Chapter 15 Chapter Fourteen Bloody Night

one The guy with the stupid kitten mustache was much quicker than Stark expected. Stark was waiting for Donaldson in the ninth-floor corridor of the building where Donaldson lived, just around the corner from Donaldson's apartment door.It would have been easier if Stark had been able to get into the apartment first, like he had killed the bitch, but he took one look at the locks and was sure they didn't open as easily as hers.But everything will still be fine.It was very late, and the rabbits in the rabbit farm should all be asleep, eating alfalfa in their dreams.Donaldson would be drunkenly unresponsive - when you come home at one o'clock in the morning, you're by no means fresh from the public library.

Donaldson did seem a little drunk, but his reflexes were by no means sluggish. While Donaldson was fumbling for his key ring, Stark turned the corner and slashed at him with the razor, hoping to blind him quickly and effectively, and then, before Donaldson could scream, slit his throat, Cut his vocal cords while slit his throat. Stark didn't try to run quietly, he wanted Donaldson to hear him, to turn his face toward him, which would make the assassination easier. Donaldson's initial reaction was as he'd expected, and Stark slashed the razor sharply across his face, but Donaldson managed to dodge it—not much, but too much for Stark's purposes. .The razor missed his eye, but his forehead, where the bone was exposed, and a sheet of skin rolled over Donaldson's eyebrow like a peeling wallpaper.

"Help!" Donaldson yelled in a low, sheeplike voice.That's what it's like to miss a hit, fuck it. Stark approached, the razor held in front of his own eyes, the blade slightly upward, like a matador saluting the bull before his first fight.Never mind that it didn't go well every time, he didn't blind the informer, but blood was gushing from the cut in his forehead and Donaldson Jr. could only see through a sticky mist. He slashed at Donaldson's throat, and the bastard threw his head back as fast as a rattlesnake dodging an attack, a surprising speed, and Stark couldn't help a little admiration for the man, regardless of his ridiculous cat whiskers laugh.

The blade brushed against the man's throat, missing him, and he screamed for help again.The never-deep sleepers of New York City bunnies are all awake.Stark slashed again in the other direction as he tiptoed forward, a graceful, ballet-like movement that should have done the trick.But Donaldson raised a hand to the front of his throat, and Stark didn't kill him, just a series of long, faint gashes that a police department pathologist would call defensive wounds.Donaldson raised his hand with his fingers spread out, and the razor cut across the bases of all four fingers, and he had a heavy ring on the third finger, so that finger wasn't hurt.There was a crisp, slightly metallic sound as the blade cut across the ring, leaving a small scar on the ring.The razor sliced ​​deep through the other three fingers, cutting as effortlessly into the flesh as a warm knife into cream.The tendons were severed, and the fingers slumped forward like sleepy puppets, only the ring finger stood upright, as if Donaldson had forgotten which finger to use to taunt others in his confusion and terror.

When Donaldson spoke this time, he was actually howling, and Stark knew it was impossible to walk away quietly. He had hoped to leave quietly after finishing his work, because he would not let Donaldson live to call Yes, but the actual situation is not the case.But he didn't want Donaldson to live either.Once something goes wrong with what you're doing, you're going to keep doing it, and it's either done or you're done. Stark pressed forward, and now they were almost at the door of another apartment along the corridor.He casually flicked the razor sideways to shake the blood off the razor, which rained down on the cream-coloured wall.

Across the corridor, a door opened and a man in blue pajamas and a nightcap poked his head and shoulders out. "What for?" he cried angrily, and his voice made it clear that he didn't care if the Pope was here. "Murder," Stark said flatly, and for a moment his eyes shifted from the bloody, howling man in front of him to the man at the door.Later, the man would tell the police that the killer's eyes were blue, light blue, and crazy. "Would you like some?" The door slammed shut as quickly as if it had never been opened. Donaldson was panicked and badly hurt, but when Stark looked away (even for a very brief moment), he saw an opportunity and jumped at it. The bastard was really quick. Dak's admiration went even further.The guy's speed and self-preservation are fantastic, although what he does next is pretty stupid.

