Alright. Few things before the story starts. 1) Please, please do not post here. I know I let that go last time, but I'm going to try and crack down on that this time around. There will be a feedback thread, use it. I will bump it with each chapter if that helps. Killer Inside will also still be open as well. I will probably post updates and announcements there as well. 2) This is a sequel to Killer Inside, and set ten years beyond that. If you have not read KI, I suggest you do so. This will not make sense otherwise. 3) On the feedback thread I will be answering any questions, comments, concerns etc. Ask me anything, I will answer. 4) One last thing. I am not connected to a computer and therefore do not have a view count for my thread, I can only go by comments. While posting just to post is fine, it would be appreciated that after you read, you post some sort of feedback. It helps me get a better view who I'm reaching. You don't have to post every time a chapter comes out but if you are a consistent reader, then please say so at least once. Thank you! Other than that, I don't have much else to say! So let's get this show on the road. Hope you like it!
Prologue The school was dark, only illuminated by the street lights. The farther you ventured, the harder it was to see. Shadows danced along the walls a a group of police officers inches their way towards the locker room. A tip-off had led them here, and they didn't know what to expect. School was out for the winter holidays anyway, the officers hoped they could be too. The looked room was at the back of the school, where it was almost pitch black. Everyone was on high alert, guns focused on any slight movement. Busting open the locker room took no time at all, and quickly they were in. They searched the room, but knew it would be empty. One officer walked forward, and paused for a moment when the blood splash underfoot. The stench was incredibly nauseating as well. In the middle of the room on the bench laid the victim, 15 year old Jennifer Tyler. The officer approached, gun drawn. He holstered it as he drew up next to her. "Spread out, search the school," he ordered. However, he started to look the victim over. She was held down with rope tied to her hands and feet. Multiple stab wounds covered her body, the knives still impaled. The officer sighed sympathetically. "Bring the rest in," he called out, referring to the rest of the investigators. "We aren't going to find anything else here." He gestured to another officer, who quickly left, closing the door behind him. The first officer went back to looking at the body, examining her. Another officer joined him. "What do you think, Brandon?" The second officer asked. The first officer chuckled, and ran his hand through his dark gray hair. He was in his late fifties, and hoping to retire soon. His days had seen too many murders. "I hope this is just a revenge killing and not a spree; we don't need another serial killer," Brandon said. "Philips, something about this knife pattern does interest me. Look and see how each knife and wound isn't random. They each are in a particular spot. Head, heart, arms. They're planned stabbings." Philips nodded and tossed her dark hair. She started to take notes. "I want shots of the site, evidence and everyone back at the station in a few hours. I want to crack this one down fast. This killer isn't random, he's probably experienced and has killed before. Check neighboring cities and states for similar crimes." Brandon looked the body over again. "Poor girl." A knock at the locker door caused him to look up. He swore under his breath and closed his eyes. "Never mind." "What?" Philips asked. "Call in the FBI, specifically the BAU." "What are you talking about?" Brandon walked over to the door, opening it to let the photographers in. Closing it, he pulled out his belt flashlight, since the room was dark. Shining it on the door, he traced the scratch marks on it with his other gloved hand. "I know why I recognized the stab wounds. This is the mark of an old killer, the Kid Killer." Philips raised an eyebrow. She was young, and new to the force. "Double meaning. Her name was Kerri Cadwell, a fourteen year old girl. She killed eleven people before taking her own life," Brandon explained. "Impressive." "Very. But this was her mark, the carved numbers. Time to give my old friend Radke a call. He worked on this case before, he can help now." Philips wrote that down too. "Got it, sir." "Good," Johnson said walking back to the body. "Tell him that it's time to reopen the case. Oh, and that this one leaves messages." Philips looked back at the door, and traced the words herself. She couldn't make heads or tails of it; she could have sworn Brandon had said the killer was a girl. Carved in the metal door, it read: HE'S BACK. Beneath that was a number, spelled out: ONE. Philips wrote it all down, exactly how it looked, and walked outside to call Radke, whoever that was.
