After Armageddon E-Book

Brian L. Porter

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A global nuclear holocaust. A vicious serial killer stalking the streets of Paris. A mystery in Mexico.

This collection from award-winning novelist and screenwriter Brian L. Porter showcases some of his finest short stories. The title piece, After Armageddon, depicts an aftermath of a global nuclear holocaust, with a surprising twist in the tale. The Voice of Anton Bouchard, soon to be made into a motion picture by Thunderball Films, tells the chilling story of 'The Butcher Beast', a vicious serial killer who stalks the streets of Paris one long, hot summer.

The Devil You Know takes us to Mexico, where police captain Juan Morales recounts his involvement in the case of a number of missing choirboys. The follow-up novel, Avenue of the Dead, is available for Kindle on Amazon. In Red Sky in the Morning, a nuclear submarine surfaces from a long and arduous patrol to find the sky has turned red, all communication channels are dead, and it appears the crew are all alone on the vast expanse of the ocean. R.I.G.S and Alien Abduction take the reader into the world of science fiction, while the world of the paranormal is featured in The Festival.

These and many others are contained in this exciting collection, which also features a guest appearance by horror author Carole Gill, who contributes her short story, Raised.

Leseprobe

After Armageddon

Brian L Porter

Copyright (C) 2014 Brian L Porter

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Dedication

To the Memory of Enid Ann Porter, 1914-2004. She never lost faith in her only son.

To Juliet, my soul mate and my inspiration.

And in memory of Malcolm Davies

Acknowledgements

My gratitude goes to my late friend Malcolm Davies, whose in-depth personal knowledge of the country of Romania was so helpful in my crafting of `The Sound of Silence'. My wife Juliet has, as always, been behind me all the way. Her support is forever invaluable. Ken Copley and Sheila Noakes have read and re-read each story and passed their individual judgments on them. If they hadn't enjoyed them, the stories wouldn't be in this collection. Finally, I would like to say a big thank you to editor, Kristina Dalton. Without her cajoling, forcefulness and wholehearted support, the work would not have reached its final, polished state.

An Introduction to the collection

This collection of short (and not so short) stories by Brian L. Porter contains a cross-section of the works of the author. Many themes are featured within the following pages, showcasing the author's ability to switch from the dark and disturbing side of human nature as featured in `The Voice of Anton Bouchard' or `Breathing to Death' to tales of other worlds and universes as in `An Alien Abduction'. Also found in this collection are strange tales which tell of possible futures for mankind. `Megalith' and `Red Sky in the Morning' fall within this category, and will leave the reader with much to think about. `The Sound of Silence' tells of one woman's terror as a drive in the Romanian countryside turns into a living nightmare, and `Bodies in the Cellar' is an illustration of the edicts that the facts presented before us don't always add up to what we believe to be the logical conclusion.

For sheer terror, don't miss novelette length `Toxic Bitch' a salutary warning tale of what our profligate use of our planet's resources may lead to.

Finally, the reader is treated to a four chapter preview of the author's latest work, the forthcoming novel `Under Mexican Skies'.

Having first appeared in the short story `The Devil You Know' (Eternal Press), Mexican detective Juan Morales later featured in the novella `Avenue of the Dead', soon to be published in paperback for the first time by Next Chapter, with an accompanying e-book edition. Now he returns once more, in his most complex case to date as a light aircraft crashes onto the site of an archaeological dig, revealing a long hidden secret. Soon, the crash takes second place as murder, theft and intrigue thrust Morales deep into the world of antiquities theft and illegal human trafficking.

Finally, I thank my friend and fellow author Carole Gill, for allowing me to include her short story, `Raised' at the end of this collection. Including her work here is my way of saying “Thank you” to Carole for introducing me to the wonderful people at Next Chapter Publishing.

The Voice of Anton Bouchard

(A Journey into the mind of a Serial Killer)

Introduction

What makes a serial killer? Some of the finest psychiatrists, psychologists and criminologists in the modern world have pondered that question. Is a serial killer born to it? Does a defective gene present in their biological make-up leave them devoid of feeling or compassion for their fellow man, leading them inexorably toward the destruction of life becoming normal in their daily existence? Might they inherit the desire to kill? The child of a psychopathic murderer simply follows the genetic instructions passed on from his or her parents? Could science classify the evil they perpetrate as a medical condition, something treatable by drugs? The unpredictability of the serial killer makes them the hardest to identify and apprehend. More often than not, luck plays a major role in bringing these misfits of society to justice. Unfortunately, many remain free, and the corpses attributed to them continue to grow in number.  In some cases, only the killer's own demise or ageing brings their particular reign of death to an end.

