Chapter 7: Chapter 7: To kill or not to kill?

*** WARNING!!! This chapter contains gruesome violence and foul language. You have been warned.

 

 

Hunter sat in his bed and opened the bottle of whiskey, pouring it into the glass the old psychiatrist had left him. Although the cheap spirit tasted bitter and musty, the slight cool tinge eased his mind to a state of drowsiness that seemed to pull him towards a gradual slumber.

"Hunter," he muttered.

It was not his real name, he thought to himself. For a moment, he struggled to remember his real name, which was either a result of the booze taking effect or a symptom of how being so many different people had ultimately caused him to lose his identity.

After all, who was he?

He had been so much in his life yet was nothing at any given moment. He had been an orphan, a thief, then a street urchin, briefly even a hard worker who ended up behind bars, and now a murderer on the run. So his name Hunter or not ultimately did not matter.

"Maybe if it was Nathan Wellesley, then it would matter a lot."

Hunter laughed at the thought.

In essence, Hunter was the utmost personification of getting the short end of the stick on both accounts. He had tried to be honest, pushed to make something out of himself, which is why he never truly mixed with the ruffians, but at the end, that had left him in a strange middle ground between law-abiding civilians and hardened criminals.

Nevertheless, Hunter did not mind, for he did not expect much out of life other than having a few moments of uninterrupted peace and quiet where he would not have to fight through invincible circumstances to save his neck. But as is often the case, his worst fears had decided to glue themselves to his fate.

Ever since the incident at the awful place, his life was hurled into a never-ending vortex of dread, misery and a sense of inevitable gruesome demise that shook him to his core every time he thought about it in the slightest. Breaking from his profound pondering for a moment, Hunter looked around the room in the sense of hopeless despair, the weariness starting to become legible in his face. He looked at the clock, which showed there was still three and a half hours to midnight.

"Long time.... or maybe not," Hunter said to himself as he shifted his focus from thoughts of the past to the matter at hand.

Shaw's demeanor at the dinner table had certainly rattled him, and given the knowledge of their first encounter and what Genevieve said about her father, not getting in Shaw's cross-hairs was in Hunter's best interests.

That being said, Hunter was still in the dark about Shaw's baffling attitude, or maybe not. Hunter's mind swayed towards the frightening thought he had been trying to avoid for the past hour, but now it seemed the most plausible.

"Genevieve must have told him," Hunter muttered to himself.

"Why not?"

She read the letter very clearly, and the instructions to kill Angela along with her photograph must not have missed her eyes. And although Shaw had said that as long as Hunter was paying and did not want to cause trouble, he would not bother, now that the cat was out of the bag, it would indeed cause him to change his mind.

After all, Genevieve would not just stay quiet about such a big thing. But one thing was for sure; Hunter did not see any fear in Genevieve's eyes or even the slightest bit of shock that usually follows with the discovery that a killer is living on the upper floor of one's house. Both Shaw and Genevieve did not seem to be threatened by Hunter in any form, which bewildered him to his wit's end. Hunter was now caught up in a bind, and all his avenues seemed to have unfavorable conclusions.

He had to make a choice, and he had to do it tonight. The simplest option was to pack his bags and run away. He had a torch and could probably make it to Sylvania station without any trouble and then get on the train. Hunter knew that the best time would be around midnight when hopefully everyone would be asleep.

"But what if they aren't?" Hunter suddenly thought to himself.

"What if Shaw is awake? What if he is waiting all this time so he can hand me over to the coppers, or worse?" Hunter started to become anxious as the thought continued to ram through his mind, mainly focusing on the last part.

No matter what, Shaw had to have somewhat of an idea as to what Hunter had done. He knew that Hunter was on the run, and he pretended not to care. But why?

Hunter did not know and could only assume the worst. So there was a possibility that running away could bring more attention to him. Moreover, the chances of finding a place where he could lay low were slim, and if his "benefactor" was searching for him, which was a definite possibility, it would only make it easier for Hunter to be found.