Chapter One My alarm blared in my ear, silenced by the lazy whack of my hand. I squinted my eyes open, the morning calling to me outside my window. Even so, I felt my eyelids grow heavy as I slipped into a dreamless sleep once more. I awoke again, minutes later, to the angry buzz of my phone. Reluctantly, I managed to pull myself out of bed. My legs hung over the edge as I my wandering hand searched for the cause of my rude disruption. I rubbed my eyes, trying to wake myself up more. It had been a long night. Closing around my phone, my hand brought it up to my ear. "Yes?" I grumbled. "Christian Jones, if you aren't in my office in 10 minutes, I swear I'm going to fire you," a husky voice demanded. My eyes shot open, my weariness forgotten. What was my boss calling me about? It was 7 am on a Monday! "Excuse me, sir?" "Just get in here. I'll explain later," he said, followed by a click. I nearly jumped out of bed. Grabbing my suit off my closet door, I threw it on. Quickly I pulled my slacks on and shrugged the shirt on. I didn't bother to button it. My hands flew over the dresser top in search of my watch while my eyes scanned to floor for my shoes. Quickly I hooked my watch on as I realized my shoes were downstairs. Two at a time, I raced down the stairs. I saw my shoes by the door as I rushed into the kitchen. My files and folders were in my briefcase on the counter. Grabbing that too, I made my way to the door. Luckily I still had my phone in hand. My coat was over my shoulder. Slipping on my shoes, I finally closed my hand around my car keys. At last, I was leaving, and hopefully keeping my job. Tossing the briefcase next to me, I started up the car. Before I had even closed the door, I was rushing to tie my shoes. As I did so though, I felt my watch slip. It caught my attention out of the corner of my eye and I realized I wasn't wearing my watch. I was wearing my charm bracelet. That was the last thing I needed. Swearing, I stuffed it deep into my pocket. I didn't need to see that now. No, not after last night. Pressing on the gas, I roared out of the driveway and down the street. One-handedly, I drove through town as I buttoned my shirt with my other hand. I hoped my boss knew it took more than ten minutes to drive there, let alone wake up too. Traffic was nightmare getting in to Los Angeles at this time, so I took the back roads in. Barely stopping at signs and crosswalks, I made it in right before 7:15 am. Record time; I usually wasn't needed until 8 am at least. "Henry!" I shouted, tossing my keys to the young man in the parking lot. "You know my spot!" He nodded and ran to the car I had just left out front. I hurried in to the building. The company name bore down at me from above the doorway: CYE Psychiatric Care, or Clemonts, Young and Eyeslen Psychiatric Care. "He's waiting," the secretary beside the door said as I walked in. She buzzed my in as I nodded my thanks. Grabbing the first elevator, I headed up to the top floor. The wait seemed to take forever, and the music was pain to my ears. I lifted my arm to check my watch, before remembering it wasn't there. This day hadn't started real well. Stepping off the elevator, I made my way to my bosses office, pausing only to throw my briefcase onto my chair as I passed. As I walked in to his office, I was fretted with the back of his chair and a stern, "Sit." I sat, and waited. "Ah. Christian. Sorry to disturb you on a Monday, but I wouldn't if it wasn't urgent. You do have clients of your own." I paused. "Yes, sir." "How are they doing?" "Fine. Sir." The chair spun around, and my boss, Rungrim Harri, looked me straight in the eye. He was a stern man, and very grumpy. But he wasn't stupid. He was clever, understanding and even compassionate at times. He was pretty big guy, and had dark hair and eyes. Grim to his friends, you didn't mess with him. His word was final. Unless you had compelling evidence. "Really, please tell about them. Everything so far," his deep voice commanded kindly. "Oh, well. I just finished up with Mrs. Jane Adams. She was suffering from-" "An anxiety disorder. Yes, yes," he interrupted, waving his hands. "It was her son right?" "Yes it was. The war." "Of course. No, tell me about who you're dealing with now. Being a clinical psychiatrist can be hard, I just want to make sure you're handling everything smooth." "Sir, you do know I've been here for three years." He paused. "Please, just tell me. It's important." I frowned. Grim was never interested in my clients, and if he was that meant he wanted them instead. He had a bit of a wild streak with the unusual clients. I cleared my throat. "Ms. Sarah Thompson has major depression and this is her third month coming in every week." "Depression?" "Yes, she was bullied through high school and to cope she started