The Death Sculptor by Chris Carter Page B

chair. His feet seemed to be resting in it. He tried moving his body forward so he could look down at his own legs, but his effort produced nothing. He didn’t move an inch. Nothing in his body responded to his command.
    Out of the corner of his eye, Nashorn saw movement and his breathing held tight.
    A person stepped out of the shadows, walked around the chair and stopped directly in front of him.
    Nashorn’s gaze found the person’s face. His eyes narrowed questioningly for an instant. It took him only a moment to recognize who it was. The mechanic who came to have a look at his faulty engine.
    ‘It must be really weird not being able to feel your own body,’ the mechanic said, looking straight into Nashorn’s eyes.
    Nashorn breathed out, and involuntarily let go of the terrified but weak groan that had hatched in his throat.
    The mechanic smiled.
    ‘Uhhh, ahhhg.’ Nashorn tried to speak, but without the power to articulate his jaw, the best he could do was mumble unintelligible sounds.
    ‘Sorry about your jaw. I didn’t mean to break it. I was supposed to hit you at the back of the head, but you turned around right at the last minute. It’s my loss though, because now you can’t speak, and I really wanted you to.’
    If fear had a smell, Nashorn was drenched in it.
    ‘Let me show you something, I wanna see how you feel about it, OK?’
    Nashorn tried to swallow again. He was so scared, he didn’t notice the pain this time.
    The mechanic pointed to a piece of dirty cloth that was covering something on the small bar slightly to the left of Nashorn’s field of vision.
    His attention shifted to it.
    ‘Are you ready?’ the mechanic asked and waited a few seconds just to up the tension. ‘Of course not. No one is ever ready for this.’
    With a quick pull, the dirty rag dropped to the floor.
    Nashorn gasped and his eyes widened in sheer horror.
    Set on the bar, completely covered in blood, was a pair of human feet.
    The mechanic paused, enjoying the moment. ‘Do you recognize them?’
    Fear and tears filled Nashorn’s eyes.
    ‘Let me help you with that, then.’ The mechanic pulled a thirty-by-twenty-inch mirror from behind the bar, held it up, and tilted it just enough so Nashorn could see his legs reflected in it.
    He finally understood why there was so much blood under his chair.

 
Twenty-Four
    Alice’s eyes were squinting at the replica sculpture. The expression on her face was a mixture of confusion and surprise. She had no idea what Hunter had seen.
    Garcia still hadn’t moved. His questioning eyes had shifted from the replica to Hunter, and then to the digital display window at the back of his camera. He flicked back and forth through the last three pictures he’d taken, looking at each one carefully. He saw nothing different.
    ‘OK, I’m officially confused,’ he said. ‘What did you see, Robert?’ He looked at Alice and saw the surprise stamped all over her face as well. ‘What did you see that the rest of us didn’t?’
    ‘You’ll have to see it for yourself. I’ll show you.’ Hunter walked over to his desk and retrieved an LAPD standard-issue Maglite before crossing to exactly where Garcia was still standing. He clicked the flashlight on, held it at waist height and pointed it at the sculpture.
    Garcia and Alice turned to look at it. Their confusion thickened.
    ‘OK, and . . . ?’ Alice asked.
    ‘Don’t look at the sculpture,’ Hunter said. ‘Look at the wall behind it. At its shadow.’
    Simultaneously Garcia and Alice looked at the wall.
    Confusion was replaced by surprise.
    Alice’s jaw dropped open.
    ‘You’ve gotta be kidding me,’ Garcia said.
    The shadow that the sculpture cast when a light was shone on it from that particular angle formed two distinct shapes. Two distinct shadow puppets.
    ‘A dog and a bird?’ Alice said, stepping closer. She turned and looked at the replica again. ‘What the hell?’ From where she was standing, the bundled-together body parts