Rhythm of the Knife

CLOSER AND CLOSER, SHE COMES. FASTER AND FASTER, HE KILLS.

The Ripper kills and kills and kills again, leaving their bodies where they fall. He cuts and cuts and cuts again, not content until he's killed them all.

The weight of the world is on Special Agent Meredeth Connelly's shoulders. Madness has driven the Ripper into a frenzy. He moves to the rhythm of the knife, and each night, he takes another life. He leaves her messages. She's heard them all before

Eight little whores with no chance of Heaven
Seven little whores, beggin' for a shilling
Six little whores, glad to be alive
Two little whores, shivering with fright.

With someone recreating Jack the Ripper's crimes, is any woman safe?

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Praise for Rhythm of the Knife

"E. H. Vick’s Never Gets It Wrong!"

"I can’t stop reading this author. He never lets me down. Special Agent Meredeth Connelly and her partner Agent Bobby Van Zandt are called to California to bring down a killer who is copying Jack the Rippers murders. This killer is another of Anjou’s ‘children’ who he took after killing the rest of their family members. He raised them using a mind control process that has turned them into killers and each one has an end goal that is related to Agent Connelly and ties back to her brother that she did not know about until recently. You won’t be able to put this twisty turning drama down and when you get to the end you will immediately be buying this authors next book."

"A fantastic rollercoaster ride between good and evil!"

"Rhythm of the Knife, another great addition to E. H. Vick's Meredeth Connelly Mind Hunt Thrillers collection, will take you on a truly phenomenal rollercoaster ride. On the coattails of "Super Profiler" Special Agent Meredith Connelly and her partner Bobby, we get to experience almost first hand an epic game between good and evil where no one wins, everyone loses something and the best you can hope for is to walk away with your life and your sanity. Alternating different POVs definitely fills in missing pieces of the plot and further broadens character development. It's a unique perspective to view things from the suspects side, especially years in the past. As per usual, this killer continues to make things personal with Meredith, bringing her past that she barely remembers back to haunt her. Overall, Rhythm of the Knife will definitely keep you on the edge of your seat from beginning to end!"

"A thoroughly enjoyable thriller!"

"A thoroughly enjoyable thriller. The way Mr. Vick structures his stories works so well, in my opinion. The reader is privy to the thinking and actions of the perpetrator, knows pretty confidently which of Ankou's children is involved but doesn't know the current identity the perpetrator is using. Mr. Vick usually provides at least two possible people who could be the "bad guy", but usually keeps the reader guessing until the last few chapters. I like knowing what's going on in the killer's mind but keeping his/her identity hidden. It keeps me on my toes.

"There is the requisite thriller action here with blood and such, car chases, and sometimes beat 'em-up action. Mr. Vic seems to find that perfect balance between too gory and blah. He also is very good at creating a tense, suspenseful atmosphere. The reader finds their heart rate increasing right along with Meredeth and Bobby's.

"But I think my favorite thing about the books in this series is the relationship between the characters. As I've said before, Mr. Vick makes it obvious that Meredeth and Kevin have an adult relationship without getting graphic and explicit. He emphasizes their emotional connection and the work they do to make sure their relationship stays solid. This book shows a prime example. Kevin really messes up, but he doesn't try and make excuses and weasel his way out of trouble. He admits he messed up and asks for forgiveness. Everything about their relationship rings true for me. Then there is the relationship between Meredeth and Bobby. I think every girl wishes she had a big brother like Bobby; at least I know I do. He is talented, a hunk, always has Meredeth's back, takes care of her any way he can, and never passes up the opportunity to give her grief about something, constantly teasing her to help relieve the stress she is usually under. It comes across as the best working relationship ever.

"If you haven't read any of this series I highly recommend that you do. Otherwise, you are missing out on some of the best books I've come across in a while."

"Modern-day Jack the Ripper copycat stalks Meredeth as part of a larger scheme."

"Another one bites the dust, as superprofiler of BAU & her virtual superhero partner, Bobby, an ex-Force Recon Marine, do battle with yet another of the innovative serial killer Ankou, whose true identity remains hidden still, “children”, all who are set off in a sequence should the previous one fail.
Each of them has their own special way of killing, guaranteed to catch the attention of the F.B.I.'s Behaviourial Analysis Unit, which requires Meredith Connelly's expertise, thus exposing her to danger, as she is the ultimate target of Ankou, who has his own plan for her demise. Fortunately, her partner is able to save her time & again, while she is concentrating on capturing these killers.