drinking at a young age. This, combined with low self-esteem and a bad home environment, left her in the date she is right now. Actually, she's coming in today if you want to talk to her?" "No, no. That's fine. Who else are you treating?" "Well, about ten other patients. You really want me to tell you about each of them and their progress?" He frowned. "No, I take that back. The thing is, they have a new case they want me on. They wanted to send you, because of your personal connection, but I said no." "What are you talking about Grim?" I demanded, my formalities gone. He looked shocked. "You don't know?" "Don't no what?" He gave a long exasperated sigh. "It's all over the news." "I haven't had the chance, someone called me in early," I muttered sarcastically. "You're girlfriend, your best friend, Kerri Cadwell." I instantly harden, and grew cold. That wasn't a subject I liked. "What about her." "Recently two bodies have been found, in her style." "What do you mean, style?" "The numbers she wrote, the way she killed. It's all the same. They opened the case again. They don't think she was the killer." I angrily stood up, knocking my chair over. My best friend had killed herself in front of me after admitted she had killed eleven other people. I held her bleeding body in my arms, as they expect me to believe she wasn't responsible? "They're wrong!" I shouted. "She confessed to me before killing herself!" "And that," Grim announced in a satisfied voice, "is why you aren't working the case. You're taking the client I'm suppose to get today." He checked his watch, and whistled. Grabbing a folder from in his desk, he handed it over. "He'll be here momentarily." "No, wait. The Feds want your help?" "Yes." "Why?" I questioned. "If KC wasn't the killer, they need help profiling a new one. If she was, they need help profiling the copycat." "Why you though, to help." "You've mentioned that you thought KC had multiple personality disorder. That, and my friend's leading the case. He lead the original as well. Radke, you recognize the name?" I tried to keep my breathing in control. "Yeah, I do. Nice guy." The buzzer rung, and the secretary announced, "The new patient's here, Mr. Harri." Grim smiles at me. "Have fun." "Thanks." I stood and left, slamming the door behind me.
Chapter Two Frustrated after the meeting with Grim, I stormed into my office. The client was already there. I tried to quietly close the door and calm myself. "Hello," I said uncertainly as I realized I hadn't looked at the folder at all, and didn't know his name. "Hello, Doc," the man said in a soft voice. "You must be-" I checked the folder. "Shawn Helm." I smiled, and as the name sunk in, the smile froze on my face. The younger brother of KC's first victim, perfect. I paused for a moment, and then moved to my desk, still smiling awkwardly. A fresh notebook was in the top drawer, and a pen was already on my desk. I grabbed both before sitting in the chair across from Shawn. I tried to keep my voice even, and neutral. "Hello, Shawn. I'm Doctor Jones. I'll be helping you during your time here." "Thank you, Doc," he said, smiling. He looked the same. The slightly ruffled brown hair, thin smile, tan skin. He was still skinny, but much taller. Though he smiled, it never reached his eyes. They looked as dark as the sky, and as cruel as night. We sat in an uneasy silence as I quickly leafed through his folder. His record at age consisted of two parking tickets, an arrest for shoplifting and another for domestic violence, but those charges were dropped by his girlfriend. "Why did you decide to come in Shawn?" I said politely, starting a conversation. "My sister died about ten years back. I had just turned ten myself. She was killed by a serial killer, and was the first one to die." I nodded, surprised he hadn't recognized me yet. "I dealt with it really badly at the time, and even worse these last couple of years." "What do you mean?" "You know, hanging with the wrong crowd, doing stuff you're not suppose to do. That sort of thing." "Any drink? Or drugs?" I asked, taking notes. "No man, I stayed away from that stuff. I saw what it did to people, and I didn't want my life screwed up like that. It was bad enough with my sister gone. Anyways, I've been getting into fights recently, and I've started having bad thoughts." "Bad thoughts?" "Real dark ones, you know?" "Can you describe them?" "Course I can. I get them all the time, doing the simplest things. I'll be at the store, checking out, and I'll look at the cashier thinking how easy it would be to kill him." I watched his eyes. It was fascinating to see how intrigued they were when he talked. They never wavered from mine, like he enjoyed this. "Or I'm at the pool, with my friends. We're wrestling and I think how easy it would be to drown