Voracious - Alice Henderson [118]
Throwing himself at the Sickle Moon Killer, George knocked the old man sprawling, both of them landing violently amid the seats.
“Someone call train security!” George yelled out.
Madeline gripped her arm where she had been cut. Blood seeped through the material, soaking her hand.
The observation car exploded with activity, people crying out in surprise and yelling for security.
George struggled with MacCready on the seats, restraining the hand with the flaying knife. Madeline darted forward, twisted the hand painfully, and wrenched the knife from the man’s grip. His face contorted in fury when he saw her. Old, powerful rage and fear welled up within her, hatred filling her mind. Creature or not, she hated this man for what he had done, for haunting her all these years and killing the only person who had ever really loved her.
Her hand balled into a fist, and before she’d made the conscious decision, she pounded him in the face, his nose exploding with an audible pop. Blood sprayed out, flecking George’s face as he struggled to keep the man down.
“I fucking hate you!” she yelled, pounding him again, this time connecting with an eye. Her left hand joined the rain of violence, and she landed blow after furious blow, including one to the throat that left him choking and gagging.
And then uniformed officers grabbed her and pulled her off MacCready. One restrained her while the other pulled George away.
“Are you okay, sir?” the portly, younger officer said to MacCready, obviously seeing him as some sort of elderly, innocent victim of a violent attack.
“He’s the killer!” Madeline yelled. She thrashed in the restraining grip of the officer behind her, so angry she just wanted to pound the old man and the cop into oblivion.
By now all the passengers in the observation car and the snack bar below had gathered around the fight. “She’s right!” a man said. “The guy had a knife!”
“He cut her!” another added.
“Is this true?” asked the officer who held her, a lean older man with wispy white hair.
“Yes, damn it!”
The cop released her, and she grabbed her arm again, the sleeve completely soaked now in her blood.
“Madeline,” George said to her, pushing past the portly train cop to come to her. “Are you all right?”
She saw that his head had been neatly bandaged where she’d injured him.
She backed away, not sure what to make of him. “Stay back,” she warned, fists still balled at her sides.
Behind him, the older cop approached, pulled out his handcuffs, and stood the Sickle Moon Killer up on his feet while his hefty partner looked on.
George frowned. “I don’t understand. You leave without even saying good-bye. Then you ask me to come up here to get you and practically bash my brains in!”
Madeline stared at the Sickle Moon Killer, feeling half in a nightmare. It didn’t mesh in the real world. She looked back at George then, puzzled. “What do you mean, I left without saying good-bye?”
Before he could answer, the Sickle Moon Killer suddenly threw his arms up, throwing off the older train cop before he had a chance to snap cuffs on the powerful hands. “You’re dead!” he screamed at Madeline, spittle raining from his mouth.
He kicked the train cop in the gut just as the officer scrambled to get a hold on his prisoner. The flaying knife lay nearby on the floor, and he dived for it. Wiry fingers closed around the handle, and MacCready brought the knife up, connecting with the officer’s stomach. A long, red line appeared as blood seeped through the man’s torn button-down shirt. He staggered back, clutching his stomach. His young partner rushed to him as he fell, screaming for someone to get a doctor.
The Sickle Moon Killer advanced, eyes crazed and locked on Madeline.
She glanced around for a weapon but saw none, only bolted-down seats and other passengers staring on mutely. Her eyes fell on a hard-sided briefcase, and she picked