If he jumped forward and wrestled Stark, he might actually cause a little trouble.Instead, Donaldson turned and fled. Totally understandable, but this is a mistake. Stark followed, his oversized shoes rustling on the carpet, and he slashed at the man's back of the neck, believing that the blow would finally end the matter. But just an instant before the razor hit, Donaldson ducked the blow with a jerk of his head forward, like a tortoise hiding in its carapace.Stark was beginning to believe that Donaldson had telepathy, and this time, what should have been a fatal blow only cut the scalp, which was on top of the protruding bone at the back of the neck. It was bleeding, but it was by no means fatal.

It's infuriating, infuriating...and kind of funny. Donaldson staggered down the hallway, side to side, sometimes bumping into walls, shouting as he fled.Blood spilled on the carpet as he staggered down the corridor to escape.Occasionally bloody handprints were left on the walls, but he wasn't dead when he staggered down the corridor. No other doors open, but Stark knows that, at least in half a dozen apartments at this very moment, there are half a dozen fingers tapping 911 on half a phone. Donaldson staggered to the elevator. Stark strode after him, neither angry nor frightened, just terribly annoyed.Suddenly he reprimanded loudly: "Oh, why don't you stop and behave yourself!"

Donaldson's yell for help turned into a scream of surprise, and as he tried to look around, he tripped and fell ten feet from the elevator corridor.Stark discovered that even the quickest of guys can end up overwhelmed when you cut them down to bleed too much. Donaldson was on his knees, apparently about to crawl toward the elevator corridor now that his foot was dead.He looked around with his bloodied, unrecognizable face to see where his attacker was, and Stark kicked him hard across the bridge of his bloody nose.Stark, in his brown sneakers, hangs his hands, swings back a little for balance, and kicks off with all his might, in the way anyone who's watched a football game would think of a powerful kickoff.

Donaldson's head flew backwards and slammed into the wall, leaving a shallow bowl-shaped crater in the plaster wall before bouncing back. "I finally got you, didn't I?" Stark whispered, hearing the door open behind him.He turned to see a woman with dark curly hair and dark eyes looking out of an apartment door on the side of the corridor. "Get in there, bitch!" he yelled.The door slammed shut as if on a spring. He bent down, grabbed Donaldson's sticky, disgusting hair, turned his head back, and slit his throat.He thought Donaldson might have been dead before his head hit the wall, and certainly dead afterward, but better be safe.And, when you start with a throat cut, you end with a throat cut.

