Contents

About the Book

About the Author

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Extract from The Prophet

Copyright

About the Book

They thought they could contain him... They were wrong.

Francis Ackerman Jr. is one of the most prolific serial killers in US history. But he’s not only a serial killer, he’s also a serial escapist. When a doctor who has discovered a ground-breaking treatment for psychopaths wants to test his theories upon Ackerman, the madman sees his chance at freedom. The only people that stand in his way are the hospital’s head of security and a young woman with a personal vendetta against the killer.

About the Author

Ethan Cross was born and raised in a small town in rural Illinois. When a fireman or a policeman would visit his school, most of his classmates’ heads would swim with aspirations of growing up and catching bad guys or saving someone from a blazing inferno. When these moments came for Ethan, however, his dreams weren’t to someday be a cop or put out fires; he just wanted to write about it.

Now his dream of telling stories on a grand scale has come to fruition with the release of his new thrillers, The Shepherd, The Prophet and The Cage.

Ethan Cross still lives in Illinois with his wife and two daughters.

THE CAGE

Ethan Cross

CHAPTER 1

FRANCIS ACKERMAN JR. stared into the reporter’s almond colored eyes. Her features were a perfect mix of eastern meets western with her second generation Asian American characteristics tempering the Caucasian features, invoking both the exotic and the familiar. As he fell into those eyes, the killer forgot everything else. He even failed to catch which network news program she represented. She smiled as she thanked him for the interview. He sensed a slight reluctance, but nothing to indicate true fear. He wondered how her attitude toward him would change if she knew that he had already freed his hands from the restraints.

The room was monochromatic, and since he had become accustomed to a world without color, the reporter’s bright clothes and red lipstick seemed alien in his surroundings. The rolling interrogation chair holding Ackerman in place possessed all manner of restraints designed to keep him from harming his distinguished guests, the reporter and her camera crew. Unfortunately, the guard that secured his hands must have failed to read his file. If he had, the guard would have known that due to the severe scarring of Ackerman’s arms — a constant reminder of the pain inflicted upon him by his father — the standard pinch test used to safely but humanely secure a prisoner in handcuffs wouldn’t apply. The scar tissue caused his forearms and wrists to be thicker than his hands and only the tightest notch of the cuffs could hold him successfully. When he failed to feel the uncomfortable bite on his wrists, Ackerman knew that this would prove to be an interesting day.

After a few preliminary questions to warm him up and test the waters, the reporter began to delve into darker territory. He had debated on how to respond to her questions. He had considered his every move and analyzed how his audience would react. After all, this was a grand opportunity to add to his legend by shocking and horrifying the awaiting public. But how best to accomplish such a task? So many directions he could go: the rambling psychotic, the brooding quiet type, the rage-filled madman, or his favourite — the all-too-popular Hannibal Lecter mold. But he felt that route was almost too distant, too smart, too alien. None of them seemed to accomplish his goal. If he wanted to truly frighten people, he needed to shatter their illusions. He needed to make them feel that he could show up at their doorstep, charm his way inside, and murder with no provocation, rhyme, or reason. So for the purposes of the interview he had decided upon charming with a pinch of cruelty.

“Mr. Ackerman you have been convicted of multiple murders but claim that you have committed many more. Do you have anything to say to the families of your victims?”

He paused for effect and pretended to consider the question. “I believe that I’ve said it all to their lost loved ones, but if I were so inclined to comment, I would tell them not to shed a tear for those who have gone before … for their suffering is over.”

“Is that why you kill? Because you want to make others pay for the suffering you’ve endured in your own life?”

With her words, his father’s voice crept into his mind. Kill them and the pain will stop … you’re a monster …

“Not at all. I kill because I’m a predator. What we seem to have forgotten is that we’re all just a pack of animals. We like to think that we’re above such things, but in the end, we are all either predator or prey. We’re lions, my dear. We’re the top of the food chain. The problem is that we’re lions that have lived our entire lives in cages. We’ve been domesticated. People think that we’ve filtered out this animal side of our collective consciousness with our misguided senses of morality, but the truth is that the monster sleeps just below the surface. All it takes is a little anarchy, a little disruption in our daily lives, a little breakdown in our nice, quiet society. And when that day arrives and you don’t know where your next meal is coming from, you’ll discover whether you’re a lion or a lamb.”

A ghost of a smile crept onto his face as he continued. “And then there’s me. I’m a lion, of course. But I’m not in a cage, metaphorically speaking anyway. I’m the lion from the zoo that you hear about every so often that turns on its handlers, escapes, and eats a few tourists. It’s survival of the fittest out there whether we realize it or not. That’s why I kill. I’m a predator, through and through. And I have no illusions about trying to be anything other than what I am.”

