Chapter 10 The Hunter's Game

Harrison led me up the stairs with the knife pressed against my ribs. His grip on my arm was firm but careful, like he was handling a delicate piece of equipment. Around us, the museum guests continued their conversations, completely unaware that a serial killer was walking among them.

"Smile," he whispered in my ear. "We wouldn't want to alarm anyone."

I forced my lips into something resembling a smile while desperately hoping my team had understood my signal. The upper level was quieter, with fewer people and darker corners between the art installations.

"You know," Harrison said conversationally as we walked, "I've been following your investigation with great interest. Very thorough work, especially for someone working with such limited information."

"How long have you been watching us?"

"Since the beginning. It's fascinating how law enforcement operates. All that evidence gathering, all those theories, and you still missed the most obvious clues." He guided me toward a dimly lit corridor lined with contemporary sculptures. "But then that journalist started getting close. Alex Chen, wasn't it?"

My blood chilled. "What about Alex?"

"He's remarkably persistent. Three years of chasing shadows, and he finally found the right pattern." Harrison's voice carried a note of admiration. "I almost didn't kill his sister. She was so close to the truth, it seemed wrong to stop her before she could understand what she'd discovered."

"You killed Lisa because she was investigating you."

"I killed Lisa because she was going to ruin everything. The work I'd been doing, the careful progression from city to city—she would have destroyed it all with her newspaper articles." We stopped in front of a large abstract sculpture that cast strange shadows on the wall. "But her death led Alex to me, and Alex led you to me. Fascinating how these things work out."

I could hear footsteps on the main level below, voices calling my name. My team was looking for me, but the museum was large and full of hiding places.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"To finish what I started." Harrison's grip tightened on my arm. "New York was always meant to be the finale. Five cities, forty-seven women, all leading to this moment."

"Why New York? Why here?"

"Because this is where it began." His voice became distant, almost wistful. "I was an intern at Bellevue Hospital five years ago. There was a woman, an artist, who came into the emergency room after a car accident. Beautiful, creative, full of life. I tried to save her, but she died on my table."

I stayed silent, afraid to interrupt his confession.

"But in her final moments, she was perfect. No more struggling, no more pain, just peaceful acceptance. I realized then that I could give that gift to others—the gift of a perfect, dignified death."

"So you started killing women who reminded you of her."

"I started helping them find peace." His tone was matter-of-fact, like he was discussing a medical procedure. "Always respectfully, always with dignity. Each one positioned carefully, hands arranged to show their final acceptance."

"Three fingers extended, two folded down."

"You noticed. Very good. It represents the transition—three parts of life completed, two parts released. It's quite beautiful, really."

A security guard appeared at the far end of the corridor, walking slowly in our direction. Harrison saw him too and pressed the knife deeper into my side.

"Wave to him," Harrison whispered. "Let him know everything is fine."

I raised my free hand and waved casually. The guard nodded and continued his rounds, disappearing around a corner. My chance for help vanished with him.

"Now then," Harrison said, "let's find somewhere more private for our conversation."

He guided me toward a service door marked "Authorized Personnel Only." The door was unlocked, leading to a maintenance stairway that spiraled down into the building's lower levels.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere we won't be interrupted." The stairway was narrow and dimly lit, our footsteps echoing off the concrete walls. "I want to explain my work to you properly. You deserve to understand what you've been chasing."

We descended two levels before Harrison pushed open another door. We emerged into what looked like a storage area filled with crated artwork and maintenance equipment. It was isolated, soundproof, and far from the gallery crowds above.

"Much better," Harrison said, finally releasing my arm but keeping the knife visible. "Now we can talk properly."

I looked around for weapons or escape routes. The room had several exits, but Harrison was blocking the one we'd entered through. Wooden crates were stacked along the walls, some large enough to hide behind if necessary.

"Tell me about the pattern," I said, trying to keep him talking while I assessed my options.

"You mean the cities? That was the beautiful part—each location was chosen for its artistic community. Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, Denver, Phoenix, Dallas, Atlanta, Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, Miami, and finally New York." His eyes were bright with enthusiasm. "I studied each city's art scene for months before beginning my work."

"And you always left after exactly eight weeks."

"Precision is important. Eight weeks gave me enough time to select the right subjects and complete my work without attracting too much attention. Until New York."

"What made New York different?"

Harrison's expression darkened. "Your journalist friend and his three years of investigation. Alex Chen forced me to accelerate my timeline. I had to take risks, make myself visible to law enforcement."

"The notes you left at crime scenes."

"A message to whoever was tracking me. I wanted them to know they were getting close, that the game was almost over." He stepped closer, and I could see surgical scars on his hands. "But I never expected them to bring in someone like you."

"What do you mean?"

"You understand the beauty in dark things, don't you, Rachel? I could see it in your eyes when we talked about the art upstairs. You appreciate the aesthetic of violence, the poetry in death."

He was wrong, but I needed him to keep talking until my team found us. "It's... an interesting perspective."

"I knew you'd understand. That's why I chose you."

"Chose me for what?"

Harrison smiled, and for the first time, it looked genuinely warm. "To be my final masterpiece. The perfect ending to five years of work."

The knife in his hand caught the overhead light, and I realized I was running out of time for rescue.

The Alley Killer had found his last victim.