Culver in Hancock County, Maine is somewhere that you would normally struggle to find on a map, but the small town was where Rickard headed. Following the assassination of the two cops in Tampa, he’d travelled to Bangor on a scheduled flight, but from Bangor had jumped to the coastline on a small seaplane. From Trenton, he’d then used a speedboat to cross the bay to Culver, where he’d collected the FedEx truck that was necessary to his ploy. His boat was moored in a disused boathouse ready for the return trip across the water. At Trenton, the plane was waiting for his return, but there wasn’t room in the cabin for the pilot and him, plus an unconscious woman. But that was OK, he never intended for Imogen Ballard to leave Maine alive.
The car he’d appropriated after dumping Imogen’s Suburban would have to be torched to eliminate any trace evidence, but that was a task he’d see to prior to firing up the outboard motor on his boat.
‘First we deal with you, Imogen,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if we can raise a little fire in you, shall we?’
Imogen was incapable of replying. But that would be rectified within a minute or so.
The boathouse, once used to house a fishing boat, was not one of those fancy type buildings you see in rich men’s playgrounds but a wholly utilitarian affair of sun-bleached planks and wind-scoured shingles. It was like a small hangar, open to the bay at one end with a normal door on the side and another two doors where a truck with a winch could drag a boat out of the water on the landward side. Wooden walkways ran the length of both inner walls, while a beaten earth ramp down the centre gave way to the cold North Atlantic. Rickard’s boat was moored on the right-hand side; the other walkway was clear.
Upright beams held the shell of the building together and supported the sagging roof. To one of the beams on the walkway opposite the boat, Rickard cuffed Imogen. He fed the cuffs behind the beam, then snapped her wrists into them. A cross-beam held the cuffs from slipping down, forcing the unconscious woman to stand upright. If she awoke her position would be torturous.
Rickard dumped his kit in the boat, the dart gun stripped down now and the delivery driver’s uniform finished with. Both would be sunk to the bottom of the bay when he travelled to Trenton. His sidearm was holstered in his shoulder rig because he wouldn’t need it for what he now planned. From a holder on his belt, he pulled out a small ceramic object with a switch on the side. He slid the switch, baring three inches of razor-sharp ceramic blade. When security measures would detect a gun or other metal weapon, Rickard counted on the undetectable ceramic knife to keep him armed.
‘It’s not a machete, but it will do,’ he said to the unresponsive woman.
When mutilating the others, he’d employed various tools on them: guns, knives, a machete, even a meat cleaver to decapitate one of his victims, but the intimacy that the small ceramic knife brought gave him the most satisfaction. He’d last used the knife on Jessica Case and her father. If he checked he was pretty sure that he would find traces of their blood caught in the mechanism.
He jabbed a hypodermic syringe in Imogen’s arm and depressed the plunger. Then he held the knife ready because her return to wakefulness would be almost instantaneous.
He watched her eyelids flicker, then her head snapped up and she was staring directly at the blade of the knife. A siren song began to rise in her throat. Prepared for this, Rickard jammed a wadded rag into her mouth.
‘Spit it out and I’ll have to gag you in a different way. I’ll cut out your tongue.’
She shuddered, pulling against the cuffs. Her right shoulder was twisted painfully towards him. It wasn’t for her comfort that he reached out and stood her upright again. He wanted a good view of her. Taking hold of the neckline of her top, he sliced down with the knife. The ceramic blade was sharper than any steel and it parted the material like he was slicing a sheet of paper.
‘Nice-looking body,’ he noted. ‘You keep yourself fit and toned. That’s good.’
Behind the gag, Imogen yelled something, but her words were just a garbled shriek.
‘That was supposed to be a compliment,’ Rickard said.
He slid the knife under the front of her bra, snicked through the elastic band and exposed her breasts. Imogen yelled again and kicked out at him with both feet, one at a time like she was climbing a steep flight of stairs. One foot caught him sharply on his shin, but the other missed entirely as he skipped out of the way. Imogen twisted her head to follow him and he could see the veins thrumming in her throat like harp strings.
Rickard laughed at her. Wiggling the knife at her, he swayed along with it, as though caught in a slow dance. ‘I thought it might take a little more to get a rise out of you.’