Another theory exists, however, one that has gained greater credibility in recent years. Many ex-soldiers, returning from violent and traumatic experiences on the battlefield have found it increasingly difficult to adjust to civilian life on their discharge from the military, some of these unfortunate individuals themselves becoming killers in civilian life. Unable to return to normality after being desensitized by war, they view death as a normal part of their everyday existence and feel compelled to carry on where their military careers left off. So the theory goes that the mind may become so shaped and moulded by life events, that trauma could turn a previously well-adjusted and respected citizen into that most heinous and reviled of murderers, the serial killer!

In truth, we must confess that we simply don't know the answer. Perhaps one day the specialists and psychiatrists will discover the cause of the aberration that leads one individual to lose so much of their basic humanity that they embark on the systematic and at times ritualistic murder of their fellows.

Until that day arrives, we can only continue to wring our hands in horror and gasp at the terrible headlines that scream at us from the popular press as the struggle for understanding continues.

Meanwhile, the minds of men and women such as Anton Bouchard remain closed to the world, and a clear and permanent danger to the unfortunates who unwittingly and tragically become drawn into their murderous web. So, the next time you pass your neighbour in the street, remember the story about to unfold before your eyes, and remain vigilant, always remain vigilant.

Prologue

Summer, 2003

Paris! The mere name of the great French metropolis conjures up thoughts of romance and culture. Great palaces and art galleries abound, and tourists flock to the city of love in their droves year after year. Happy families pass through the French capital on their way to Disney World and tourists in their thousands flock to view the famous sights of the Arc de Triomphe, The Elyseé Palace and the Eiffel Tower.

In the stifling heat of one long and languid summer, however, Paris sadly became the focus of one of the great criminal investigations of the early years of the new century. Known by the popular press as `The Butcher Beast', a seemingly invisible menace targeted attractive young women, subjecting them to horrific torture before finally ending their lives in brutal and bloodthirsty fashion.

As the police carried out their investigation into the string of murders that grew longer with each passing week, the public called out for an end to the killings, for the police to do something to bring the beast to justice. The clamour for positive action, for results grew louder as the murders escalated. Unfortunately for the people of Paris, in the absence of an identifiable motive for the murders and lacking solid evidence of any kind, and with a killer at large who appeared able to cover his tracks perfectly before disappearing like a wraith into the hot steamy night, the police appeared powerless in their efforts to solve the case.

The killer appeared to target random victims and with each new murder the level of brutality grew steadily worse. Soon, the streets of Paris would be devoid of women after dark. Fear would rule and Paris risked becoming a no-go area for the fairer sex. Such an event would lead to a disastrous fall in the number of tourists visiting the city, with the subsequent financial consequences being felt across the whole of the capital. As the heat of summer increased so too did the tension on the streets and the pressure on the police to catch the killer became almost as unbearable as the temperature.

No-one knew who to trust and who to suspect. People began to suspect their neighbours, friends turning against each other on the slightest pretext. It seemed as if everyone had become a suspect in the eyes of the man in the street. Paris became the centre of attention for the world's media. CNN, CBS, ABC, the BBC and ITN; all there to report on the inevitable public fascination with the horrific murders. Oddly enough, every anchor, camera operator and technician from those overseas networks was male. No-one wanted to place their female staff in any unnecessary danger.

The inexorable heat bore down on the city, hanging like a heavy pall above the airless streets and boulevards, and many women began to refuse to leave their homes at night, at least without a trusted escort. Others, either foolish or unwary or both decided that they wouldn't allow the intimidation wrought by the murders to take over their lives, and, ignoring the danger posed by the murderer they determinedly went about their business as normal. Some of course had no choice. They had to work to survive. Most of them stayed lucky and lived. For an unfortunate few however, their luck tragically ran out!

Chapter 1

Anton sat, quietly listening, head cocked slightly to one side, determined not to miss a word. He listened to the sound of the other's voice; hypnotic, the intonation soft, yet persuasive. As always, Anton felt mesmerised by the almost musical reverberation inside his head whenever he heard that voice. Enraptured by the soothing voice, he felt cocooned from the world around him, nothing and no-one else existed, only the voice mattered, and Anton listened, captivated and at the same time, trapped by the voice in his mind. The voice slowly faded, receding into the far recesses of his mind, and Anton unconsciously answered in a low voice “I know, I know. I understand what needs to be done”.