one of them. Things like that. They happen all the time." "Do these thoughts remind you of your sister?" "Yeah. I think I form them by thinking about her and how she died. Her killer must have been thinking the same thing for so long, how easy it is to kill people. And that she found it easy to kill Jane angers me. But I don't know, man. You're the expert." "So why did you come in?" I repeated. "I'm worried," he said after long pause. "Worried?" "Yeah." He looked away at last, uncomfortable by this topic. "I was really upset, like I said, after my sis died. I remember going through that, and thinking all those dark thoughts about her killer. I could've killed someone, even though I was ten. I was angry enough to. But I didn't, because I knew my sister Jane would agree to it, and it wouldn't be remembering her in the right way." He paused and took a deep breath. "But now I'm having the thoughts again, of killing people, and I don't think the memories of my sister are enough to stop me." "Ok, slow down Shawn. You don't have to kill people, you shouldn't want to. Do you?" "Yeah." "Why?" "I don't know. I just like it." "Shawn, listen to me. You control having these thoughts. No one else. You don't have to think like this, I can help you. You can still honor your sister and not do this." "No, see. That's where you're wrong," he suddenly said. "Yeah, these thoughts are mine. But they aren't, you know? It's me who forms them, but a different me?" I was interested. A different him? That sounded familiar. "What do you mean?" "I feel like right now, this is the real me. But there's two other parts of me that are separate and when they want, they're in charge of me. Yet make do things I wouldn't do normally." "Good things?" "Not always. But they're intelligent, smart things. I wouldn't normally think of them," Shawn said simply. "Shawn, I need you to think very clearly," I said. As I did, Shawn closed his eyes tight and bit his lip hard. "Shawn?" I stood up. "Are you ok? What's wrong?" Shawn then opened his eyes again. They were softer, kinder. "Hello." His voice was quick and soft. I was suspicious. "Can you tell me where you are Shawn?" He just looked at me. "What is your name?" He paused for a moment, and furrowed his brow. He was thinking, like he couldn't remember. In the same soft, fast voice, he said, "I think my name is Thomas."
Chapter Three Taking deep breaths, I slowly stood and walked to my desk. His eyes sharply tracked me all the way there. Carefully, I opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a recorder. With a press of a button, it turned on and the light blinked red. "What are you doing?" Thomas asked. "Thomas, I needed to ask you some questions. Is that fine?" "I suppose, but what sort of questions?" "Just some general ones about you," I said as I sat down again. He eyed me suspiciously. "What's your name?" "Thomas." "Do you have a last name?" "I don't know." "Do you know someone named Shawn Helm?" He was quiet for a moment. "Yes." "How do you know him?" "He is part of me." "Part of you?" "Yes. I'm his true self. He is just a mere fragment of me." "Thomas, I need to speak to him." "No!" He snapped suddenly. "You can't." "Why not?" "He had been bad. He needs to be punished." "How are you going to punish him?" Pushing up the sleeves on his jacket and shirt, he revealed his left arm; ragged scars covered it and crisscrossed across the soft flesh. A fresh cut ran in a short spiral up towards the elbow. The red skin around it was nothing compared to the deep, scanning wound. "Like this," Thomas announced. "I make him do it. It doesn't hurt me, only him." I nodded, horrified by the thought. Images of KC's death came rushing back. Her, driving the knife into her arms, falling into my arms. I closed my eyes for a moment. "Why does Shawn need to be punished?" "I can't tell you." "Why not?" "He was going to tell you something he shouldn't." "What is it?" "A secret." "Can I talk to Shawn?" "Do you promise that he won't tell?" Thomas spoke in the way of a child, which was curious. I had studied many people with multiple personality disorder, which I was certain Shawn had. Many times, the alternate personalities are fake, and made up to keep people out of trouble by placing the blame on something else. I had never seen self harm by a personality before though. Also, in many people, their other sides were different ages from themselves. Young, older or similar, the ages could vary. Sometimes they were even different genders from the original person. They could even look different, and change themselves constantly to fit the demands of their other sides. Usually there was more than one side too, which meant that Thomas wasn't the only one in Shawn. But, Thomas seemed younger. He spoke almost like a child of ten or eleven, but