Chris Carter - The Executioner

About the author

Born in Brazil of Italian origin, Chris Carter studied psychology and criminal behaviour at the University of Michigan. As a member of the Michigan State District Attorneys Criminal Psychology team, he interviewed and studied many criminals, including serial and multiple homicide offenders with life imprisonment convictions.

Having departed for Los Angeles in the early 1990s, Chris spent ten years as a guitarist for numerous rock bands before leaving the music business to write full-time. He now lives in London. The Executioner is his second novel.

Visit www.chriscarterbooks.com

Also by Chris Carter
The Crucifix Killer

First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2010
A CBS COMPANY

Copyright Chris Carter, 2010

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
and 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

The right of Chris Carter to be identified as author of this work
has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78
of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor
222 Grays Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB

www.simonandschuster.co.uk

Simon & Schuster Australia
Sydney

A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library

Hardback ISBN 978-1-84737-623-7
Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-84737-539-1
eBook ISBN: 978-0-85720-013-6

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Typeset by M Rules
Printed in the UK by CPI Mackays, Chatham ME5 8TD

For Samantha Johnson... always.

Though authored by a single individual, I have found that a novel is never the achievement of one alone.

Many people have contributed in different and generous ways to this work and, though a simple acknowledgement page cannot fully express my gratitude, Id like them to know that this novel would never have been possible without them.

I owe a special debt to Samantha Johnson for her love, undying patience, understanding and for being there every step of the way. To the most extraordinary agents any author could hope for, Darley Anderson and Camilla Bolton. They are indeed my literary Guardian Angels. Staying on the subject of angels, my most sincere thanks also goes to all at the Darley Anderson Literary Agency the extremely hard-working Darleys Angels. Thanks, too, to the superb team of creative and talented professionals at Simon & Schuster UK for all their relentless work. To my fantastic editor, Kate Lyall Grant, and my incredible publishers, Ian Chapman and Suzanne Baboneau, my eternal gratitude.

I would also like to say thank you to all the readers and everyone who has so fantastically supported me since the release of my first novel.

Ironic how the only certainty in life is death, dont you think? The mans voice was calm. His posture relaxed.

Please... you dont have to do this. In contrast, the man on the floor was petrified and exhausted. His voice strangled by tears and blood. He was naked and shivering. His arms were stretched above his head, chained by his wrists to the raw brick wall.

The dark basement room had been transformed into a medieval-looking dungeon, all four walls fitted with heavy metal shackles. A sickening smell of urine lingered in the air and an incessant buzzing sound came from a large wooden box in the corner, placed there by the attacker. The room was sound- and escape-proof. Once locked inside, there was no way of getting out unless someone let you out.

It doesnt matter how youve lived your life, the other man continued, disregarding the bleeding man. It doesnt matter how rich you are, what youve accomplished, who you know or what hopes you have. In the end the same thing will happen to all of us well all die.

Please, God, no.

What matters is how we die.

The man on the floor coughed, spitting out a thin red mist of blood.

Some people die naturally, painlessly, as they reach the end of a natural cycle. The man laughed a bizarre, gurgling laugh. Some people suffer for years with incurable diseases, fighting every minute to add just a few more seconds to their lives.

I... Im not rich. I dont have much, but whatever I have you can take.

Shhhh. The man brought a finger to his lips before whispering, I dont need your money.

Another cough. Another mist of blood.

An evil smile parted the assailants lips. Some people die very slowly, he continued. His voice was cold. The pain of death can drag on for hours... days... weeks... If you know what youre doing, theres no limit, did you know that? He paused.

Until then, the chained man hadnt noticed the nail gun in his attackers hand.

And I really do know what Im doing. Allow me to demonstrate. He stepped on the bone protruding from the victims fractured ankle, bent over and quickly fired three nails into the mans right knee. Intense pain shot up the victims leg and sucked the air out of his lungs, blurring his vision for several seconds. The nails were only three inches long. Not long enough to puncture through to the other side, but sharp enough to shatter bone, cartilage and ligaments.

The chained man took quick, shallow breaths. He tried to speak through the pain. Plea... please. I have a daughter. Shes ill. She suffers from a rare condition and Im everything shes got.

The strange gurgling laugh filled the room again. You think I care? Let me show you how much I care. He grabbed the head of one of the nails lodged into the mans knee and, as if using a screwdriver to pop open a can of paint, slowly forced it to one side as far as it would go. The crunching noise was like stepping on broken glass.

The victim roared as he felt the grinding of metal against bone. His attacker applied just enough force to overcome the resistance and splinter the kneecap. Shards of bone perforated nerve and muscle. Nausea flooded through the chained mans body. His assailant slapped his face several times to keep him from passing out.

Stay with me, he whispered. I want you to enjoy every moment of this. Theres more to come.

Why... Why are you doing this?

Why? The man licked his cracked lips and smiled. Ill show you why. From his pocket he produced a photograph and held it inches away from the chained mans face.

The mans eyes rested in confusion on the picture for several seconds. I dont understand. What...? He froze as he finally realized what he was looking at. Oh my God!

His tormentor moved closer, his lips almost touching the bleeding mans right ear.

Guess what, he whispered as he glanced at the wooden box in the corner, I know what scares you to death.

Christmas was a week or so away and Los Angeles was embracing the festive spirit. Streets and shop windows everywhere were decorated with colorful lights, Santa Clauses and fake snow. At 5:30 a.m. the drive through south Los Angeles felt eerily calm.

The white front of the small church glowed against the tall, naked California walnut trees on either side of the arched wooden doorway. Picture-postcard scenery. Except for the police officers swarming around the building and the yellow crime-scene tape that kept curious onlookers at a safe distance.