However, this line of thought was based on the sizeable assumption that the benefactor did not already know of Hunter's whereabouts, which was a giant leap of faith, one that he had to make.

Therefore Hunter only had two other possible options.

Either he could ignore all his instincts and stay put and hope to work out a solution to his mysterious benefactor, or....Hunter stopped his train of thought and poured a noticeable amount of whiskey into his glass. Then, taking a swift gulp, he suddenly sprang up onto the floor and started pacing around the room. He tried to wash away his mind's unfounded fears and anxiety for a moment as he attempted to keep a calm mind while thinking about his last avenue.

The final route possessed the most dilemmas. It had the potential to circumvent the hurdles Hunter would encounter on the first choice, although not completely. However, it would undoubtedly address the imminent threat that was Shaw's sudden change in attitude.

"But...Genevieve." Hunter thought again, distressing over the consequences should he decided to do something he never thought he was capable of...until now.

Hunter sloshed the remaining spirit onto the glass and poured it down his throat as he tried to untangle in his mind the inordinately complicated question that his choice posed; was he a cold-blooded murderer in every sense of the word?

Moreover, apart from the philosophical dilemma, there was the question of actually doing the deed. It would not be a mean feat if Hunter could sneak up on both of them while they were asleep, but if either of them tried to put up even the minimal resistance, things could end disastrously for him.

Perhaps, he could lure Shaw and then take on Genevieve, which would make the entire ordeal much more straightforward, but given what Hunter had experienced, the chances were slim. And even if somehow, he managed to do that, there was the question of disposing of the bodies. But then what?

Does he stay or run?

What if someone comes inquiring after them?

What if the doctor shows up again?

Maybe he could run away with whatever money Shaw had on him and go someplace else, or perhaps he could wait a couple of days.

Hunter's mind was now riddled with the consequences of the possibilities that lay before him.

He looked over to his bag lying on the table and reached for it, pulling out the butterfly knife he had carefully concealed in the bottom compartment. If only he had been this careful with the envelope. Perhaps he was, but ultimately his carefulness had split over to paranoia, causing him to become sloppy and landing him in the circumstance he was in.

Hunter took the knife out of the bag and carefully sized it up. The polished blade looked inviting, and gripping the shaft rushed a stream of adrenaline into his blood. While whether he was a cold-blooded murderer or not was up for debate, the fact that he had killed in cold blood was an indisputable truth. The only grey area that still helped him retain some of his conscience was that he did not do it out of his own will. But now, what he was thinking about doing would leave no room for interpretation.

The empty bottle of whiskey lay on the table beside the glass that bore a few droplets.

Hunter never liked drinking alone, but that was all he was doing ever since Hardin's death.

"Hardin..." Hunter sighed.

When was the last time he had seen him?

Had it really been six years?

"Yes, six years."

So much time had passed, yet Hunter could not ever forget Hardin's face the last time he saw him.

He had never seen someone look so frail, so scared. It was like someone had pushed a tube in him and sucked every bit of life inside. Then again, when one is due to swing from the gallows the next day, they do not have anything left in them to suggest otherwise. Hunter had seen that day what it meant to be truly powerless, to try to call for help but have no one to listen to you.

Hardin's eyes conveyed more than his words ever could, and when he was being taken to his cell for the last time, Hunter felt someone had taken the last bit of companionship left in his life. Hardin had been a guide to him, a friend and the closest he had to a family in this harsh world, but at that moment, Hunter was utterly deserted.

He cursed himself for not being able to do anything to save his innocent friend from suffering a fate that he did not deserve. Hardin had bailed him out, but Hunter had failed. But it was not that he had a chance of doing much. It was only one week from the time the constables barged into Hardin's house and found the bloodied knife to the jury finding him guilty and sentencing him to death.

Everything added up rather nicely. A lowlife with a history of crime and convictions, fresh out of prison stabbing someone for money, was one of the oldest tales in the book. It did not help that he had a lawyer who had unsurprisingly given up even before knowing his name.

"Justice" was done swiftly, and the people rejoiced. Perhaps, even God did.

