Let Me In by Adam Nicholls (books under 200 pages .TXT) 📕

“By cutting up their faces?” Morgan shook his head. There was something in the killer’s story that reached out to him, like a hand offering a palmful of sympathy. But he declined—sympathy had left the building long before people had been murdered in it.

Nick made a noise that sounded like the cocking of a gun, but Morgan didn’t know how those things worked. “After everything I just told you, you still think it was as simple as tearing a bit of skin? Come on, Detective. You’re smarter than that.”

“So, what, it’s—”

Something kept Morgan from finishing that sentence. At first it was a soft tickle in the back of his mind, but then it grew into something larger and more hopeful. It was like an alarm, but its ring was strong and positive rather than deafening and… well, alarming. He cocked his head to one side, the cool moisture of sweat dampening his collar, listening.

It wasn’t an alarm, he realized.

It was sirens.

“What did you do?” Nick yelled from the larger room of the church. The fury in his voice was thick as he ran forward, his feet pounding on the floor. “You had one simple instruction, you son of a bitch!”

Morgan heard it all from where he stood, his body tensing with fear. He clenched his fist with no idea how to use it, but before he even had time to think about it, his assailant rounded the corner and reached for his collar. Morgan was pulled to the center of the church, the sirens growing louder. Lights flashed through the windows while the gun was pushed against his temple. He refrained from fighting, giving in to Nick’s primal urges and focusing on standing upright, walking in time with Nick’s long strides. He stumbled, was hauled up and shoved into the center of the church. The area lit up in red and blue. It was a promise of protection, but he had no idea if they could deliver. And even if they could…

“Rachel,” he mumbled.

“Shut up.” Nick stood behind him with one arm wrapped around Morgan’s throat. His other hand held the gun against his skull as they waited for the doors to burst open. The gun shook, losing its focus on the exact spot but still aimed at his head.

There was no escape.

But Morgan had to know.

“Listen to me,” he said. “Any minute now, a whole bunch of policemen are going to come through those doors. It’s up to you if you hand yourself over quietly or go out with guns blazing, but if it’s the latter you’ll be killing an innocent woman. You have to tell me where Rachel is. You can’t die with that secret.”

Nick paused, his grip loosening for only a moment. His mouth opened, hot breath seeping onto Morgan’s neck, but then he closed it again. There was no getting through to him.

The doors burst open. Blinding flashlights dazed Morgan. He closed his eyes tight like vaults. Footsteps and screaming merged together as the police stormed the church, and all he felt was the viselike grip of the DC Carver’s arm across his throat as every gun in the room aimed in his direction. Morgan had heard the old tale of your whole life flashing before your eyes before you die, but all he could see was Rachel: her beautiful auburn hair fluttering in the wind like an elegant scarf, her thin lips pursed into a teasing smile while her blue eyes shone through him. Morgan’s heart began to hurt.

“Put your weapon down, or we’ll be forced to open fire,” a cop yelled.

“Fuck you!” Nick spat.

Could they shoot him, Morgan wondered? Was their training so good that they could shoot Nick without accidentally hitting an innocent? Morgan, whose adrenaline was shooting through his body like white-water rapids, would have shook if he had the chance, but all he could do at this moment was pray and whisper, “Please.”

Nick’s arm produced a mass of sweat. His arm trembled and the gun went further off balance. He stepped back, dragging Morgan with him. The police maintained an aggressive approach, stepping in time with him. They kept going until Nick’s back was to the wall, and he clutched Morgan tight, leaning into his ear. “The back room.”

Morgan tried to turn his head, but the grip was too strong. “What?”

It happened then, as if time slowed down. He saw the gun move from his temple, Nick’s arm extended to target one of the cops. The gunshot cracked and echoed, producing a blinding light. The bullet had not long left the gun before three more came from the other direction. Morgan heard them all: precise shots one after the other.

One.

Two.

And there was a scream.

Nick’s grip loosened. Morgan stood upright, every muscle in his body tensed as he heard the body slump to the floor behind him. The cops moved in, flashlights lowered while the afterstain blurred his vision in a rainbow-like assault. Fear rattled through him—fear of what had happened, fear of what would happen.

“The back room,” Nick had said in his final moments.

An officer stepped forward and offered a hand, but Morgan didn’t take it. Terror and excitement bred an unfamiliar emotion that pushed him to turn and run. He leapt over Nick’s body, ignoring the shouted commands of the officer. He passed the room he’d hidden in only a minute ago. It felt like longer; it felt like days.

Morgan kept running, his heart dancing in his chest as he saw the door. He ran for it on weightless feet, reaching for the knob and twisting it. The lock forbade him from entering, but nothing could stop him now. Nothing. He took a step back and lunged, throwing all his might into his shoulder. The door bashed open, swinging with all the force of a comet, shaking while it shook back into an open position. It revealed a dark room with one small window and little light. There was only a fallen wardrobe, scattered trash, and a bed.

And on that bed, a body.

Morgan lost his breath and rushed forward. Only the worst of possibilities flooded his mind as he dropped to his knees, leaning over Rachel. Her eyes were closed, her body in the fetal position. Her mouth had been stuffed with an old rag, and Morgan tore it from her with great difficulty, his trembling hands ignoring his commands.

“Please, no,” he said, but it didn’t feel like him. It felt as though his soul had long since left his body, and now he was merely a spectator of his deepest fears. He lowered his head and kissed her cheek, then felt for a pulse. His fingers pressed against the soft skin of her neck while he hoped—prayed—for some sign of life.

It was all he could do not to cry.