All except me.
That was stupid. What could I do? Tip off more police, and lead them to their deaths like I'd led these two? They were dead because of me—Crowley had killed them, but only because I forced him into it. He'd only wanted to kill one man tonight, and because of my meddling, two more were rotting in the trunk of a car. I couldn't do that again. It would have been better, perhaps, to leave him alone, to let him kill at his own pace—one per month instead of three in a single night.
I would not be responsible for any more deaths.
Except he wasn't killing just one per month anymore—his last victim had been less than three weeks ago. He was speeding up—maybe his body was falling apart more quickly. How long before it became one per week? One per day? I didn't want to be responsible for those deaths either, not if I could prevent them.
But how? I stopped pedaling and sat on my bike in the middle of the street, thinking. I couldn't attack him—even if I had a gun, I'd seen how stupid that idea was. If two policeman, trained in combat, couldn't kill him, then I certainly couldn't do it. Not like that. '
The monster behind the wall shifted, awake and hungry.
I can do it.
No.
No?
Maybe I could. That was what I was afraid of, right? That I'd kill somebody? Well, what if the somebody I killed was a demon? Wouldn't that be okay?
No, it wouldn't. I controlled myself for a reason—the things I used to think about, the things I built that wall to prevent, were wrong. Killing was wrong. I wouldn't do it.
But if I didn't do it, Mr. Crowley would, again and again.
"No!" I said aloud—angry at myself, angry at Crowley.
Get angry! Let it out!
No. I closed my eyes. I knew I had a dark side, and I knew what I was capable of—the same things that all the serial killers
I'd read about and studied were capable of. Evil. Death. The same things that Crowley was capable of. I didn't want to be like him.
But if I stopped when I was done, I wouldn't be like him.
If I stopped him, and then stopped myself, nobody else would have to die.
Could I stop myself? Once I tore that wall down, could I rebuild it?
Did I even have choice? I might be the only one who could kill him. The alternative was to tell somebody, and if that led to any innocent deaths at all, even one, then it was a worse alternative.
It would be better to kill him myself. It would mean less death, and less pain, for everybody. No one need suffer at all, except Crowley and me.
If I did it, I'd have to be careful. Crowley was a creature of pure power—too powerful to confront head-on. The tactics I had studied, the killers I could emulate, specialized in crushing the weak, overpowering those who could not defend themselves.
I threw up suddenly, turning my head and retching onto the road.
Seven people dead now. Seven people in three months. And he was speeding up. How many more would die if I didn't stop him?
I could stop him. Everyone had weaknesses, even demons.
He killed because of a weakness, after all—his body was falling apart. If he had one weakness, he would have more. If I could find them and exploit them, I could stop him. I could save the town, and the county, and the world. I could stop the demon.
And I would.
No more questions, no more waiting. I made my decision. It was time to tear down the wall, to throw away all the rules I'd created for myself.
It was time to let the monster out.
I got back on my bike and rode home, tearing down my rules as I went. Brick by brick, the wall came down, and the monster stretched its legs, flexed it claws, licked its lips.
Tomorrow, we would hunt.
10
We woke the next morning to a fresh fall of snow— barely an inch, but all the excuse I needed. It was a lazy Sunday morning, but I crossed the street at eight o'clock, shovel in hand. Crowley's car was in the driveway, dusted with snow, and I stopped in surprise when I realized that the bullet hole in the back corner had been replaced by a massive, crumpled dent. The lights had been shattered, and paint was chipping away in jagged flakes. It looked like he'd been in a car accident.
I studied it a moment longer, wondering what had happened, then walked to the porch and rang the bell.
Mr. Crowley himself answered the door—cheerful, human, and looking as innocent as a man could possibly look. I'd watched him kill four people over the last month, but even so I almost doubted—just for a second—that a man like him could hurt a fly.
"Mornin', John, what brings you—well I'll be, it did snow. Can't get one past you, can they?"
"No they can't."
"Well, there's hardly anything out there," he said, "and we don't need to go anywhere today. Why don't you just leave it, and we'll give it a. chance to drop some more before you go to all the trouble. No sense in shoveling twice."