“Are you alright, m'sieur?”

The voice of the waitress suddenly cut in on Anton's thoughts. She had arrived at his table intending to offer to refill his coffee cup when she'd heard him talking, apparently to himself. Concern echoed in her voice as she asked her question.

“Eh? What do you want?” snapped Anton, with undisguised venom.

“I'm sorry m'sieur, I merely wondered if you would like a refill.”

The girl held up the gleaming stainless steel coffee pot in demonstration of her offer. Anton's reaction had scared her and she deliberately made no eye contact with her grouchy customer.

“Yes, please, I apologize for snapping, I was just thinking aloud.” said Anton.

The girl allowed herself to relax a little and smiled in acknowledgement of his apology and she quickly filled his cup and turned on her heel, eager to withdraw from the strange, sullen man seated by the window. He watched her as she retreated behind the high counter at the far end of the café. His eyes penetrated deep into her back as she walked, taking in every detail of her walk, the gentle sway of her hips, her hair, the blonde tresses caressing her shoulders as she moved, and the sound of her shoes as they clacked on the shiny, polished floor.

Anton liked what he saw. The girl was just his type. She would fulfil his needs more than admirably. The name on the badge pinned to her dress identified her as Michelle. Yes, Anton would see Michelle again. As if on cue, he heard the voice again. His irritation with the girl, his over sensitive reaction, his sudden flash of anger disappeared, instantly forgotten as he listened quietly, intently, head once again cocked on one side. As the voice receded once again, Anton looked down at his hands; they were shaking. He placed his palms face down upon the chequered pink and white tablecloth, pressing down on the table until the shaking stopped. Anton felt as if he were drowning, drowning in a sea of unimaginable uncontrollable grief, allied to a sense of losing his grip on reality. He tried hard to think rationally about the way his life had begun corkscrewing out of his control.

When had it started? He asked himself the question over and over again as he sat sipping his third sickly sweet black coffee, staring at the passing human traffic through the window of the street-side café; just another anonymous customer in another anonymous café-bar. When had the bloodlust that consumed him first begun to envelope his life? When had the voice within his brain first sent him out to accomplish that which had to be done? And it did have to be done; he knew that as surely as he knew his name, though no-one would ever understand. He knew that with a surety as firm as his belief in the voice. Not that he agreed with everything the voice told him, of course. He was much too intelligent for that! Oh no, he often argued with the voice within until he became blue in the face, but somehow, the voice always seemed to win, to overpower and subdue his sense of logic, his rationale. If ever the police apprehended him he knew for sure that he'd be vilified, hated, probably declared insane. He wasn't insane of course, though only he could testify to that, if he were asked.

Anton was forty-eight years old, and his once luxuriant dark brown hair had turned prematurely grey. He now kept it deliberately very short, so as not to emphasize the early ageing process that had struck him soon after the arrival of the voice. He remained in great physical shape and held himself erect when he walked, his tall frame towering over most of his fellow beings as he passed them in the street. His inner turmoil could perhaps have been betrayed by a visible sadness that showed in his eyes, but few people bothered to look that closely.

He allowed himself to dwell on his thoughts for a minute or two, before the answer to his own question revealed itself from within the deep recesses of his mind.

Three years, or nearly so, he suddenly concluded. That's when it started, when he first heard that nagging, incessant voice deep within his mind. Shortly after the millennium celebrations, that's when it began. He smiled as if satisfied, as if he'd solved a problem that hung heavy on his mind, and just as the solution came to him, he found himself interrupted in his reverie by the sound of a familiar, though unwelcome voice.

“Anton, how are you, it's been too long. Where have you been keeping

yourself?”