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Hunter had thought to himself at the time for the day Hardin was hanged, it was not raining, nor were there any clouds to spread the gloom or misery he was feeling deep inside, but rather it was a bright, sunny day, a rare occurrence in this part of the country.

In the end, Hardin was buried in the prison cemetery, for he had no family.

Hunter was allowed to be a part of the burial in exchange for a reasonable offering to the warden. It was not much of a ceremony. A prayer was read, and a small grave marker was placed with an "X" on it, the symbol signifying that the person was executed.

"Marked as a bastard in life, and even in death," Hunter wondered to himself as he walked out of the prison gate, feeling alone and stranded.

The trip down memory lane hit Hunter like a harpoon and reminded him why he had been going around killing people just because of a letter asking him to do so. No matter what, he did not want to get caught and suffer the same fate as Hardin. He would rather die of a bullet to his head than a procession leading to the rope. And he knew that if the police or anyone for that matter came to know of the incident at the blue temple, it would not take long before he was paraded into court like an animal and the judge sentencing him to death. So, getting caught was not an option. Hunter had by no means an easy life, but he had tried to be good, and it had not paid off. Therefore, all he could aim for was to try and survive, and if someone had to die because of it, then there was no alternative.

Hunter once again looked at the clock. It was half-past eleven. The past three hours had passed hazily, but his vision was now starting to clear up. He knew what had to be done, and the question of whether or not he was a cold-blooded murderer no longer mattered. He had to survive and find his benefactor, and nothing would cause him to change his mind. So Hunter made his choice and started packing his things into his bag, leaving the knife out. He soon pocketed it and strapped himself for what was undoubtedly going to be a long night. After he was done packing, he quietly walked towards the door and slightly opened it to get a glimpse outside.

Only a single bulb dimly illuminated the hallway, and the barely visible dining room downstairs appeared to be empty. Hunter turned off the light in his room, and in the thin strands of the moonlight seeping through the window, he silently slipped outside. It was once again the cat and mouse chase, only this time there were two mice, and one of them had a gun that could blow his head off clean. Making sure not to make creaking noises with his boots, he walked barefoot down the stairs.

The night was getting chillier, and the cold was stinging his feet, but just like the eerily quiet atmosphere outside, Hunter tried not to make any sound. The knife sat in the back pocket of his pants, ready to be drawn and plunged within a moment's notice as he slowly made his way towards the two doors that stood on the leftmost side of the house. Both appeared to be shut, but that was not going to be a problem. He needed to make sure they were both locked, which would mean Shaw and Genevieve were inside.

Hunter checked the door on the left first, where Shaw slept. He slowly positioned his right eye near the keyhole and squinted as if to make out something very thin or small. After a few seconds of careful searching, he found what it was looking for. The lights were turned off, but the moonlight made visible the latch running across the door, which could be seen through the small gap between the door and its frame.

A smirk appeared on Hunter's face, and he slowly moved towards Genevieve's room and once again checked if the latch was in place. Surprisingly he could not make out the latch, but the resistance he encountered when slightly leaning against the door, provided ample evidence that it was locked.

Afterwards, he went up to the front door, which unsurprisingly had been bolted shut. There was no key on the door, but two giant latches held it firmly in place, which Hunter had noticed on the first day. With a swift motion, he unbolted the locks, making sure not to make any noise.

Once outside, he could feel the need to have his boots, but walking on the coarse ground barefoot was highly advantageous when it came to sneaking up on someone, which was his trump card. The autumn weather had dried up the earth, and small pebbles often grazed against the soles of his feet. Hunter walked around the lodge and went towards the back. After a minute of hushed footsteps, the window came into sight.

The entire house had a similar layout except for Genevieve's room which did not have any windows. Hunter looked around on the ground, and soon grabbed a medium-sized rock. He then set his sights on the windowpane, and positioned his arm to hurl the stone.

The plan was simple, break Shaw's window and get him near the sill. Once he was within arm's reach of the panes, all Hunter had to do was spring up and strike. He was confident that the element of surprise would be enough to give him the time he needed, and Shaw would not be able to line up his shotgun.

