyond me and settles on a point somewhere outside the small cabin window. Tiny wrinkles form around his eyes. Can you believe we’ve just landed in Paris? Excitement strains his voice as he crushes my hand and thrusts it against the rigid plastic armrest between us.

I pat the top of his hand with increasing force. Seth, stop.

His brow furrows as he looks down at our hands, then his grip loosens. Oh, right. Sorry about that, babe.

Pulling my hand away, I verify no bones are broken before flexing and then shaking off the pain. Out the window, the taxiway glides by as we head toward the airport apron. Excitement builds in my chest as the reality of where we are begins to set in.

I can’t believe we’re in Paris!

First time on foreign soil, I whisper, afraid I’ll sound like a schoolgirl if I try and speak with greater volume.

Seth shakes his head and grins. Not for me, but this is at the top of the list of places I’ve been.

Occasionally, I find myself trapped in a moment where I question how well I really know this man I call my husband. This is one of those moments. In all honesty, it’s a bit frightening. I turn in my seat and stare at him. What other countries have you been to before?

He waves me off and stares out the tiny window. Nowhere important. Just forget about it.

The plane pulls up to the skybridge and comes to a halt, and then a loud ding signals we can remove our safety belts and disembark. As per the usual, most of the passengers have already done so. Everyone’s always in a rush to disembark.

Where’s the emergency?

An hour and a half later, Seth and I emerge from customs and into the main part of the massive airport. In the distance, I spot a man dressed in dark slacks, a white, button-up shirt, black dress shoes, and a brown overcoat. He’s holding a sign that reads Bergman-Ryan. Short-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair parts the right side of the man’s scalp. A pleasant contrast to his aged, olive skin. Wire-rimmed glasses hug his clean-shaven, narrow face, but it’s his sagging cheeks that bring a smile to my lips.

He looks like Droopy Dog.

Pierre or not, I’m already fond of this man.

Recognition sparks in the man’s eyes as we approach. A grin spreads across his face. He folds up the sign and shoves it into one of his overcoat pockets as he heads toward us.

The three of us meet in front of Le Grand Comptoir, a French coffee shop. The man proffers his hand toward me, and I accept it. Warm fingers wrap mine and lift my hand toward thin, parted lips as Pierre leans over. His moist lips greet the tops of my knuckles.

Grey eyes meet my stare as Pierre releases my hand and straightens. Detective Bergman, it is a pleasure. I am Special Agent Pierre Lamont. We spoke previously over the phone.

I nod. Yes, of course. I recognize your voice.

Pierre dips his head toward Seth, his gaze breaking from mine for only a moment. Detective Ryan. Welcome to Paris.

A pleasure. Seth folds his arms over his chest, a stance I’m all too familiar with.

Pierre’s smile broadens as he looks me up and down. Your police photo does you no justice.

A flash of heat toasts my cheeks. And you’re not what I pictured.

The man cocks his head. Good or bad?

I shrug, heat still in my cheeks. I haven’t decided yet.

He frowns, then nods. Let me know when you do. Turning away, he beckons us to follow. Come, we have no time to dispose.

Time is money, I guess.

Seth glances over at the counter of Le Grand Comptoir, and I know exactly what he’s thinking, so I grab his arm. Not a chance, babe. You’ll have plenty of time to consume French coffee later.

Unlike you, I didn’t sleep most of the flight. Just one sip will fend off my jet lag.

Sleep? As if.

No. I tug on his arm. Come on. We need to get moving before Pierre loses us.

Seth scowls. Might not be the worst thing.

Lighten up. I kinda like him.

His scowl deepens. That’s what worries me. Him and his fancy French accent.

It’s barely noticeable, I say. It’s true, but I still like it. Besides, he’s probably old enough to be my grandfather.

A crack surfaces in Seth’s armor, the corners of his lips inching upward. Maybe so.

I know so, and you’re one to talk. I saw how you soaked up the attention of that brunette in customs. Her eyes barely glanced at your passport, but she gave you several scans.

Seth chuckles and shrugs. "Ah, yes. Natalia. No harm in appreciating the fact that someone took notice of me for once. You’re always the star of the show, so give me my moments when they come."

It’s the red hair that makes me the star. I twirl a finger through it.

Seth sweeps my hair back with his hand. It’s not just the hair. You’ve got the entire package, my sexy wife. He reels me in and kisses me but pulls away far too fast, his attention lured away by our surroundings again. I still can’t believe we’re in Paris. The City of Love. Can you believe it? What could be better than this?

I glance around. Better than this stinky airport? Trust me, I can think of several things. For one, we could be at the Eiffel Tower right now taking in the view of the city while sipping a glass of champagne. Or we could be touring the Louvre Museum and freaking out over how the Mona Lisa stares at us from every angle. There’s also the—

He raises his hands, cutting me off. Fine, I’ll admit we haven’t reached the pentacle of perfection yet, but we’re getting there. I can feel it.

It’s pinnacle, and don’t forget that we’re here for a job, not a vacation. We’ve got nine bodies and no leads. Plus, our escort isn’t waiting for us to catch up.

Seth sighs. Right.

I take his hand and lead us after Pierre. When we step through the doors toward the train to Paris, a strange feeling rises in my gut. I grip Seth’s hand tighter as we weave our way through the throng of people.

Pierre maintains a good distance ahead of us, but at least he’s not out of sight. As we push forward, the strange feeling intensifies. A sense of I don’t know… apprehension?

Cold chills sweep down the entire length of my body as the nightmare of Reagan rears its evil head within my mind once again,