Imogen gnawed on the rag as if it was a tough piece of meat. She pushed it free with her tongue, spitting and retching. ‘Who are you? What do you want from me?’
Rickard allowed his earlier threat to drop. He would get more out of her if she could talk. ‘I want you to see me.’
‘I see you. You’re a maniac; that’s what I see!’
‘I need you to look deeper than that, Imogen.’
She wrenched at the cuffs again, the metal crossbar digging into flesh and wood with equal ferocity. The support beam creaked ominously and dust and old shingles sifted down, pitter-pattering in the water. Rickard pounced, grabbing her chin in his left hand and guiding the blade very close to her eyes with the other. ‘Stop that. Stop struggling or I’ll blind you.’
Imogen went very still, but there was something in her posture that made Rickard step back. Imogen nodded at the knife. ‘You do that, you pig. But how will I see you then?’
Rickard stared at her. His breath came heavy, in time with the lapping tide. He allowed the blade to drop by his side. He took another step back, his heels very close to the edge of the walkway.
‘Tell me, Imogen. Tell me and maybe I’ll let you live.’
She shook her head. ‘You’re going to kill me whatever I say.’
He folded the blade away and slipped the holder into the pouch on his belt. He showed her his empty hands. ‘You have my word.’
‘That maybe I’ll live?’
‘I can’t offer more. Satisfy my curiosity, Imogen. Tell me the truth and I will consider what happens next.’
Rickard watched her. He saw the machinations of hope and denial and mistrust make war in her mind. Hope seemed the stronger emotion.
‘What am I supposed to see in you?’
‘My true essence,’ Rickard said.
Tears welled in the corners of her eyes and she shook her head slowly. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘The serpent,’ Rickard said.
Imogen nodded slowly, peering into his eyes. The tears rolled down her cheeks and she blinked quickly to clear her vision. ‘Yes. I see it.’
Rickard smiled.
‘I see it in you. A great big snake. Its forked tongue flicking in and out.’
Rickard’s smile froze. Then melted away.
‘Liar.’
‘No. I’m not lying!’ Imogen pushed herself upright against the beam, worming her shoulders round so she was less constricted. ‘I can see it like a superimposed shadow towering over you.’
‘Liar!’ Rickard lunged forwards and grasped her throat in one hand, his other fist poised to strike. ‘You don’t see that. The serpent is nothing like you describe. Now, do it: look into my eyes and tell me what you really see.’
Imogen could barely breathe. She twisted against the beam and there was a crack of shifting wood. She pressed down with her chin, trying in vain to push away his hand.
Rickard slapped her across the face and the shock sent a wave of blackness through her skull.
‘Tell me, goddamn you…’
‘Go to hell!’
Imogen kicked out blindly, but her foot found a viable target in the juncture of Rickard’s thighs. Caught unprepared, Rickard’s eyes bugged and a red flush crept up his face. He let out a groan. Imogen didn’t stop; she kicked out with both legs as though pedalling a cycle, thrusting at his legs and stomach. Rickard hopped backwards and his heels skidded on the edge of the walkway. He grabbed at her to halt his slide, but Imogen snatched herself back from him and his groping fingers found only empty space. One foot went off the walkway and then he plummeted down, suspended on the platform by the strength in only one bent knee. Imogen kicked again.
Rickard let out a wordless cry and toppled over, going down on his back in the water. Foamy bubbles rushed over him for a moment, then he erupted out again and roared in anger. Water streamed through his dark hair and from his clothing.
‘You filthy, stinking whore! I’m going to skin you alive for that.’
Imogen shrieked in denial, throwing her weight against the upright beam. She felt it shift, heard the agonised squeal of nails pulling loose. Rickard squinted up at her, then dashed salty water from his mouth with the back of one hand as he reached for his ceramic knife with the other. Imogen became frantic. She stamped at the boards, throwing her shoulders against the beam, bumping it and bumping it with all her might. The beam split, triggering a small cloud of rotted particles. Rickard snorted at her attempt at escape, then waded forward and placed a palm flat on the walkway to aid him in stepping up. Imogen kicked at him again but Rickard easily avoided the blow. Suspended by only the cuffs, Imogen skidded and fell, twisting awkwardly. She screamed in pain as her wrists were lacerated by the tight metal hoops. There was a low rumble from above and more dust and slivers of wood rained down.