André Deladier was firstly a reporter, and secondly his brother-in-law, or should that be ex-brother-in-law? Nowadays he couldn't be too sure. Certainly he was the last person Anton wanted to see or speak to. Seeing André only reminded him of the pain, the awful agonies he had suffered at the loss of his dear Felicité, André's younger sister. She had been Anton's wife, his lover, his life. A doctor specializing in tropical diseases, she'd devoted six months of her life to helping ease the suffering of the poor in the Sudan, only to return to die horribly from a Haemorrhagic Fever contracted during her ministrations on the Dark Continent. At first filled with happiness and contentment that his beautiful wife had returned, Anton had watched helplessly as her organs were slowly absorbed by that terrible disease, had seen her once beautiful features distorted by pain, witnessed the horror as blood seemed to ooze from every part of her body, from her ears, her eye sockets, her nose. He'd watched with helpless horror, unable to stop her organs gradually liquefying, her body gradually destroying itself from within, becoming little more than a shapeless pulp. He cried, he screamed at God, the doctors, at anybody who would listen, but no-one could help his wife. Anton watched as his wife's body, ravaged by that awful disease literally melted away before his eyes. The doctors tried everything they could, but nothing could save his darling Felicité, it was too late, and her death came as an eventual release for her and a sign for him. That's when the voice had first spoken to him, the night she left him, the night so long, so dark, so lonely, when he closed his eyes, vainly trying to sleep and saw only blood, nothing but blood, and he knew then what he had to do. Anton's mind had slipped into a new dimension, and he would never be the same man as he had been before he'd witnessed the absolute horror of Felicité's death.

Now he turned to face Deladier, seeing the resemblance to his wife in the face of her brother, the eyes, the same aquiline nose, even the shared blonde hair, and Anton's hatred for André man simply increased with the reminder that the man's face represented.

“Go away André, I have no time to talk to you”.

“But Anton, we've all been worried about you,”

He was referring to his wife Arlette and son Bernárd. The passage of years had made Anton unreasonably jealous that André at least still had his wife, his family. It had been over a year since Anton had last seen Arlette and his nephew. André unfortunately had the unfortunate habit of bumping into Anton at the most inopportune times as the two of them went about their daily working lives. Why couldn't the man just leave him alone?

“André, how many times must I say this? Go Away! I just want to be left in peace I have neither the time nor the desire to engage in useless chit chat with you or with anyone else”.

Deladier looked at Anton with a mixture of pity and frustration etched on his face. He realised how much Anton had aged in a short time. As for the man's obvious show of temper at his intrusion into his sadness, André had had similar conversations with his late sister's husband on too many occasions in recent years, and he knew that the likelihood of Anton accepting one of his many invitations remained virtually non-existent, but the memory of his sister's love for her husband compelled him to try.

“Anton, Anton, I'll go if that's what you want, but you have to return to reality some time. Felicité is gone. As sad and tragic as her death was, and don't forget that I loved her too, you have to move on. You can't grieve for ever”.

“I have my work” said Anton, and he looked deep into André's eyes, and

something in that look provided André with all the encouragement he needed to hastily depart from the scene, though as he walked away Deladier couldn't resist one last comment.

“Please, just remember that work isn't everything in life Anton. You're preoccupied with death, all day, every day. You just can't leave it alone!”

“Goodbye, André” retorted Anton, thinking to himself You're so right dear brother-in-law, I am preoccupied with death, especially the ones I engineer, the ones which show me the pain, the blood, the cries and the screams, the exquisite final torment that manifests itself in those last seconds of life. That's what makes death worthwhile, but you'd never understand that if I told you, nor would anyone else. You're all too puny and narrow-minded to grasp the essence, the beauty of what I do.”

André had disappeared from sight by the time he finished his musing. Anton hadn't even noticed the man's departure. He left a few euros on the table, not waiting for his change. He grabbed his jacket from its place hanging on the back of his chair, and hurriedly left the café.

He found his car where he'd left it and drove the Peugeot the two miles back to his office, where he busied himself in administrative trivia for a couple of hours before making the decision to call it a day. He couldn't wait to get home. Anton had important work ahead of him and wanted to refresh himself, and prepare for the task he'd set for himself. Despite his urgent need, Anton took a detour on the way home, driving the long way round the streets of Paris. He needed to clear his mind, to wind down after the long day at work. The drive would do it.

The ultra-warm weather had brought the tourists flocking to the city, and as he drove past the thronging crowds he couldn't help but notice that the girls' skirts seemed to be getting shorter by the day, shorts were in abundance and even the businessmen of the city had forsaken their jackets and were, for the most part, walking the streets in short-sleeved shirts, many having dispensed with their ties. The heat had the effect of loosening the inhibitions of the young, and in many cases the not so young. The amount of female flesh on display acted as the burning flame of a candle to a moth. Anton heard the urging of the voice in his mind and recognized the summons. He felt exhilarated, and more than ready.

