Mr. 8

Chapter 25: Copycat

A blast of cold hit Denton when he pushed through the fire door. Already breathless from running down the stairs, the frigid air made him gasp.

The emergency exit led out to the side alleyway near the back of the building. A mirror image of the door was directly across from him; gray metal, four concrete steps off the ground, with a single spotlight directly above. Off to his right, the wind whipped over the river, pushing a damp air front in from the northeast. To his left, two dumpsters blocked the view of the parking lot.

Where was Radnor?

The security light reflected off half frozen puddles pooled on the deteriorating asphalt. Some of them seemed tinged with a deep crimson. Denton staggered down the few steps to the pavement and noticed a blood trail leading toward the front of the building, past the dumpsters.

It wasn't long until the shattered glass came into view. Near the front corner of the building, it was sprayed across the ground as if someone had emptied a treasure chest full of diamonds and rubies. At the center, a large splatter of blood marked Radnor's point of impact. Spurts of the red gore extended out of it like a sunburst.

Denton stopped at the outer perimeter of the glass. At his feet lay the knife. He had only seen the handle before. Now he saw that it was a thin bladed boning knife.

He stood there staring at it—the murder weapon. The thought crossed his mind: I wore my gloves the whole time; there are no fingerprints. He could walk away. Just leave and let the police sort things out. Who would know he'd been there?

But it wasn't murder, it was self-defense. And Radnor wasn't even dead—just wounded and out there somewhere.

It would have been easy for the narrow blade to miss any vital organs. He looked up to the open window. Thirty—thirty-five feet at most. That's survivable. Right? He had no idea, but it must be. And Radnor's leg must have only looked broken. After all, Denton had only glanced down. The dark and the distance could have tricked his eyes.

There was nothing supernatural about it.

So where was he?

Denton circled around the radius of broken glass. The only trail of blood extending from it was the one that had led him there. Radnor had headed to the back of the building.

He should have gone toward the street. He would have been more likely to find help in that direction. Someone coming into the parking lot would have seen him. Or he could have flagged down a motorist from the road. What help would he find by the train tracks and the river?

He was running away. Why?

The man had experienced a psychotic break and wasn't being rational. He was suffering severe delusions. Who knew why he would have chosen that way. But he was losing more blood with every step and he was moving farther away from help.

How long would it take the ambulance to show up? Were the police on their way? He couldn't hear any sirens. He wasn't sure whether they had even dispatched anyone. He hadn't stayed on the line. When he saw that Radnor had gone, he left the apartment. He couldn't even remember what he had done with the phone. Everything was still jumbled in his mind.

He should go back and call again to make sure they were coming. Warn them that Radnor was injured and violent. Then he could wait in the apartment—no, that was a crime scene. He should wait in his car until they got there and he could give his statement.

Would Cole Radnor survive that long? Would they be able to find him when they got there? Or would they only find his cold, dead body hours or days from now? They would come across a frozen corpse collapsed in red snow in some forlorn spot on the bank of the Gilead River.