Rickard surged forwards once more, a wave pushing ahead of him, his attention alternating between Imogen and the suddenly dipping roof. Leaning over, he reached to grab at Imogen’s ankles, but she swung sideways, avoiding his grip, and again threw her entire body weight into her escape. This time she didn’t work against the beam but away from it. The effort almost dislocated her shoulders but the beam pulled away from the roof and fell, showering her with shards of broken planks. The roof sagged, but, held firmly by the remaining upright beams, it didn’t collapse on them. Immediately she got her feet under her and yanked free from the broken end of the beam. Then she scrambled away from Rickard, who changed direction and waded quickly towards the earth ramp.
Imogen slipped on to one knee. But in the next instant she was up again, barely avoiding the swipe of Rickard’s knife as he slashed at her. Rickard came on wordlessly, Imogen trying her hardest to avoid his gaze as if by doing so it would ensure her escape: as pointless as an ostrich burying its head in sand.
Running was difficult with her arms cuffed behind her, but adrenalin gave an extra lift to her heels and she raced along the walkway towards the double doors. When Rickard had brought her inside, he hadn’t locked them — a padlock was useless when the wood supporting it was so rotten. She skidded up to the doors, banged against them with her shoulder and they burst open. Imogen charged outside into the cold and softly falling rain. She felt neither of them on her hot skin.
‘What in God’s name is going on?’
Imogen barely made sense of the words, but the figures looming up in front of her made her collapse to her backside and she rolled on the floor at the feet of the two men standing over her. From her ignominious position in the dirt she stared up at a burly old man and a slighter built teenage boy. Both were shocked to find a semi-naked, handcuffed woman lying at their feet and the rifles in their hands drooped ineffectually.
‘Help me,’ she screamed. ‘He’s trying to kill me!’
Rickard appeared in the open doorway, dripping wet and vibrating with anger.
The younger man saw him, made sense of the knife clutched in Rickard’s hand and let out a croak as he slapped at his father’s arm. The older man, made of sterner stuff, brought up his rifle.
‘Hold it right there, mister,’ he barked.
‘Shoot him,’ Imogen yelled. ‘He’s a murderer. Shoot him, for Christ’s sake!’
The older man tensed his finger on the trigger, but he wasn’t ready to fire yet. His mind was in too much turmoil to shoot a man without all the facts at hand. To the teenager, he said, ‘Best you ring nine-one-one, boy.’
The younger man back-pedalled, then raced up the trail towards a nearby house.
Rickard stood stock-still. He still held the knife in his hand, but he was staring directly into the eyes of the older man.
‘This is no business of yours,’ he said.
‘It became my business when you moored in my boathouse,’ said the man. ‘I thought you were only trespassing, mister, and I’ve been waiting for you to come back to put you straight. Now I see that what you’re up to is much worse.’
Rickard shook his head. ‘Get out of the way and you won’t get hurt.’
‘There’s only one man going to get hurt round here. Take another step and I’ll drop you.’
Imogen crawled round behind the man, placing him between her and Rickard. She came to her knees. ‘Shoot him.’
The old man ignored her, steadying his aim on Rickard’s chest.
‘I’m warning you, mister, I did two tours in ‘Nam. It was a long time ago, but I still remember how to fire a gun. Now drop the knife and step out here where I can see you.’
Rickard only sneered at the man. Then his gaze shifted to Imogen.
‘We’re not finished, bitch. You think you’ve got a protector, but no one will stop me. Not him. Not Joe Hunter. I’ll see you again.’
Then he turned quickly and disappeared back inside the boathouse.
The old man grunted, started after him, but Imogen’s warning cry brought him to a halt. ‘He has a gun in there.’
The man retreated, took hold of Imogen’s arm and heaved her up. Holding her, he moved backwards with his rifle braced against his shoulder, watching the doorway in case Rickard reappeared.
They made it part-way up the trail when the roar of an engine sounded from within the boathouse.
‘Damn it, he’s going to get away,’ the man muttered. ‘Where’s that fool boy got to with the police?’
Beside him Imogen didn’t seem to care. She was sobbing and trembling in relief. Or maybe it was fear, because Rickard’s warning had been served with a certainty that was chilling.