THE LAST HOUR OF SEVEN BELLS
The Sixth Bell
The theater was silent.
The rain had started again, tapping against the boarded windows, dripping through the holes in the roof, pooling on the stage around Nora’s feet. She stood in the beam of her flashlight, staring at the empty chair, the words of the Bellman echoing in her head.
The fourth victim is already dead. Has been for hours.
She had been too late.
She had been too late before she even started.
Miles climbed onto the stage, his own flashlight cutting through the darkness, his face pale in the artificial light.
“Nora.”
“She’s dead.”
“I know.”
“I could have saved her.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. He gave me the address. He gave me the time. He gave me the chance.”
“And you came as fast as you could.”
“Not fast enough.”
Crime scene investigators arrived twenty minutes later.
They swarmed the theater, dusting for prints, photographing the chair, searching for any trace of the killer. Nora stood outside, leaning against her car, watching the rain fall.
Her phone buzzed.
PRIVATE NUMBER.
She answered.
“You’re angry.”
“I’m past angry.”
“Good. Anger will keep you focused.”
“Where is the fifth victim?”
“In the basement of the old church on Mercy Street. You have until 3:00 AM.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I told you. Justice.”
“Justice for who?”
The Bellman was silent for a long moment.
“For everyone you forgot.”
The line went dead.
Nora stared at the phone.
Miles walked to her.
“He give you a location?”
“Old church on Mercy Street.”
“That’s twenty minutes away.”
“The fifth bell rings in thirty.”
“Then we need to go.”
They drove in silence.
The streets were empty, the rain falling harder now, the wind picking up. Nora’s hands were steady on the wheel, her eyes fixed on the road, her mind fixed on the Bellman’s words.
For everyone you forgot.
She had forgotten someone. Someone important. Someone the Bellman cared about.
She just didn’t know who.
The church appeared out of the darkness like a ghost.
Its steeple was crooked, its windows shattered, its doors hanging open. The rain had washed away the graffiti, leaving the stone clean and pale in the glow of the headlights.
Nora parked at the curb.
She got out.
The air smelled of incense and decay.
She walked to the doors.
Miles followed.
The basement was dark.
The stairs were narrow, the walls damp, the ceiling low. Nora’s flashlight cut through the shadows, illuminating old furniture, old boxes, old memories.
And on the floor, a woman.
Bound. Gagged. Terrified.
Alive.
Nora ran to her.
She dropped to her knees, cutting the ropes with her knife, pulling the gag from her mouth.
The woman gasped.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Don’t thank me yet. Can you walk?”
“I think so.”
“Then let’s get you out of here.”
The paramedics took her away.
Nora stood in the rain, watching the ambulance disappear into the night.
Her phone buzzed.
She answered.
“You saved her.”
“I saved her.”
“One more. Then the sixth bell.”
“Where is the sixth victim?”
The Bellman was silent.
“At your sister’s grave.”