(2005) 'Whispers In the Wind' by Michael A Diaz Page A

cheeks.
    “Who…who…?” he started, never finishing, a wave of nausea coming up again, choking him, listening to the diabolical laugh coming from the angel of death hovering above him. The axe bit deep on his exposed neck, slicing all the way through sinew, bone and muscle, the head rolling, thudding on the ground, eyes open. For a moment longer, the body jerked, finally stopping, blood spurting from the severed neck as the heart pumped ever more slowly.
    * * * *
    She had seen the man stopped close to his car, had seen the hesitation and then the man getting sick and she took that as her opportunity to close in and put an end to him. She exited the vehicle quickly, smoothly, taking care not to make any noise, making her way to her prey in long, quick strides. She reached him as he turned for some reason and the axe flickered in her hand, the shiny blade searching for the man’s neck. She saw the face up close, as the terror and fear gripped him, the left hand coming up to ward off the attack, but it was too late. The sharp edge of the axe cut through sinew and bone as if it were nothing, but his defensive move deflected the axe enough that she had to reverse her cut and move her grip. Even with that, the blow intended for the neck went up after slicing the hand, giving Moore a blow to the forehead. She saw the man go down hard on his knees, heard the scream full of pain and rage and she laughed hard, feeling the rush of adrenalin surging through her, her blood molten lava and her loins incredibly wet. Everything was crystal clear and sharp and for a fleeting instance, she thought that she had never been so alive. She laughed again as she took a step to the left, the axe coming from on high, right to left, and this time there was nothing in the way to deflect it. The axe caught the man on the neck, biting deeply and like Dunbar, slicing all the way through. A fountain of blood spurted from the neck and she had to jump back to avoid the splatter. Her nostrils flared at the sharp smell of ammonia and human feces as the man’s muscles let go.
    “Just like a fucking…pig”, she said to herself. She stood still, her chest falling and raising rapidly with the strength of her emotions and she felt the moistness in her loins again as she moaned softly. She allowed herself a few precious seconds to enjoy the death off the miserable human being that lay at her feet, her beautiful face a mask of pure evil, the hard, taut body swaying slowly to the rhythm of her inner emotions.
    “Rot in…hell”, she said softly, a grin flickering briefly on the face now. She glanced around quickly, making sure she was still alone. Carefully, she approached the body, working fast now, her hands reaching for his back pocket, searching, moving quickly to the pockets in the overcoat when she didn’t find his wallet there. Her fingers closed on the wallet inside an inner pocket of the coat, pulling it out, searching for the badge. She found it and it was matter of seconds to disengage the clip, dropping the wallet in place. That done, she hefted the axe, turning around and walking rapidly toward the SUV. Moments later, the parking lot was empty, silent, except for the grisly scene of a dead man and the cold wind that whispered softly around it.

CHAPTER 9  

    Chicago January 27, 1995
    04:00 a.m.
    Lt. Turner bent his head, his eyes taking in the naked body of the black man laying on the cold, stainless steel table of the morgue. The man’s face was unrecognizable, nothing but a mass of bruises and contusions, dried blood covering the eyes and most of the ruined face. The lips had been split and one ear was almost cut in two. Holt was at his side, his hands moving expertly over the dead man, probing, pushing, and looking for anything that would give them clues about this new killing. It was late and he was exhausted, feeling the weariness seeping into his body slowly, welcoming the heat inside the building. He shook his head, forcing himself to