He took a few steps back quickly, but Donaldson didn't spurt blood like the woman did, he had stopped spurting blood, or had already slowly finished bleeding.Stark hurried to the elevator, folded the razor and put it back in his pocket. The elevator is coming up. May be a resident.In big cities, it's never really late at 1pm, even on a Monday night.However, Stark quickly walked behind a large flower pot, which was in the corner of the elevator corridor.All his radars were pinging, someone might be coming back from a disco or a business dinner, but he was sure it wasn't, he believed it was the police.Or rather, he knew it was the police. A patrol car was nearby when a resident of the building called to say a murder was going on in the hallway?Possibly, but Stark doubted it.It was more likely that Beaumont had reported it, that the chick had been found, that these cops were there to protect Donaldson, and better late than never. He squatted down slowly with his back against the wall, his blood-soaked sweatshirt rustling.He wasn't hiding much, the pots were just a little bit in the way, and if they looked around they'd see him.But Stark bet their attention would all be drawn to the corpse in the middle of the corridor.For a while, that was enough for him. The broad, cross-shaped leaves of the grass and grass cast jagged shadows on his face, and Stark looked out of the center like a blue-eyed tiger. The elevator doors opened.There was a muffled cry, and then two policemen in police uniforms rushed out.They were followed by a nigger in a pair of jeans and big old sneakers, and the nigger was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and a pair of prank sunglasses, and Stark was sure he was a detective.When they're faking, they're always going too far...and they act with awareness of it, as if they know they're going to expose but can't.Then he was the one to protect Donaldson.There would be no detectives in a normal patrol car, and the nigger came with the policeman at the gate, questioned Donaldson first, and then stayed behind to protect him. Sorry, guys, Stark thought, I don't think he's talking anymore. He stood up and walked out from behind the flowerpot.Not a leaf rustled, and his feet landed soundlessly on the carpet.He passed within three feet of the detective, who was ducking down and drawing a pistol from its holster.Stark could kick him hard in the ass if he wanted to. He slipped into the open elevator at the last moment as the doors began to close.A uniformed policeman saw a flicker out of the corner of his eye—maybe it was the door, maybe it was Stark himself, but it didn't matter—and he looked up from Donaldson's body. "Hey--" Stark raised a hand and solemnly waved his fingers at the policeman, goodbye.Then the door cut off the attractive scene of the corridor. There was no one in the first-floor corridor—except for the doorman, who lay unconscious under a table.Stark got out, turned the corner, got into a stolen car, and drove away. two Phyllis Miles lives in a new apartment building on Manhattan's West Side.She was pissed off about a broken date when the police protecting her (and a detective with him in sweatpants, a tank top, and pimp sunglasses—) found her on the night of June 6.She was upset at first, but cheered up when she heard that someone who thought he was George Stark was trying to kill her.She loaded three cameras with fresh film and fiddled with dozens of lenses as she answered detectives' questions about interviewing Ted Beaumont.When the detective asked what she was doing, she winked at him and said, "I believe in the Boy Scout motto. Who knows—something might actually happen." After the interview, outside her apartment door, a uniformed police officer asked the detective, "Does she really think that?" "Really," said the detective, "her problem is that she never really thinks about anything else. To her, the whole world is just a picture to be taken, and she's a stupid bitch who really believes she can always Take a good photo." It was already three o'clock in the morning on June 7th, and the detective had already left.The two police officers assigned to protect Phyllis Miles, who had received word of Donaldson's killing two hours earlier via walkie-talkies on their belts, were advised to exercise extreme caution and vigilance because of the psychopath they were dealing with. The perpetrators have proven to be very cruel and cunning. "Prudence is my middle name," said the first officer. "That's a coincidence," said the second officer, "Extreme is my middle name." They have been partners for more than a year and get along very well.Now they grin at each other, why not?They were two of the best armed and uniformed cops in New York, standing on the twenty-sixth hallway of a brand new apartment building, brightly lit and air-conditioned.This is real life, not a Rambo movie, and tonight's real life is a special assignment, lighter than they usually are.They should stand in the air-conditioned corridor in the hot summer, they firmly believe that it should be so. When they thought this way, the elevator door opened, and an injured blind man came out of the elevator tremblingly and entered the corridor. He was tall, with very broad shoulders, looked about forty years old, and wore a torn tracksuit and trousers, which did not fit well, but more or less made up for it, the first policeman People who think clothes for the blind are funny.The blind man also wears a pair of large dark glasses that are slanted over his nose because one of the brackets of the glasses has come off, these glasses are by no means pimp type sunglasses, they look a lot like Claudie Rains Sunglasses worn in The Invisible Man. The blind man stretched his hands forward.The left hand is empty, just dangling aimlessly, and the right holds a dirty white cane with a rubber bicycle handle attached to the end.Both hands were covered with dried blood, and the blind