Chapter 2

As Anton spent his afternoon planning his night-time sojourn, at the headquarters of the Sureté a meeting took place between the Deputy Commissioner of the Paris police and Doctor Henri de la Croix, a respected expert in the field of serial killer profiling. Between them, they hoped to identify something, anything, which might help the police in their search for the killer whose crimes continued to terrorise the population of the city. They had met twice before as the killings had escalated, but this third meeting was thought necessary due to the increasing severity of the injuries being inflicted on the victims, and also in order to try to relieve the continued pressure being exerted on the investigators from every angle of society. The police, anxious to show that they were doing something, needed to demonstrate a readiness to explore any and every avenue they could. Perhaps this would help.

“So Doctor, you have all the facts as we know them. What, if anything do they tell you?”

“As I told you the last time, the `facts' as you call them tell us very little. All we have are the forensic reports from the crime scenes, and the post-mortem results on each of the victims. None of this in itself tells us anything about the killer.”

“But surely, after all this time, he must have left some imprint of his personality on the scenes, yes?”

“Well, yes. There is the suggestion; from the fact that he leaves no trace evidence whatsoever that the man is intelligent, and very scrupulous in his habits. He probably lives as he kills, that is to say that his home will be neat and tidy, with hardly a thing out of place, and he may suffer from what we know as Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, perhaps washing his hands or tidying his room many times each day.”

“You're certain that it's a man then, Doctor?”

“But of course. No woman would perpetrate such crimes against her own sex. On that I am absolutely certain. He's a man alright, and as I said, an intelligent one as well. He knows that any evidence will inevitably lead the police to him eventually, so he is absolutely meticulous in clearing any trace of himself and the murder weapons from the crime scenes.”

“What about a guess at his age, Doctor?”

“I am not in the business of guessing, Simon. All I will say is that he is quite probably a mature man, possibly someone in a position of trust. Maybe that is why the girls go with him in the first place, because they know him and trust him, because of who he is, or perhaps because of what he is!”

“What? You mean like maybe he's a priest or a doctor, or …”

“Hey, hold on a minute. I didn't say any of those things. I was just voicing an idea. I shouldn't have said what I did. I have no real evidence to suggest such a profile at this stage.”

“That's OK, Doctor. I won't quote you. All I'm saying is that you could be right. After all, when you look at some of the injuries inflicted on the victims, it could very well be the work of a doctor don't you think?”

“Look, Simon, you sound like the people in London over a century ago when the suggestion was made that Jack the Ripper was a medical man. Let me tell you now, you don't need a medical degree to do what this monster is doing. Anyone with a basic knowledge of human anatomy could do it, even you, for instance. All I'm saying is that the possibility exists that the killer is a professional man of some kind and that the victims may know him personally or that perhaps he meets them through his work and targets them that way.”

“It's not a lot to go on, is it Doctor?”

“You haven't given me much to work with, I'm afraid. All I can tell you with certainty is that you're looking for a seriously disturbed individual. The hard part is that he probably appears perfectly normal to those with whom he works. His family, if he has one, will have absolutely no idea that he is the man the Paris police are hunting for, and they'd be horrified at the mere thought that he could be responsible for the killings.”

“So, is he sick, evil or both, Doctor?”

“I would say he is certainly sick, probably suffering from a deep psychosis of some kind. He may be a paranoid schizophrenic, or perhaps a sociopath, without feelings for anyone while appearing perfectly normal to the world at large. As to `evil', well, I must ask you to define what you think of as evil. Is it a sickness? Is it something we are born with, or is it a path some of choose to take because of the `kicks' such a pathway presents us with along the way? Either way, I think you might agree that the loose term `evil' has many connotations and we should be careful how we apply it to any suspect.”

“So you're saying that evil itself is an illness?”

“I'm saying that we don't really know enough about the intricate workings of the human mind to determine what makes one man behave like a devil and another like a saint. That's another thing entirely from saying that evil is an illness.”

“So what do I tell the Commissioner, Doctor? Please give me something to go on. I know you can't really provide us with a profile of the killer based on what we've got, but at least give me a framework to build on.”

“OK Simon. I'll do my best to be brief. There's one other point we haven't considered yet.”

“Which is?”

“All the autopsy reports are in agreement that there has been no evidence of sexual assault in any of the killings, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Well then, I think we can rule out any sexual motive for the murders, which should at least help you to eliminate a whole raft of potential suspects from your investigation.”

“But how do we know the perp isn't getting his rocks off from watching them die, or from what he's doing to them?”

