Robert Bryndza The Night Stalker Free Download
The Night Stalker
A chilling serial killer thriller
Robert Bryndza
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Affiliate 1
Affiliate ii
Chapter iii
Affiliate 4
Chapter five
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Affiliate viii
Chapter ix
Affiliate 10
Chapter xi
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Affiliate 14
Chapter 15
Affiliate 16
Affiliate 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Affiliate 22
Chapter 23
Affiliate 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Affiliate 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Affiliate 41
Affiliate 42
Affiliate 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Affiliate 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Affiliate 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Affiliate 68
Chapter 69
Affiliate 70
Chapter 71
Affiliate 72
Affiliate 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter fourscore
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Affiliate 84
Epilogue
A Note from Robert
The Girl in the Ice
Also past Robert Bryndza
Acknowledgments
Copyright
For Ján, Riky and Lola
Expert things of solar day begin to droop and drowse,
While night's black agents to their preys practise rouse.
William Shakespeare, Macbeth
one
It was a sweltering summer night in tardily June. The black-clad effigy ran lightly, streaking through the darkness, feet barely making a sound on the narrow clay path, ducking and twisting gracefully to avoid contact with the dense surrounding copse and bushes. Information technology was as if a shadow were sweeping silently over the leaves.
The dark sky was just a thin strip betwixt the trees high above; the light pollution from the city cast the undergrowth in dusky shades. The small-scale, shadow-like figure reached a gap in the undergrowth on the correct, and stopped abruptly: poised, breathless, eye racing.
A strobe of blue-white lit up the surroundings as the 7.39 p.m. train to London Span switched from diesel, extending its metal arms to the electrified lines in a higher place. The shadow ducked downward as empty glowing carriages rumbled past. There were ii more flashes and the railroad train was gone, plunging the narrow strip of undergrowth back into darkness.
The shadow moved off again at speed, gliding soundlessly equally the path curved slightly away from the tracks. The copse began to thin out to the left, exposing a row of terraced houses. Snapshots of back gardens slid past: neat dark strips with patio furniture, tool sheds, a swing ready – all even so in the thick night air.
And then the house came into view. It was a Victorian terrace, like the others in the long row – iii storeys of pale brick – but its owner had added a large drinking glass extension at the back, which jutted out from the ground floor. The small-scale shadow knew everything well-nigh the owner. Knew the layout of the house. Knew the owner'due south schedule. And most chiefly, knew that this night he would be alone.
The shadow came to a stop at the stop of the garden. A big tree grew against the wire contend that backed on to the clay runway. In i place the body had grown effectually the metal, the folds of wood biting down on the rusting mail service similar a large lipless rima oris. A heavy halo of leaves burst upwards in all directions, obscuring the view of the railroad train tracks from the house. A few nights previously, the shadow had taken this aforementioned route and had neatly clipped the edges of the wire debate, loosely tacking it dorsum in place. The fence now pulled away easily and the shadow crouched down and crawled through the gap. The grass felt dry and the soil below was cracked from weeks of no rain. The shadow came upward to its anxiety under the tree and in a fast, fluid motion crossed the lawn in a dive of black.
An air-conditioning unit was attached to the rear wall of the house. It whirred loudly, masking the faint crisis of anxiety on the gravel that lined the narrow path between the glass extension and the house next door. The shadow reached a low sash window and ducked downwardly underneath the wide sill. Low-cal shone out, casting a foursquare of yellow on the brickwork of the neighbouring house. Pulling up the hood of the running suit, the shadow slowly inched up and looked over the wide windowsill.
The human inside was in his mid-forties, tall and well-built, dressed in tan trousers and a white shirt rolled upwardly at the sleeves. He moved around the big open up-plan kitchen, took a wine glass from ane of the cupboards, and poured himself a glass of red. He took a long gulp and topped upwards his glass. A fix repast lay on the counter, and he picked it up, slipped off its cardboard sleeve and pricked at the plastic lid with the corkscrew.
Hatred rose in the shadow. Information technology was intoxicating to see the man within, knowing what was about to unfold.
The homo in the kitchen programmed the microwave and placed the meal within. There was a beep and the digital countdown began.
Six minutes.
The man took another gulp of his wine and then left the kitchen. Moments later, a light came on in the bath window directly above where the shadow crouched. The window swung open a few inches, and there was a squeak every bit the shower was turned on.
Heart hammering, the shadow exterior the window worked fast: unzipping a coin belt, pulling out a minor flat screwdriver and easing it into the fissure where the window met the sill. With a small amount of pressure, information technology popped open. The sash window moved up smoothly and the shadow slid in through the gap. This was it. All the planning, the years of malaise and pain…
Four minutes.
The figure stepped down into the kitchen and moved swiftly, pulling out a small plastic syringe and squirting its clear liquid into the drinking glass of blood-red vino, swirling the wine around before gently placing the glass back on the blackness granite counter.