He could tell by the rapt look on her beautiful face that he was doing well. There was a twinkle in her eyes, and he knew that the potential for record-breaking ratings was dancing through her head. But he also knew that she could never guess how much of a news story her interview was about to become. It was time to make it personal.

After a moment, she said, “So you want to see the world descend into anarchy with only the strongest able to survive while the weaker of the species are trampled underfoot?”

“My dear, I could care less what happens to the world. I’m more interested in you, actually.” Ackerman knew that he had inherited good looks from his mother’s side of the family, but his most useful features at moments such as this were his gray eyes. In that moment, he fixed her with a gaze meant to penetrate her soul. “I’ve answered some of your questions. Now it’s your turn. I want to know something about you.”

She sat back and placed her hands on the edge of the metal table. Condescension crept into her voice. “Mr. Ackerman, I’m not going to reveal my darkest secrets to you. You don’t need to know anything about me. Now, please tell us—”

He interrupted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to know your darkest secrets. I have enough darkness of my own. What I’d like from you is a taste of the light. You know my history, so you know that I’ve never been able to experience what it’s like to be normal. I’ve never taken a girl to the prom, or shared that first kiss in the back seat of a friend’s car. I’ve never been out for drinks with co-workers or shared a quiet meal with a woman I love. The vast majority of my life has been spent in a cell much like the one in which I currently reside.”

He looked away for a moment and released a long but measured breath. When their gazes locked again, he said, “All that I want to know is your favorite meal. You’re a very beautiful woman, and I don’t mean for that to carry a sexual connotation. We break everything down into terms of sex these days, another example of our true animal selves shining through. But I’m speaking from a purely philosophical and artistic standpoint. I’ve seen how ugly this world can be, and that has led me to appreciate true beauty. And you are beautiful. All I ask is that you share one minor detail with me, so that when I’m sitting alone in my cell with all those ugly memories, I can instead focus upon something beautiful. I can imagine myself sitting with you at dinner, sharing that quiet meal. And maybe, eventually, I’ll forget that it’s just a fantasy and start to believe that I really lived that one pure day. Maybe in that moment, I’ll find some peace.”

He noticed her swallow hard, and when the words came, her voice sounded brittle and dry. “Umm…” The smell of her perfume drifted across the table, and he recognized the scent of oleander. She cleared her throat and lowered her eyes from his. He wanted to smile but knew that he needed to maintain a look of pain and sincerity.

“I’m a steak and potatoes girl, actually. Got that from my dad.” The look in her eyes indicated that she had shocked herself with that last oddly personal statement. It was something a person would say to a date, not a notorious serial killer.

“How do you like your steak prepared?” he said.

“Medium rare. My father always told me that you lose the flavor if you cook it too long.” Again, she seemed surprised by her own candor. He also noticed that as she shared this, she leaned much closer as if she didn’t want the cameraman to hear.

This was the moment he had been waiting for. He hardened his eyes and let a bit of cruel menace seep in. “She likes it bloody … a girl after my own heart.”

In a blur of movement, Ackerman’s hands flew from behind his back as he lunged over the table and grabbed her by the head. He dragged her small frame over the table that separated them, pulling her onto his lap. As her scream filled the room and the smell of intense fear mixed with perfume filled his nostrils, he placed one hand behind her head and one on her chin. With a quick twist, he could easily snap her neck and sever her spinal cord.

The guards reacted quickly. They screamed their orders and lifted their shotguns. Ackerman knew that a new form of round known as an XREP Taser shell that contained electronics instead of buckshot filled the guards’ weapons. The transparent rounds had been designed as a less-than-lethal alternative to conventional slugs, which meant that they could fire upon him without worrying about hitting his hostage.

They would assume that this unexpected act was an attempt at escape, but he knew that escape from a cage with such advanced security measures would be nearly impossible, especially since his legs were still shackled to the chair. But he had no intentions of trying to escape. He simply wanted to give the audience a show to remember.

“LET HER GO NOW!” one of the guards said as he sighted down the barrel of his shotgun.

Ackerman looked at the guard calmly and replied, “If you come any closer, I’ll break her neck.”

“Give it up. No way you leave this room.”

Ackerman tightened his hold on the reporter, inducing a small cry of pain.

“I don’t intend to escape. I simply wanted to give a small message to my lady friend here.”

He leaned in close to the reporter’s ear and whispered, “I want you to remember from this day forth that the only reason you are still alive is because I’ve chosen to give you life. I own every breath you take. Every smile. Every tear. Every moment is one that I’ve given to you. It’s a debt that you owe to me. And someday, I may come to collect upon that debt.”