was much cleverer. He was possibly a teenager. So I went with that feeling, and played it out. "I promise I won't make him tell." Thomas gave me a long look. "Fine." I watched as Thomas's eyes closed, a opened a moment later. "Shawn?" I asked. He took a deep, gasping breath. "He's gone." "Shawn, is that you?" "Yes, I think so." "Is Thomas still with you?" "Yes. He's always with me. I was trying to get to that." "Is the the only one?" Shawn rubbed his mouth. "No. Unfortunately." "Who else is there? Can you tell me about them all?" "There's three of them total. Julian, Thomas and Lucy. Thomas you met. He's about 16. Julian's 40, and much more calm and mature. But he's really funny. Lucy's 25. She's really romantic and caring. They all get along alright, but Thomas thinks he's in charge. They help me out all the time, but they usually don't take over. When they do, it's usually Thomas. Most of the time, they just give advice." I nodded, slowly taking it in. "The punishments?" "They hurt. I apply them; they make me. They'll make me do it again," he said sadly. "They all make me. Torturing me. My own mind, making me hurt myself. I don't want to do it, but if I don't then it's horrible." He rubbed his head. "I can't you now, what I was going to say. Or I'll probably end up killing myself to deal with then." "I can get you help. You could-" "No. You can't. Also, don't pretend that I don't know who you arm. I know, Chris. I was hoping I got stuck with you; you'll know why soon enough." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I need to leave. I'm sorry. I'll check back in Wednesday. I promise." He stood and promptly left before I could say anything. After about a minute, I reached over and clicked the recorder off. I say back in my chair, pondering.
Chapter Four Hours ticked by as I rifled through old psychology books research MPD. A constant buzz of my ringtone echoed through my empty office as I sat in the corner rifling through a psychology book. With a sigh, I slammed the book closed and tossed it onto the stand next to me. My eyes fought to stay open, even this early in the morning. I had not slept well. A moment of silence passed as my phone went to voicemail. I finally stood up and sauntered to the desk. As I had predicted, the phone started to ring again as I slowly stopped next to it. Answering it, I lazily brought my phone up to my ear. "This is Christian Jones," I answered formally to the unknown number. "Chris it's me, Grim," the voice identified itself as. "Hello," I said unsurely. He was way too casual for business topic, but too formal for just a chat. "Listen, have you checked the news recently?" I opened my mouth to say no, but he cut me off. "Course you hadn't, otherwise you would have called me," He let out a long sigh. I was puzzled. "Should I?" I asked. "No. Just let me explain, please. I flew in to Sacramento right after talking to you, met with the FBI and checked out the crime scenes. This is one sick bastard. That said, so was your girlfriend." "Thanks." "Long investigation short, both the FBI and I have diagnosed this as an open case. Even though the numbers continue, it is a copycat. KC definitely died, and hasn't resurrected." "That's good," I said sarcastically. "But thanks for telling me Grim." "What the news does say, however, is that some jackass here released news that the media jumped on. This new killer is who was someone close to the original, or basically someone KC knew. Copycat killers usually have personal relationships with the original. So, obviously, the media jumped on this and now there's talk of you being this new killer." I swore under my breath. Just great. "Don't worry. We have no reason to believe that, but you might get some bother from media. Ignore it. Just ignore it." "I'll try." I paused. "Sorry about loosing it this morning. Nightmares again. I don't know why they won't just leave me alone." "It's fine. I could tell. You ever need someone to talk to about it..." "Yeah, you're there. It's fine for now. But that new patient you sent me? He needs to go to a different facility." "What do you mean?" "Bad case of MPD. Don't know why he hasn't new hospitalized already." "I'll look into it. Thanks." "No-" A splintering crash cut me off, followed by the rain of glass falling around me. I ducked down in shock behind my desk, putting it between me and the broken window. I pressed my back against the desk, my breathing rapid. "Chris?" Grim screamed in my ear. I ended the call, stuffing my phone in my pocket. I looked around the room, watching my papers blow in the wind around the room. A rock lay in the center of the floor. Waiting a few minutes until I was sure that nothing else was coming, I crawled over to the rock. A note was taped to it, with a message written in scrawling handwriting.