My mind floods with my last case on the Task Force.
We had a tip-off that someone saw Tennison on the outskirts of Messena, New York. We raced there, thinking we had finally gotten there in time, only to get a call that police found the victim after a walker had heard screaming.
I wrack my brain, trying to figure out how we were close because that felt like the time we were furthest away from actually catching him.
A blurry vision of a man pointing us in the direction of the cabin floats into my mind, and I rear back.
“The man who directed us. It was you,” I whisper.
“I’ll admit, it wasn’t my best disguise, and I was convinced you saw right through it. You stopped and stared at me for a moment longer than you should have, and I thought the gig was up. I always followed you closer between you and your partner, Mr. Woodcroft, because you always seemed to be closer to finding me. Every single case, you got closer but just never quite reached me. And then you quit,” he sneers out in disgust.
He’s slowly making his way to me, but I have nowhere to go. I’m trapped because our movement and success in getting Lennox out have shifted me away from the only exit.
“Let me get this straight; you came after me because I was close to finding you and when I quit, you were mad about it?”
A man like Tennison was always going to be deranged, but this feels extreme, even for him.
“You stopped playing the game, Oakley,” he says, his voice suddenly getting louder. “I wasn’t done yet. I wanted to see who would win. Could I still dodge you? Or would you actually catch me? And we were so close before you went and ruined everything.”
My chest physically hurts, knowing that the last year of victims is directly because of me. If I had just stayed, if I had worked harder and caught this bastard, no one else would have gotten hurt. No one else would have to suffer lifelong scars.
Because of me.
Worthless.
Trash.
Not worth the dirt on my shoes.
How did I ever think I was worthy of living a good life?
“I can feel you struggling right now, and it just feels” — he takes a deep breath— “like the end, you know? Feels like the big lead-up. One will win, one will lose. Years of work. Years of trying to find a suitable partner, and it all comes down to this.” His smile is deranged,excited.
His words pierce my brain, and I finally realize his pattern. He looked for people that could keep up with his brain. Intelligence was the connecting factor. This last puzzle piece should feel triumphant, but I don’t know have time to focus on it.
I know I have one chance to take him down. Luckily, the Task Force set me up with all the protective gear I would need to face Tennison, but for whatever reason, it doesn’t feel like enough. There are weak spots within the gear, and knowing Tennison, he knows every single one.
“So, how do you want to play this?” I ask. I’m not sure whether I’m trying to agitate him or just trying to get a clear answer.
While I await his answer, I slowly reach behind me and grab the knife that’s holstered at the base of my back. It’s poetic, really; I could have gone with a gun and made life easy, but taking Tennison down with his own medium feels more like justice.
His eyes snag on my arm as it moves, and he lunges suddenly. Catching me off guard, he knicks my bicep.
“Fuck,” I curse as I step back and deflect his arm.
“Come on, now, don’t make this easy for me.” He lunges again, but this time I catch his arm, holding it in place as I ram my other elbow into the back of his head. Releasing him, he stumbles to the back corner with a smirk on his face. “Much better, thank you.”
This time, I lunge at him, but he side-steps it easily.
“What do we think, Oakley, long-lasting psychological effects or death? The first feels so much more fitting, but death is the ultimate win. I can’t decide which would be a better fate for you.”
“Fuck you,” I spit at him and lunge again, this time catching his side. A graze, but I’m getting closer.
His villainous laugh enrages me. I’ve never felt like Iwantedto kill someone before, but that’s all changed. I don’t care how it happens, but Tennison will not leave here alive.
He fakes me out by thrusting his knife again, but moving it just in time to slice open my forearm. Blood spills out, but I can barely feel it.
I move to my left as fast as I can and send my knife backward toward his neck, but I only manage a superficial cut.