man's sweatshirt and shirt were also covered with brown dried blood.If the two cops protecting Phyllis Miles were really careful, they would find the whole thing pretty weird.The look of the blind man clearly indicated that something had happened, and it wasn't very good, but the fact that the blood on his skin and clothes had turned a brown color, suggesting it had been spilled some time ago, should make The two policemen felt that something was wrong, and that they should even be alerted. But, maybe not.Things are happening too fast, and when things are happening too fast, it doesn't matter if you're cautious—you have to go with the flow. One moment they were standing before Miles, as happy as kids out of school; the next, the bloodied blind man was standing before them, waving his dirty white cane.There was no time to think, let alone reason. "Po-police!" the blind man shouted even before the elevator doors were fully opened. "The doorman says the police are on the twenty-sixth floor! Co-police! Are you here?" He groped along the corridor, turning his cane from side to side, it slapped the wall to his left, then came back and slapped the wall to his right. Whoever wakes up is about to be woken up. The two policemen walked forward without even looking at each other. "Po-cop! Cop-" "Sir!" cried the second policeman, "Calm down! You're going to—" The blind man turned his head in the direction the second policeman was speaking, but did not stop.He swaggered forward, waving his left hand and his dirty white cane: "Police! They killed my dog! They killed Daisy! Police!" "gentlemen--" The first policeman reached out to help the staggering blind man, who put his free hand into the left pocket of his tracksuit and drew a pistol from it.He pointed it at the first cop and pulled the trigger twice.In the narrow corridor, the sound of gunfire was deafening, and there was a lot of blue smoke.The bullet entered the body of the first policeman almost flat.His chest sank like a broken basket of peaches as he fell.His jacket was smoking. The second cop watched dumbfounded as the blind man pointed the gun at him. "Oh please don't..." the second policeman said softly, sounding like someone had hit him hard to breathe, and the blind man fired two more shots, and the blue smoke filled the air again.For a blind man, he was very accurate.The second cop fell backwards, his shoulder blades hitting the corridor carpet, jerked violently, and lay still. three In Ludlow, five hundred miles away, Ted Beaumont turned restlessly. "Blue Smoke," he whispered, "Blue Smoke." Outside the bedroom window, nine sparrows stood on a telephone wire, and six more joined in, standing quietly and silently above the state police patrol car. "I don't need these anymore," Thad said in his sleep.One hand scratched the face clumsily, and the other made a throwing motion. "Ted?" Liz asked, sitting up. "Ted, are you all right?" Ted said something incomprehensible in his sleep. Liz looked down at her arms, covered with goosebumps. "Ted? Is that the bird chirping again? Do you hear the bird chirping?" Ted said nothing.Outside the window, the sparrows spread their wings and flew into the darkness together, although it was not their time to fly. Neither Liz nor the police in the patrol car paid them any attention. Four Stark threw aside his sunglasses and gloves, and the corridor was filled with the choking smell of gunpowder.He fired four bullets, two of which pierced the police, leaving holes the size of plates in the hallway walls.He went to Phyllis Miles' door, ready to trick her out, but she was already on the other side of the door, and he knew from the sound of her voice that it would be easy to trick her. "What happened?" she cried. "What happened?" "We got him, Ms. Miles," Stark said cheerfully. "If you're going to take a picture, fuck it up, and you'll remember later that I never said you could." The chain was still on when she opened it, but that was okay.When she put a wide-open brown eye in the crack of the door, he fired a bullet. Closing her eye—or the one remaining eye—was impossible, so he turned and walked toward the elevator.He didn't dawdle, but he didn't run either.An apartment door opens—everyone seems to be opening to him tonight—and Stark raises his gun at the bunny face.The door slammed shut immediately. He pressed the button of the elevator he had taken after knocking out that night's second porter with a cane he had stolen from a blind man, and the doors of the elevator opened now, as he had predicted, At this time of night, the three elevators are rarely used.He threw the gun back over his shoulder.It hit the carpet hard. "Everything's going well," he said, stepping into the elevator and heading down. Fives The sun was shining on Rick Cowley's living room window when the phone rang.Rick was fifty, red-eyed, haggard, and half-drunk.He picked up the phone with trembling hands.He simply didn't know where he was, and his weary and aching heart insisted it was a dream.Did he go to the morgue to recognize the mutilated body of his ex-wife three hours ago?The morgue was less than a street away from the trendy Petite French restaurant, which only served customers who were also friends.Because whoever killed Miri probably wanted to kill him too, so there are cops outside his door too?Are these things true?of course not.It should just be a dream... maybe the phone ringing isn't the phone ringing, just the alarm clock by the window.He hated the alarm clock...throwing it across the room more than once, but this morning he was going to kiss it, gosh, he was going to kiss it deeply. But he didn't wake up.Instead, he's answering the phone: "Hello?" "I'm the one who slit your ex-wife's throat," the voice whispered in his ear, and Rick woke up suddenly, his hope that this was all just a dream dashed.It was the kind of sound you should only hear in your dreams...but you never heard it in your dreams. "Who