The shadow stood for a moment, listening, enjoying the cool waves from the air workout. The blackness granite countertop sparkled under the lights.
3 minutes.
The shadow moved quickly through the kitchen, passing the wooden bannister at the base of operations of the stairs, and slipped into a pool of darkness backside the living room door. A moment later, the man came downwardly the stairs, wearing but a towel. The microwave gave three loud beeps to say information technology was fini
shed. As the man padded past barefoot, the smell of clean skin wafted through the air. The shadow heard a clink as the human pulled cutlery from the drawer, and a scrape of a stool on the wooden flooring as he saturday down to eat.
The shadow exhaled deeply, emerged from the shadows and quietly climbed the stairs.
To watch.
To wait.
To exact long-awaited retribution.
2
Iv DAYS Afterward
The night air was close and humid on the quiet Southward London street. Moths fizzed and bumped in the orange arc of lite bandage by a streetlamp illuminating a row of terraced houses. Estelle Munro shuffled forth the pavement, arthritis slowing her progress. When she drew close to the light, she stepped down from the pavement and onto the road. The try to step down off the kerb fabricated her groan, merely her fear of moths outweighed the pain in her arthritic knees.
Estelle eased her way through a gap between 2 parked cars and gave the streetlight a broad berth, feeling the rut from the twenty-four hours's sunday radiating off the tarmac. The heatwave was in its second week, pressing down on the residents of London and the due south-east of England, and along with thousands of other sometime people Estelle's heart was protesting. The siren of a far-off ambulance blared, seeming to echo her thoughts. She was relieved to run into that the next two streetlights were broken, and slowly, painfully, she edged between two parked cars and rejoined the pavement.
She had offered to feed her son Gregory's true cat whilst he was away. She didn't like cats. She'd simply offered so she could have a good nose around the house, and run across how her son was coping since his married woman, Penny, had left him, taking Estelle's v-yr-quondam grandson, Peter, with her.
Estelle was out of jiff and pouring with sweat when she reached the gate of Gregory'southward smart terraced firm. In her opinion, it was the smartest house in the whole street. She pulled a large hanky out from under her bra strap and wiped the sweat off her face up.
Lite from the orange streetlight rippled across the glass front door as Estelle fished out her central. When she opened the door, she was hit by a wall of stifling heat and she stepped reluctantly inside, onto messages strewn over the mat. She flicked the low-cal switch by the door, only the hallway remained in darkness.
'Bloody hell, non over again,' she muttered, pulling the door closed behind her. Equally she felt around to choice up the mail, she realised this was the third time the power had tripped whilst Gregory had been abroad. The lights in the fish tank had done it once before, and some other time Penny had left the bath light on and the bulb had diddled.
Estelle fished her mobile phone from her handbag and, with an awkward fumble of gnarled fingers, unlocked the screen. It cast a dim halo of light a few feet in front, illuminating the stake carpet and narrow walls, and she jumped as she saw her ghostly reflection in the big mirror on the left-hand side. The half-light gave the lilies on her sleeveless blouse an inky, poisonous quality. She focused the low-cal of her phone down onto the carpet and shuffled towards the living room door, feeling around on the inside wall for the switch, to check it wasn't just the hall seedling that had gone. She flicked the switch on and off, only nothing happened.
So the screen of her phone timed out and she was plunged into full darkness. Just the sound of her laboured animate filled the silence. She panicked, fumbling to unlock the phone. At beginning her arthritic fingers wouldn't motility fast enough, but finally she managed it and the light came back on, casting the front room in a circumvolve of dim blue.
It was stifling inside: the heat pressed down on her, closing off her ears. It was as if she were underwater. Dust particles twirled in the air; a cloud of tiny flies floated silently above a big high-sounding china plate filled with brown wooden assurance on the coffee table.
'It's just a ability cut!' she snapped, her voice resonating sharply off the iron fireplace. She was annoyed that she'd panicked. It was just the circuit billow, zip more. To prove there was cypher to be scared of, she would first have a potable of cold water, and then she would get the electricity back on. She turned, shuffling purposefully off towards the kitchen, her arm outstretched with the telephone.
The glass kitchen seemed cavernous in the phone'southward one-half-light, extending out into the garden. Estelle felt vulnerable and exposed. There was a distant whoosh and a click-clack as a train passed on the track beyond the bottom of the garden. Estelle went to a closet and pulled down a drinking glass tumbler. Sweat stung, as it dripped into her eyes; she wiped her face with her bare arm. She moved to the sink and filled her glass, wincing as she drank the lukewarm water.
The calorie-free went out on the phone again, and a crash from upstairs bankrupt the silence. Estelle dropped the tumbler. It shattered, glass spraying out on the wood floor. Her heart pulsed and pounded, and equally she listened in the darkness there was another scuffling sound from above. She grabbed a rolling pin from a pot of utensils on the counter and went to the bottom of the stairs.
