Stealing down the alleyway, he came to the end, disappointed to find it empty. Inhaling the musty odor of damp mortar and sandstone, he had begun to retrace his steps when he noticed a double set of wooden storm doors at his feet. The padlock joining them together lay open, which seemed odd. His next thought was how easy it would be for a magician to pick a simple padlock. Removing it, he lifted one of the doors, revealing uneven stone steps leading to a basement. Leaving the door open, Ian crept down the stairs into a large underground room lit only by a narrow slit of windows, covered by iron bars. It was dank and moldy, the damp chill immediately invading his bones. A shiver rippled through his body as he tiptoed across the cement floor, past chicken crates, flowerpots, and an old hay wagon missing a wheel.
As he passed one of the thick wooden posts near the center of the room, he thought he heard breathing. But before he could peer around the side of the pillar, a pair of hands shot out from behind, grasping him by the neck. He spun around but found himself in a headlock, one arm around his neck, the other twisting his left arm behind him and digging into the small of his back, where the ruffians had recently delivered a swift kick to the kidneys. The pressure on his injured muscles was agony, and he let out a groan as he attempted to wriggle free.
“At last we meet, Detective.”
The voice in his ear was soft, a bizarre contrast to the pain being inflicted upon his body. Unable to speak, Ian continued to struggle, but his opponent held him tight, Ian’s neck caught in the crook of his arm.
“Shall I kill you like all the others? It would be such a pleasure.” The accent was English, cultivated, but with a coarse undertone. “How sweet to watch you die, DI Hamilton.”
“Edward Wright?” Ian managed to gasp out.
“Do I get a prize if I say yes?” he said, tightening his grip.
Ian tried to speak again, but his strength was ebbing; he cursed himself for handing Wright the advantage of surprise. Desperately summoning his remaining will, Ian wrenched his left hand from his opponent’s grasp. Grabbing Wright’s forearm with both hands, Ian threw his own body forward, lifting his adversary off his feet. With a roar, he yanked hard on Wright’s arm, flipping him over his own shoulder. It was a classic wrestling move, one he had used dozens of times, but never when fighting for his life.
Wright landed hard on the concrete floor. Ian lunged forward to seize the advantage, but his opponent gave him a vicious kick before rolling out of the way. Winded, Ian staggered to his feet and faced his adversary, who was also breathing heavily. The two men stared at each other, catching their breath. They were equally matched: roughly the same height and weight, though Ian was perhaps a stone leaner. Wright had unusually powerful shoulders, visible even in his frock coat, which he peeled off and tossed aside. Ian did the same.
“If this were ancient Greece, we’d be wrestling naked,” Wright panted, wiping away sweat on his upper lip. “Wouldn’t that be delightful?” His cold blue eyes shone with the fervor of insanity.
“Why?” Ian said, gulping air into his lungs. “What made you do it?”
“Stalling for time to catch your breath, Detective?”
“I need to know,” Ian panted.
Wright smiled, but it was more like a grimace of pain than a smile. “Oh, there is so much evil in a man, one hardly knows where to begin.”
“But—why?” Ian insisted.
Wright threw his hands in the air. “You might as well ask a river why it flows, or a rooster why it crows. It’s my nature.”
“Is that all you can say? It’s your nature?” Ian replied, casting his eyes about the room for a weapon. There wasn’t much—in addition to other discarded items like the broken wagon and chicken crates, the basements contained little else besides a few bales of hay. The only promising thing was a wooden handle protruding from behind the hay—perhaps a farm tool of some kind—but before he could move, Wright leapt over the pile of flowerpots and seized it. Ian’s heart sank when he saw it was a rusty scythe—even caked with mud and corrosion, it was a lethal weapon.
“An appropriate tool, don’t you think?” Wright said, advancing on him. “If I’m going to dispatch you to the next world, I might as well look the part, eh?”
“You don’t want to kill me,” Ian said, backing away.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Wright replied. “I’d prefer to strangle you, but you’re too skillful an opponent, so I’ll have to settle for this. It should decapitate you nicely.”
“You’ll hang for it.”
“I’ll hang anyway—if they catch me. But I don’t intend to let that happen.”
He lunged at Ian, swinging the scythe viciously. Ian sidestepped the blow, but the edge of the blade caught him in the ribs, ripping through his shirt and tearing a gash in his side.
“Oops,” Wright said with a grin. “If at first you don’t succeed—” He raised the weapon to strike again—but it was heavy, and difficult to wield with accuracy.
Ian picked up a flowerpot and threw it at him. Wright ducked, but its edge caught his shoulder.
“Bloody hell!” he yelped. “That wasn’t nice—perhaps I shall have to kill you more slowly.”
Ian threw another pot at his head. He ducked, and it smashed against the wall behind him.
“You’re only prolonging the inevitable, you know,” said Wright. “Why don’t you take it like a man?”
“Is that how your victims took it?”
“They were boys—especially that young fellow, the blond one. I’ve got his mate here, you know,” he said, glancing at the dark corner behind the bales of hay. “I’ll take my time with him later, after I’m done with you.”
Alarmed, Ian strained to see into the hidden corner, but the bales were stacked too high. “Derek!” he called. “Are you all right?” In response, he heard a faint moaning emanating from behind the hay.
“Foolish boy,” Wright said. “He actually came after me! He’ll be my swan song before I depart for greener pastures.”
Ian calculated the distance between him and the nook protected by the stacks of hay. His fingers closed around the stone Derek had given him, still in his pocket. He flicked it toward the back window, where it clattered to the floor. Wright spun around in the direction of the sound, and Ian took his chance. With two running steps and a leap, he dove behind the bales of hay. Brandishing the scythe, Wright lunged at him, but Ian scrambled on his hands and knees underneath the wagon. Wresting the broken wheel from its axle, he emerged from beneath the vehicle, holding it in front of him as a shield.
With a roar, Wright swept the scythe at him, making a great arc in the air. Ian managed to catch the blade in the wagon wheel, and with a mighty yank, pulled it from his opponent’s grasp. It clattered to the floor, and both men flung themselves upon it. Wright reached it first, but Ian managed to get him in a half nelson. His opponent twisted around and tried to bite him, but Ian used the momentum to flip him onto his side. Releasing Wright, he reached for the scythe. As his hands closed over the handle, he staggered to his feet, swinging it over his shoulder, the blade pointed at his opponent.
“Come along quietly, now, and no one will get hurt,” he said.
“It’s far too late for that,” Wright said, crouched amidst the bales of hay. Seizing his discarded coat, he plunged a hand into the breast pocket. With the lightning dexterity of a master magician, he whipped out a box of matches, lighting the entire box in an instant, and flicked the lit matches around the room, igniting each bale of hay. The dry straw leapt into flames instantly, filling the air with smoke.