Ackerman shoved the reporter away and welcomed the sting of the taser rounds. He had accomplished his mission. Neither the reporter nor her audience would ever forget the name Ackerman. He closed his eyes, heard the blast of the shotgun, and felt the concussion of the dart as its barbs penetrated his skin. His body convulsed, and the darkness carried him away.

CHAPTER 2

AS SHE SURVEYED the group of powerful and influential men sitting around the dark marble conference table, Dr. Jennifer Kelly pulled a strand of auburn hair behind her ear, revealing a thin scar running from her temple to her jaw. Her boss and the director of the Cedar Mill Psychiatric Hospital, Dr. Stuart Kendrick, gathered his notes and then stood to let everyone in the room know that he was ready to present his case. It was a presentation that had the potential to change Jennifer’s life forever, and she had a much more personal stake in the meeting’s outcome than Dr. Kendrick.

The others gathered in the room ceased their chatter and turned to the doctor. Jennifer admired Kendrick’s ability to command attention. She found him attractive for an older man, and his salt and pepper hair only added to his authoritative features. If she hadn’t known any better, she would have pegged Kendrick as the Governor of Michigan, instead of the unassuming younger man that sat at the head of the conference table. The group gathered at the Michigan Department of Corrections headquarters located in Lansing’s Grandview Plaza consisted of her team — herself, Dr. Kendrick, and their facility’s Head of Security, David McNamara — and a group of men and women heading the branches of state government affected by their proposal including the Governor, the Department of Corrections Director, the Director of the Michigan Department of Community Health or MDCH, and a few other political and medical advisors to the Governor.

“Ladies and gentleman, I’d like to thank you all for finding the time in your busy schedules to meet with us today,” Kendrick said. “But I’m sure that once you see our research and hear my proposal, you’ll find that your time has not been spent in vain. If you would please turn to page five of your booklets, I’ll go over our—”

The Director of the MDCH, a middle-aged woman with raven hair and a stern gaze, spoke up before Kendrick continued. “Dr. Kendrick, I’ve already briefed the Governor on the preliminaries of your work and what it involves, so feel free to cut directly to your proposal. As you mentioned, we are all very busy.”

Kendrick didn’t seem to react to the interruption, but Jennifer knew that having his extensive presentation cut short before it even began would infuriate the doctor. He was a passionate man and felt that his research into the psychopathic mind was some of the most important being conducted by the psychiatric community. Kendrick had no family, and his work was his life. She could understand his passion. She felt the same fire deep within herself, but not toward her work. She was driven by a more singular goal: revenge.

Kendrick dropped his booklet onto the table. It struck with a thud. “Well then, I suppose I’ll cut to the chase. Over the course of my research and the research of others, I’ve found that most forms of psychopathy emanate from a group of interconnected brain structures known as the paralimbic system that are involved in emotion processing, goal seeking, motivation, and self-control. By using a portable fMRI scanner of my own design, I’ve found thinning of the paralimbic tissue within the brains of many violent offenders. This shows that these areas of the criminal’s brain are underdeveloped or in many cases severely damaged. Through the request that you granted last fall, we have transferred several violent offenders showing damage to these areas into the secure wing of our facility and have began testing a revolutionary new plan of treatment. I’m talking about true rehabilitation from the inside out, an actual correction in the way that these men think and view the world. We’ve accomplished incredible results using a combination of drugs including oxytocin and intensive one-on-one therapy sessions known as decompression.”

The MDCH Director spoke up again. “It concerns me, doctor, that you have failed to publish these results publicly and have chosen to keep the details of your treatments a secret even from this committee.”

Kendrick pursed his lips, and his eyes narrowed. “I assure you, doctor, that our results are very real, and as soon as this next phase of our trials is complete, we will be sharing our results and methods with the world. However, we’re not the only group in the country conducting such research, and it would not be beneficial to anyone involved for us to publish anything prematurely. That’s why I’m here today. To ask for your assistance with the next phase of our research.”

Jennifer held her breath as she watched Kendrick steel himself for the next portion of their presentation, a section that they had made deliberately vague in fear that their request for this meeting would be rejected outright. She didn’t even know the full details of what Kendrick was about to say. She had argued vehemently for one course of action, while Kendrick had been a proponent of another. He had yet to reveal his decision, a choice that could make or break all that she had worked toward for years. Her stomach turned in knots as she wondered whether or not he would follow her advisement. If Kendrick chose to go in his own direction, her best and perhaps only shot at vengeance would be gone.