“Semen, my friend, or rather the lack of it. There was none present at any of the crime scenes.”

“But what if he used a condom, or waited until he got home?”

“Very unlikely in either scenario, Simon. Since when did you ever hear of a serial killer taking the time to put on a condom in order to get his kicks at a murder scene? As for going home, I think the initial `high' would have worn off by then. That's also why I think we're looking for a mature man, perhaps with a severely traumatized mind. If sex isn't his motive, I'm afraid it's going to make your search even harder though. You have to find out what set him off on this killing spree, and until you know that you are going to find it very difficult to identify and capture him. I may be wrong about the sexual angle of course, you may be correct about him using a condom, but I don't think so”

“Right then Doctor. We've got a mature man, possibly a professional obsessive compulsive with personal knowledge of the victims, who doesn't kill for any sexual thrill, who is also very sick, mentally speaking, though he may or not be naturally evil. Of course, you say he is also very tidy in his personal habits. Do I take it that that's as far as you're prepared to go?”

“I'm afraid so. Tell the Commissioner that when he gives me more to go on, I'll be prepared to stick my neck and my reputation out a little further from under the parapet.”

“I'll tell him Doctor, but he isn't going to be a happy man. Au revoir.”

“Au revoir, Simon,” said De la Croix to the Deputy Commissioner as he left the office. “Catch him soon, for all of us,” he called as the door closed with a soft click.

With the departure of his guest, Doctor De la Croix returned to the day-to-day business of his profession. He was truly sorry that he'd ended the meeting unable to provide the police with so little, but then this killer was one of the cleverest he'd ever attempted to profile. This man gave nothing away, and the doctor knew that that made him a very dangerous proposition indeed.

Chapter 3

Dusk had fallen by the time Anton returned to his apartment overlooking the Parc de Montsouris. As usual no-one at work had questioned him when he'd left early. No-one ever did, though if they had done he always had a good reason ready to explain his departure. Oh yes, he knew how to be clever, and a clever man indeed was Anton Bouchard, far cleverer than the fools with whom he had to work, cleverer than those who sought to bring his reign of terror to an end.

A fever had gripped Paris in those days, a terrifying fever wrought by fear of the terrible crimes perpetrated by the as yet unidentified assassin who prowled the streets at night, selecting his victims seemingly at random and subjecting them to unspeakable mutilations before finally despatching them to their meeting with Death, with the formless voice within him, Death, after all was the answer to everything, wasn't it?

The apartment was clean, more functional than homely. His décor and furniture could at best be described as minimalist by the fashion standards of the day. Anton didn't care. He rarely had visitors these days, and he positively discouraged anyone from interrupting his solitude when at home. Anton liked the apartment; he'd sold the house in the suburbs soon after Felicité's death. He thought it wise to live close to his work, to focus solely on what he had to do with his life now that his personal tragedy had left him alone in the world. Of course, he knew now that he'd never be truly alone, there was always the voice. The voice was his constant companion, mostly silent but somehow constantly with him, ready to guide him, to instruct him, to speak to him when the need arose.

After removing his jacket he walked across the expansive lounge and paused for a moment, looking out of the window to admire the view across the park. Turning back from the large plate glass window that looked out upon the world, he reached down and picked up the one item of truly personal significance in the room from its place on the glass coffee table beside the cream leather sofa. He stared long and hard at the photograph of himself and his beautiful Felicité. It had been taken on their honeymoon, which now seemed such a long time ago in Anton's mind. He remembered the day of the photograph well enough though. They were in Pisa, and Anton had persuaded a fellow visitor to the city to take the picture for them. There they were, she and he, leaning to mimic the slant of the famous tower that stood as a backdrop behind them, broad smiles on their faces, arms around each other; typical honeymooners. He'd loved the sight of her in that pastel blue dress, which seemed to reflect the colour of her eyes, and that showed every curve of her body as she moved. They'd spent two glorious weeks in Italy, visiting Rome, Venice, Pisa, Sorrento and Florence. Neither of them could have foreseen the terrible and horrific death that lay ahead for the beautiful young doctor as they'd lost themselves in their love for each other, wiling away the days and nights of those weeks in blissful harmony with each other, and with the world.

