Wine and Gun

He heard the light and fast breathing of the person on the other side of the phone, but he had no intention of waiting any longer. He hung up the phone neatly, and then sat on the spot to disassemble the disposable mobile phone and break the calling card.

When Albarino was done, he stuffed the shards of the SIM card and the disposable phone into a ziplock bag and put it back on the bottom of the storage box. It was already raining heavily at this time, as is always the case in Westland in autumn, and there was already a blurry curtain of water outside the windshield of the car.

Albarino glanced outside, then pushed open the door and jumped out of the car.

Herstal felt that he was really going to be deprived of oxygen by him, and his eyes began to turn black, and they all knew how quickly the heart stopped beating due to lack of oxygen. At this moment, Elliott's phone rang from somewhere near Herstal's spine, and the sound startled them all.

Elliott bounced off him like a frightened animal, and pulled out the phone from under Herstal—the phone was in Elliott's jacket pocket, it must have been when he just casually The jacket fell out when I threw it on the pad.

Herstal breathed heavily, surviving the blackened stall, while Elliott answered the phone there, his expression changing rapidly. The last bit of blood disappeared from his face, and the caller had hung up at this time, and Elliott didn't have time to say a word.

Elliott lowered his raised hand in a daze, and the phone slid from between his stiff knuckles, hitting the dusty floor with a thud.

Then he looked at Herstal slowly, slowly, and the moment he saw the expression on his face, Herstal suddenly understood.

Herstal gasped as he propped up his upper body, his shirt half-unbuttoned, revealing his heaving chest and bleeding lips. But when he looked at Elliott, for some reason Elliott saw a chill in his eyes that he had never seen before.

"What's the matter?" Herstal asked, tilting his head to one side as if in real confusion, his once neatly groomed blond hair fell from his forehead and brushed his eyelashes in a messy way, "They found that is you?"

Now Herstal is quite sure that the person who made the call just now was Albarino Bacchus, of course he could do such a thing, after all—

"I want to see you burn."

That bastard.

"I can't—" Elliot murmured, and the next sentence suddenly raised his voice, "Herstal, we can go, I won't let..."

"Yes, yes, of course we can." Herstal replied, he adjusted his posture with difficulty, knelt on the bed, his eyes were calm and sharp, "But, why should I go with you? ?"

Elliott stared at him blankly.

"Like the people you killed before, is there any one of them who wants to go with you?" Herstal asked with interest, "Because of their endless repulsion, you finally had to kill them. They—perhaps, it wasn't a 'kill' for you, it was a failed love, was it? Like every failed love you have?"

Elliott's breathing became more rapid, and he said almost bewildered: "Herstal, you—"

"Or like your first love? Eliot, in which rain did you kill the man you really loved?" Herstal sneered, "Because you love him, Even you worship him, but he sees you as trash on the side of the road. Facing him, you fantasize about the impossible dependence, and you know that such a thing will never happen. When you simulate that on your victim When a relationship has to end in frustration..."

Elliott stared at him, grimacing, teeth chattering. At the same time, a bolt of lightning pierced the night sky, illuminating the pale faces of the people through the narrow windows in the high ground of the basement.

Herstal's last words came out of the beginning lightly, sounding like a curse or a bewitchment.

"……It's raining."

A furious moan erupted from Elliot's throat, he stepped on the thunder rolling from the end of the sky and charged towards Herstal, and drew a knife from a scabbard somewhere behind his waist—

When he rushed to Hestal, who was half-kneeling on the mat, time seemed to freeze. He remained in that position in disbelief, bowed his head—blood was gurgling from his belly, a butterfly knife stuck deep in his belly, Herstal's fingers clenched on the hilt, his wrist because of The rope was tight and red and swollen not long ago.

That knife once belonged to Herstal, which Herstal used to stab Elliott's palm when they met on the road. Elliott later tucked the knife into his jacket pocket and left it behind for dozens of hours.

The jacket was now lying wrinkled on the cushion, which Herstal had accidentally pressed under him just now.

"You know what, Elliott," Herstal said quietly, almost chatteringly. "You're not a particularly competent serial killer."

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