As soon as Hunter was done with Shaw, breaking into Genevieve's room would not take much. Many assumptions had been made so far, but Hunter was always sharp and a fast learner, which he had to be, and after a few murders, he knew this kind of endeavors always involved risks. Playing the entire scene in his head of what was about to go down, Hunter slowly inched towards the window. He had to be just below the panes, so as soon as Shaw walked over and removed the curtains, he could strike swiftly, for any slip-ups or delays meant he would be as good as dead.

Hunter placed himself firmly and slowly pulled out the knife from his pocket. The surroundings slowly started to quieten further as he tried to calm his heart, which in the deafening silence of the night was as loud as drums banging in his ears. Hunter drew deep breaths and concentrated all his focus on throwing the rock. He pushed his left hand that held the stone up in the air, and the rock was on the verge of flinging out and smashing the window. It was the moment of truth, and once he had let go, there was no turning back.

"What are you doing here?" a voice suddenly broke through the sheet of silence as Hunter's heart skipped a few beats.

"What are you doing here?" the voice spoke again, this time lowering its tone.

His entire body went cold within a split second, and he quickly restrained himself and brought his hand down. Hunter clasped his knife with all the force his hand could muster and, in a flash, sprang and turned around to strike. However, as soon as he caught view of the nocturnal visitor, he once again froze in mid-air, but his momentum carried him over, causing him to collide with the person resulting in the both of them falling onto the ground.

The scent of Jasmine blooming from Genevieve's hair had been overpowering, causing Hunter to swiftly get back on his feet. She, however, laid on the ground for a moment before extending her hand and motioning Hunter to pick her up. Hunter was dumbfounded and stood there for a moment, his mind trying to work out how had he missed Genevieve coming out of the house and walking all the way over behind him.

After pulling Genevieve up, Hunter slightly tilted his head towards the window, his anxiety shooting through the roof as he checked to see if this small commotion had woken Shaw up. A breeze of relief blew over him upon noticing that the window was still in its place, with the curtains blocking the view inside. However, Hunter momentary euphoria once more turned into dread when he looked back at Genevieve, who was standing behind him like a statue, her eyes curious to find the answer as to what he was doing near the window of her father's room that too, at midnight.

Instinctively, Hunter hid the knife in his pocket and, with as much of a calm voice as possible, said, "I saw someone outside. Came here to see if anyone was snooping around."

Genevieve did not say anything, but her eyes reflected that she was not convinced.

Hunter stood still, unsure of what to do next. He certainly was not going to lure Shaw out now. Suddenly the incident in the alleyway flashed before his eyes.

Was it possible?

Could he just place his mouth on her hand, push her against the ground and be done with it, just like he did with Angela?

However, before he could come to a decision, Genevieve took a step closer and whispered, "You are thinking about running away?"

Hunter's eyes almost sprang out of their sockets as his feet became planted in the ground.

"So she had told Shaw. Maybe he is watching everything now from behind the curtains." Hunter thought to himself, as he stood, planted in place.

Seeing him dumbfounded, Genevieve suddenly started walking back, her footsteps seemingly gliding across the air as she disappeared in the dark, similar to how she had arrived.

Frightened with what Genevieve was possibly going to do, Hunter frantically followed, soon catching up with her at the front entrance. He grabbed her by the arm and tugged her back, forcing her to turn around. Then, with one swift motion of the hand, he pulled out the knife and pointed it at within an inch of her throat.

"Make even a slight bit of noise and you are done. Fucking bitch. You told Shaw, didn't you?" Hunter almost let a short growl as the words left his mouth.

However, even with a knife to her throat, Genevieve did not appear flustered or showed any signs of fear but rather looked gravely confused.

"What would I say to him?" she said in a calm voice.

"The letter, you cunt. You read the letter. You know what I'm talking about."

"I did not tell him anything. Why would I?" Genevieve said, unmoved.