The sudden sound of an aircraft flying low over the city snapped Anton back to reality. He slowly replaced the photograph in its place on the coffee table, closed the vertical blinds that now shut out the remaining early evening light, and made his way to the bathroom. There, he lingered in the shower for a while before emerging refreshed and ready for the night ahead. In the bedroom he hung up his day clothes, the grey suit and tie. The white, sweat-stained shirt went straight into the washing basket in the corner of the room. Next, he dressed in what he termed his `working clothes'. In less than a minute he'd changed into a black polo-neck sweater, black trousers, and black soft-soled shoes. He checked his black leather `doctor's' bag, as he called it. His instruments were all present and correct. He was ready.

Though he wasn't particularly hungry, he knew that he had to eat simply to sustain himself, to give his body the energy it needed to carry out all that he asked of it. He took the time to prepare a quick sandwich of cheese and tomato from his almost empty refrigerator, which he washed down with a glass of sparkling spring water, and after washing and meticulously drying and clearing away his glass and sandwich plate, Anton moved to the door and exited his apartment. Avoiding the one reserved for residents, he instead rode the service elevator to the basement, made sure no-one was around in the underground car park, and then slipped quietly out into the dark Parisian streets.

Chapter 4

Despite the setting of the sun the heat in the city remained oppressive, as Anton began to walk through the darkened streets. Not even a hint of a breeze presented itself, and the leaves on the trees that lined the edges of the park across the road hung limp and unmoving. He kept his movements slow and energy-conserving.

He knew exactly where he was headed; he'd already spent long enough there that afternoon. Leaving the main boulevards and thoroughfares behind, he kept to the side streets and alleyways of the city he knew so well as he headed for the anonymous café-bar, where he'd encountered his over-talkative brother-in-law earlier.

He checked his watch and realised that he was a little behind his schedule for the evening. As he increased his pace and began moving swiftly through the hot, dark back streets, he became singularly aware that despite taking no apparent precautions against being seen, he appeared totally invisible to and unnoticed by anyone he encountered. The fluorescent wash of the occasional streetlight gave him a wraith–like appearance. He had become an amorphous creature of the night, his purpose clearly defined.

The newspapers, always leaning on the side of sensationalism, referred to the killer as `The Butcher Beast.' He could live with that. Their editors were always vying with each other to produce the most sensational headline, to grab as many casual readers as they could in order to boost their daily circulation. Anton knew many of them personally; he had spoken to Jacques Santerre of Le Monde only two days ago in his professional capacity. Anton felt perversely happy to be helping them in their quest to outdo each other in their daily sales battle. He amused himself by trying to think what words they would apply to tonight's display of his handiwork; even more, what they would say if they knew just who was committing the crimes they were so eager to publicise. No matter, they would never catch him. His secret identity would remain safe, of that he felt sure.

The police, of course, had made little progress and their continued investigation had brought them no nearer to catching `The Butcher Beast' than they had been after the first killing. Despite the scenes of horror he left behind, Anton had always taken extreme care in leaving trace evidence behind at the scene. He was clever enough to know that without any such evidence, the chances of him being apprehended would remain minimal, to say the least. Massive and thorough forensic searches of every crime scene had so far failed to produce one single clue to the identity of the killer, and the press and the public were becoming increasingly impatient with the police's lack of results. Anton knew that such impatience would lead to intense pressure on the investigators and that such pressure in itself could and often would lead to the police making mistakes, rushing the investigation to try to pin down a suspect, and thus making their own jobs harder, and his easier.

As he continued walking along the ever-darkening pathways, Anton observed the people he passed on the way to his destination. A young woman, high heels clicking on the sidewalk, well-dressed, probably on her way to meet her lover; a man in his fifties, briefcase in his hand, pipe in his mouth, on his way home from the office, home to his wife, his evening meal, a mundane, predictable, boring existence. There were others, all hurrying and scurrying, all seemingly going somewhere but, as Anton knew, really going nowhere.

“Such is life”, he concluded, speaking softly to himself and to that other incessant presence within his mind. “They all hurry by with their heads down, little people with their little lives, so meaningless. They see nothing; I could slash half a dozen throats as I walk down the street and no-one would take any notice. They see me, but they don't see who I am, what I am. They are all waiting for death!”

Accurate thinking by Anton? Of course. If any of the people who he passed that night could even remember seeing him when questioned, all they would report to the police was that they'd seen a man dressed all in black, carrying something under his arm, no face, no height, no weight, no hair or eye colour. An anonymous man in black, a phantom, a wraith in the night, a spirit, Death himself, walking the streets of Paris!