are you?" he heard himself whisper weakly. "Ask Tad Beaumont who I am," said the man. "He knows all about it. Tell him I said you're dead. Tell him I haven't killed all the fools I need to kill." The phone clicked in his ear, followed by a moment of silence, then a monotonous hum. Rick held the phone on his lap, looked at it, and burst into tears. six At nine o'clock in the morning, Rick called the office and told Frieda that she and John could go home—they were off work today and the rest of the week.Frieda asked why, and Rick almost lied to her, as if he had committed some crime and dared not admit it. "Mirriem is dead," he told Frieda. "She was murdered in her flat last night." Frieda gasped: "My God, Rick! Don't make such jokes! You make such jokes and they will become true!" "It's true, Frieda," he said, and found himself on the verge of crying again.He'd cried in the morgue, he'd cried in the car home, he'd cried after that madman called, and now he's trying not to cry, and those tears were just the beginning.He would shed many more tears in the future, and the thought of it made him weary.Miriam was a bitch, but she was a lovely bitch, and he loved her.Rick closed his eyes.When he opened his eyes, there was a person looking at him from the window, although the window was on the fourteenth floor.Rick was taken aback, and then he saw the uniform.A window cleaner.The window cleaner waved to him from the scaffolding.Rick raised a hand in a symbolic shake.His hand weighed like eight hundred pounds, and he almost let it fall back into his lap as soon as he lifted it. Frieda was telling him to stop joking again, and he felt even more tired.He understands that tears are just the beginning.He said, "Wait a minute, Frieda," and put the phone down.He went to the window to close the curtains.Crying to Frieda on the other end of the phone was bad enough, he didn't want the damned window cleaner to see him cry again. When he got to the window, the man on the scaffold reached into the pocket of his overalls and pulled something out.Rick suddenly felt uneasy. Tell him I said you were dead.God—— The window cleaner pulls out a little sign, it's yellow with black lettering, flanked by lots of smirking faces, and it says: Have a great day. Rick nodded wearily.Have a great day.He drew the curtains and went back to the phone. seven When he finally convinced Frieda that he wasn't joking, she cried out loud - everyone in the office loved Millie, even damn Olinger, who was always writing bad sci-fi and stealing women like crazy bra.Rick cried with Frieda until he finally hung up.At least I drew the curtains, he thought. Fifteen minutes later, he was making coffee when he remembered the madman's phone call.With the police outside his door, and he doesn't tell them, what's wrong with him? Well, he thought, my ex-wife is dead, and when I saw her at the morgue, she looked like she had another mouth two inches below the lower jaw, where it killed her. "Ask Ted Beaumont who I am, he knows all about it." Of course he wanted to call Ted.But he was in a mess and couldn't figure out many things.Hey, he'll call Ted.He called Ted as soon as he told the police about the call. He did tell them, and they were very interested.One of the officers reported the situation to police headquarters via the walkie-talkie.When he was done, he told Rick that the sheriff wanted him to go to the department and talk about the call he had received.While he was there, a man would rush to his apartment and put a recording and tracking device on his phone in case another call came. "There might still be a phone call," the second cop told Rick, "These psychopaths love their own voices." "I should have called Ted first," Rick said. "He's probably going to be in trouble, too, and that's what it sounds like." "Mr. Beaumont is under police protection in Maine, Mr. Cowley. Let's go, shall we?" "Hey, I really want to—" "Perhaps you can call him from the sheriff's office. Now—would you like to get dressed?" Rick was taken away in such a daze. Eight When they returned two hours later, one of Rick's escorts frowned at the door of his apartment and said, "There's no one here." "What's the matter?" Rick asked palely.He felt pale, like a milky glass that could almost be seen through.He was asked many questions, which he tried to answer satisfactorily—a difficult job, because the questions seemed meaningless. "If the guy from Communications is done before we get back, they should wait." "They might be in there," Rick said. "Maybe one of them is inside, but the other should be outside here. That's standard procedure." Rick took out his keyring, retrieved the door key, and slipped it into the lock.The problems these guys have with their peers' operating procedures are none of his business.Thank God he has his own problems to deal with. "I'm going to call Tad right away," he said, sighing and smiling. "It's not quite noon, but I already feel like the day won't—" "Don't touch that!" a policeman suddenly shouted, jumping forward. "What—" Rick asked, turning his key, and the door exploded in a flash of fire.The policeman thought that the policeman who was a little late could still be recognized by his relatives; Rick was almost evaporated.Another officer stood back, instinctively shielding his face from his companion as he yelled, and he was treated for burns, concussion and internal injuries.Fortunately—almost miraculously—the debris flying from the doors and walls didn't touch him at all, though they circled him.However, he could no longer work for the NYPD; the explosion deafened his ears in an instant. Inside Rick's apartment, two communications technicians who had come to modify the phone were lying dead on the living room rug.A note was pinned to the forehead of one of them with a thumbtack: "The sparrow is flying again." Pinned to the other's forehead was a second message: "There are more fools to kill. Tell Ted."