'Who'due south there? I've got pepper spray and I'm dialling 999!' she shouted up into the darkness.
There was silence. The oestrus was oppressive. Thoughts of snooping around her son's firm were gone. All Estelle wanted to do was to go abode and watch the Wimbledon highlights in her cosy, brightly lit business firm.
Something darted out of the shadows and came direct at her from the stairs higher up. Estelle stepped back in shock, most dropping the phone. Then she saw it was the cat. It stopped and began to rub at her legs.
'Bloody hell, y'all gave me a fright!' she said, relieved, her pounding heart slowing. A foul aroma floated downwardly from the landing above. 'Just what I need. Have you done something nasty up in that location? You lot've got a litter tray, and a true cat flap.'
The cat looked up at Estelle nonchalantly. For one time, she was glad of its presence. 'Come on, I'll feed you.'
She was comforted as the cat followed her to the closet under the stairs; she permit information technology rub against her legs equally she institute the electricity box. When she opened the trivial plastic flap she saw that the ability had been turned off at the mains. Strange. She flicked it on and the hall filled with low-cal. There was a afar beep equally the air conditioning whirred to life.
She came back into the kitchen and turned on the lights. The room and her reflection bounced back at her from the huge windows. The cat jumped onto the counter and watched her quizzically as she swept up the broken tumbler. Once she had dealt with the glass, Estelle opened a sachet of true cat food, squeezed information technology into a saucer and placed it on the stone kitchen floor. The air-conditioning was working fast. She stood for a moment and permit the absurd air wash over her, watching as the cat daintily licked and nibbled at the square of jellied nutrient with its pocket-size pinkish tongue.
The bad smell was intensifying, rushing into the kitchen equally the air-conditioning sucked air through the firm. There was a clinking as the cat licked the last of the empty saucer, then darted to the glass wall and vanished through a true cat flap.
'Swallow and run. Exit me to articulate information technology up,' said Estelle. She grabbed a cloth and an old newspaper and moved to the stairs, climbing slowly, her knees complaining. The rut and the smell got worse the college she climbed. She reached the meridian and moved along the brightly lit landing. Methodically, she checked the empty bathroom, the spare room, under the desk-bound in the small office. There was no sign of a nowadays from the cat.
The smell was overpowering when she reached the door to the master bedroom. Information technology caught in her throat and she gagged. Of all vile smells, true cat mess is the worst, she thought.
When she entered the bedroom, she flicked on the light. Flies buzzed and whined in the air. The dark bluish duvet was thrown back on the double bed, and a naked human being lay apartment on his back with a plastic bag tied tight over his head, his artillery tied to the headboard. His optics were open up, bulging out grotesquely confronting the plastic. It took her a moment to realise who information technology was.
It was Gregory.
Her son.
Then Estelle did something she hadn't done in years.
She screamed.
3
Information technology was the least enjoyable dinner party DCI Erika Foster had a
ttended in a long while. There was an awkward silence as her host, Isaac Strong, opened the dishwasher and began to load plates and cutlery, interrupted simply by the low whirr of a plug-in electric fan in the corner. It barely made a dent in the heat, instead just pushing waves of warm air beyond the kitchen.
'Cheers, the lasagne was delicious,' she said, equally Isaac reached over to take her plate.
'I used one-half-fat foam for the Béchamel sauce,' he replied. 'Could you tell?'
'No.'
Isaac went back to the dishwasher and Erika cast her eye around the kitchen. It was elegant, with a French-rustic theme: manus-painted white cabinets, work surfaces of stake forest, and a heavy Butler sink in white ceramic. Erika wondered if, as a forensic pathologist, Isaac had deliberately steered articulate of stainless steel. Her optics came to residual on Isaac'south ex-swain, Stephen Linley, who sat beyond from her at the large kitchen table, watching her suspiciously with pursed lips. He was younger than Erika and Isaac: she guessed xxx-five. He was a strapping Adonis of a man with a beautiful face up, but its expression had sly flashes that she didn't like. She forced herself to defuse his attitude with a smile, then took a sip of wine and willed herself to say something. The silence was beginning to stretch uncomfortably.
This didn't usually happen when she had dinner with Isaac. Over the past yr they'd shared several meals in his cosy French kitchen. They'd laughed, divulged a few secrets, and Erika had felt a strong friendship blossom. She'd been able to open upwardly to Isaac, more than she had to anyone else, about the death of her hubby, Mark, less than two years previously. And, in plow, Isaac had talked of losing the love of his life, Stephen.
Although, whereas Mark had died tragically in the line of duty during a police raid, Stephen had broken Isaac's heart, leaving him for another human.
This was why it had been such a surprise to Erika to meet Stephen when she'd arrived earlier that evening. In fact, not so much a surprise – it had felt more like an ambush.
Even though she had lived in the Great britain for more than twenty-five years, Erika had found herself wishing this dinner were happening dorsum in her native Slovakia. In Slovakia, people were straight.
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