Ch.26: Thorne's Move

The sirens fade.

They don't get closer. They peel off, heading down the main road, chasing phantom leads.

Aris didn't leave. He dragged Isabella into the panic room hidden behind the master closet. I heard the heavy steel bolts engage from two floors down.

I am back in my cell. The door is locked. The IV is running clear, potent Rocuronium again.

I lie in the darkness, listening to the silence of the house.

But somewhere, miles away, a phone buzzes.

Detective Lucas Thorne sits in his unmarked sedan, parked three blocks away from the Vane estate. The engine is off. The windows are cracked, letting in the damp night air.

His burner phone vibrates on the dashboard.

He picks it up.

He flips it open.

The screen illuminates his face. He stares at the image.

The first photo: A hand with a missing ring finger. The bone exposed, white and clean against the bloody meat. A tourniquet made of surgical tubing.

The second photo: A face.

He recoils. Even hardened by fifteen years in Homicide, he flinches.

It is a nightmare. A woman with no skin. A raw, red skull staring back at him with one desperate, pleading eye.

He recognizes the eye. He recognizes the shape of the brow bone.

Elena Vane.

He reads the text.

**It's not an accident. It's a harvest. He has my face.**

Thorne slams his fist against the steering wheel.

"I knew it," he growls. "I knew that bastard was lying."

He starts the car. He doesn't turn on the sirens. He doesn't call dispatch.

He drives.

He drives straight to the precinct. He parks in the Chief's spot. He storms into the bullpen, ignoring the stares of the night shift officers.

He kicks open the door to Judge Halloway’s office. The judge is working late, reviewing warrants for the morning raid.

Thorne slams the phone onto the desk.

"Look at it," he demands.

Halloway adjusts his glasses. He looks at the phone. He pales.

"What is this?"

"That is Elena Vane," Thorne says, his voice shaking with rage. "Alive. In the basement of her husband's house. Mutilated."

"Jesus," Halloway whispers. "Is this... verified?"

"It came from inside the house five minutes ago," Thorne says. "GPS tag confirms the location."

"But Dr. Vane... he's a pillar of the community. He donates to the police fund."

"He's a butcher!" Thorne roars. "Look at the picture, Judge! That isn't medical care. That's torture!"

Halloway hesitates. He looks at the gruesome image again. He thinks about the upcoming election. He thinks about Aris Vane's lawyers.

"I need probable cause beyond a text message, Lucas. This could be faked. Deepfake technology is—"

"It's not a deepfake!" Thorne slams his hands on the desk. "I saw her! I saw the imposter in the bed! She had the wrong eye color! She flinched when I touched her hand!"

"That's circumstantial."

"Circumstantial?" Thorne laughs, a bitter, dangerous sound. "A woman sends me a picture of her own flayed face, and you call it circumstantial?"

He leans in close.

"If you don't sign that warrant, I'm going to the press. I'm going to show this picture to every reporter in the city. And I'm going to tell them that you let her die because you were afraid of a lawsuit."

Halloway stares at him. He sees the resolve in Thorne's eyes. He sees a man who has nothing left to lose.

He picks up his pen.

"Fine," Halloway mutters. "But if this is a prank... if this is some sick joke... your badge is gone, Lucas. Permanently."

"Sign it," Thorne says.

Halloway signs.

Thorne snatches the paper before the ink is dry.

"I need backup," he says. "SWAT. Medical. Now."

"It'll take an hour to assemble the team," Halloway warns.

"I don't have an hour," Thorne says. "She doesn't have an hour."

He turns and runs.

He runs out of the precinct. He jumps into his car.

He doesn't wait for backup. He doesn't wait for the team.

He guns the engine. The tires scream against the asphalt.

He drives back toward the Vane estate.

He checks the time. **03:45.**

The sun will be up soon. Aris will move her. He will kill her.

Thorne reaches into the glove box. He pulls out his service weapon. A Glock 17. He checks the clip. Full.

He pulls out a second clip. He puts it in his pocket.

He isn't going there to arrest Aris Vane.

He is going there to end him.

He turns onto the private road leading to the manor. The iron gates loom ahead, closed and locked.

He doesn't slow down.

He floors it.

The sedan hits the gates at sixty miles an hour. Metal screeches. Sparks fly. The lock shatters. The gates swing open, bent and broken.

He roars up the driveway.

He sees the house. It stands dark and silent against the night sky. The Glass Fortress.

He skids to a stop on the gravel. He kills the lights.

He gets out. He moves silently, a shadow in the darkness.

He doesn't go to the front door. He knows it's fortified.

He goes to the side. To the ivy trellis.

He looks up at the window I opened. The curtain is still fluttering slightly in the breeze. Aris locked it, but the latch is damaged.

Thorne holsters his gun. He grabs the trellis.

He climbs.

He reaches the ledge. He pulls a knife from his boot. He slides the blade between the sash and the sill.

He works the lock.

*Click.*

He pushes the window up.

He slips inside.

He is in the hallway. He sees the dirt on the rug. He sees the drag marks.

He follows them.

They lead to the laundry chute.

He looks at the panel. He sees the keypad.

He doesn't know the code.

But he sees the fingerprints in the dust on the keys. **1... 9... 8... 4.**

He punches it in.

The panel slides open.

He looks down the dark shaft. It goes straight to the basement.

He hears a sound. A faint, rhythmic beeping.

A heart monitor.

He takes a deep breath.

"Hang on, Elena," he whispers.

He swings his legs into the chute.

He slides down into the dark.

He's coming for me. Tonight.