"Why wouldn't you? Unless you like having someone point the sharp end of their knife at your throat, just waiting to stick it in." Hunter said, slowly nodding the knife to make his point.

Genevieve remained silent for a moment, just staring at Hunter. Her steely blue eyes twinkled in the moonlight, which seemed to draw him in and soon, he found himself slowly losing grip on her. After a few seconds of silent eye contact, Genevieve suddenly shook herself free. Hunter did not protest but instead stood there, trying to make sense of what was going on.

"Do you really not know what this is?" Genevieve asked Hunter.

"Know what?" Hunter asked, raging with confusion.

"Look around you. What are you doing here?" Genevieve said in a cryptic tone.

As Hunter tried to put his mind to decipher the implication, suddenly, his heart sprang to his mouth when he heard footsteps near Shaw's window. Within a split second, something clicked in his mind, and he covered Genevieve's mouth with his hand and plunged the knife into her stomach. Once, twice, thrice. It was a reincarnation of what had happened to Angela Dawson in that alleyway, except Hunter saw in the dim moonlight that her eyes did not contain any form of terror, nor did her face bear any marks of screeching pain, rather looking withered as though life had left her body a long time ago.

Hunter gasped for air as he walked away from Genevieve's body. Half of the deed was done, but now he purposefully walked over to Shaw's window, picking up the rock on his way. Within moments, he hurled the stone at the glass, shattering the silence that had settled in the night.

"Who's there?" Hunter heard Shaw's voice followed by short footsteps.

He positioned himself near the panes as planned, and as soon as he heard the sound of the window lifting, he grabbed the ledge and, with one mighty jump, pounced inside the room. But before he could get on his feet, Hunter felt a strong blow to his left jaw that knocked him down. Lying down, he looked up to see Shaw standing over him.

"You cheeky fucker", Shaw said, reaching for the shotgun on the other side of the bed.

Seeing what was about to happen, Hunter sprang up onto his feet and charged in the dark with his knife, swiftly stabbing anything he could find. After a few failed attempts, Hunter felt the blade stuck onto something. As he twisted it, a shriek filled the room, shaking up Hunter. A second later, he realized the knife had struck Shaw's eye. Hunter then pulled out the knife and, with one swift motion, slashed Shaw's throat. After a few whimpers and shudders, Shaw's body became still as silence filled the room.

Hunter switched the light on, trying to see the mess that had been made. As soon he glanced at Shaw's lifeless body, Hunter's felt his stomach writhe in disgust. The knife had pierced his eyes with such force that the blood splattered everywhere along with bits of his cornea. Hunter had also put his entire weight in slashing his throat, which had made a wound deep enough to pry open his windpipe along with his veins. Hunter turned the light off, for he could not bear to look at the disfigured body. He hastily rushed to his room and strapped his bag, preparing to leave. As Hunter made his way onto the road, he saw Genevieve's body lying in the dust. Even though all his instincts howled at him to take off, a part of him could not bring to leave them like this.

For the next hour, Hunter dug a shallow grave near the wooden shed. As he shoveled through the earth, a sense of fear gripped Hunter, numbing his movements. The words of the doctor and the incident last night near his door kept playing in his mind. Hunter had restrained his mind from pondering over that occurrence all day, but now that he was all alone at night, miles away from any people, making graves for people he had just murdered, he could not help but think about the mysterious figure that had arrived at the doctor's doorsteps.

As the thoughts provided the constant rush of adrenaline, Hunter swiftly completed his digging.

By the time he brought the two dead bodies near the mound, Hunter felt his bones on the verge of cracking. He sat down on the ground, trying to catch his breath, with Genevieve's jasmine scented hair filling his senses as she laid dead a few feet away from him. After a while, Hunter used his last bit of energy to push the bodies into the ditch. As he covered them with dirt, Hunter said a prayer in his mind, which immediately after he found ironic. After the burial was completed, Hunter realized that he would not be able to make it to the station that night, meaning he had to take refuge in the lodge, a thought that, for some reason sent shivers up his body.

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