"This is a really wonderful partnership, as each brings amazing attributes to the table.

"Who is the killer? That is the question posed to the pair, as there's always more than one viable suspect.

"A surprise ending really caught me out & I hope you take the time to follow the pair as well as the criminal, whose thoughts are also available for us, which completes the story for us, as we follow them to their inevitable conclusion.

"I've read all of the author's novels, as he changes through several genres, amassing a huge library of fascinating stories, each of which I've thoroughly enjoyed. Take the time to read his works, whether they're under the name of E. H. Vick or Erik Henry Vick.

"Do yourself a favour & try to catch up with this prodigious author, as he has the ability to write extremely fast. I challenge you to see if you're up to the task.

1

AUTUMN OF TERROR
Los Angeles, CA

MICHAEL DRUITT WATCHED the pretty little brunette assess the darkened alley. She stood in the sickly cone of light shining down from a streetlight badly in need of maintenance. It was late—or early, depending on your point of view—somewhere after three in the morning, but not yet four, and she appeared exhausted. Druitt knew she’d just finished a shift and a half at the hospital three blocks away, and he knew the brunette’s name: Mary Ann Blocker.
She glanced at the empty street behind her, then turned her attention to the street in front of her before shifting her gaze back to the dark alley. Druitt had made sure it was dark—a silenced pistol had taken care of the lights hung by both the city and the property owners, and shattered glass lay about like so much confetti.

He loved Blocker’s tight little body, and he loved the way her yellow scrubs accented her curves. He suspected she bought one size small to emphasize her womanly wiles. She’s a slut, he thought. She deserves this. He had a long history of hating easy women that stemmed back to an incident in his late teens—an incident in which he’d felt used and abused. Come on, Mary Ann! There’s no one hiding in this alley…except me, that is.

She turned to face the alley and drew a deep breath, steeling herself to take her accustomed shortcut to the parking garage two blocks over. It was clear she didn’t like the darkness, but he’d also taken measures to ensure the street was dark as well. He’d left the streetlight under which she stood and several others chosen at random. She’d think it was a problem with the power grid—at least that’s what he hoped.

Blowing her breath out through pursed lips in an almost whistle, Mary Ann stepped out of the penumbra of weak light and, clutching her bag under her arm, she stepped into the mouth of the alley. Michael took a slow breath, ensuring he made very little, if any, sound. He held his left hand behind his back, and in it, he clutched the long-bladed Liston knife. He’d spent hours polishing and sharpening the knife, then had sterilized it in an autoclave. He had other instruments with him as well, but they were for later. He focused his thoughts, visualizing the first cut, the left-to-right slash across poor Mary Ann’s throat. He would lunge out of the shadows from her right, the eight-inch blade already arcing toward her throat. She would have no time to defend herself, no time to evade the blow. He stilled himself, barely breathing, and forced himself to wait for the perfect moment.

Anticipation built and built as Mary Ann advanced slowly into the alley. Good God, hurry up! he thought at her. Her knuckles had gone white on the canvas strap of her bag, which bulged under her arm. He had no doubt her palms were sweating, no doubt her vision and brain worked in concert to paint a rapist in every shadow, behind every dumpster and trash can, and Druitt imagined he could hear her pulse thundering from her carotid.

She drew near, and his grip tightened on the Liston, the muscles of his left arm engorging with blood. He forced himself to stand still, forced his feet not to shuffle, and she drew nearer still. Her eyes were wide, dilated to take in as much light as possible, but she didn’t see him. Perhaps she sensed him, but in modern society, few gave credence to the irrational shouts in the back of their minds.

That’s what made his chosen profession so much easier.

She stepped within range, but it would still be a reach, so Michael remained frozen in place—a black shadow amidst other black shadows. She scanned the alley from her left to her right, her gaze skipping right past him. She took another step, then halted. “Wuh…” She cleared her throat and tried again. “Who’s there?”

Druitt grinned but, of course, said nothing.

She peered around the alley again, then shrugged and took another step.

Druitt lunged out of the shadows made by the bump out of the apartments on the second floor and the shrub hiding the pillar between two roll-up doors, the Liston’s blade a silver arc that would bisect her throat with ease. Her gaze darted to him, her gaze found his, and for a moment, he saw recognition there.

But then the knife had completed its arc, and he’d barely felt the impact. Mary Ann’s blood jetted into the air, and being a registered nurse, she did the right thing: she tucked her chin and grasped her throat with both hands, staggering back. Her bag fell to the crumbling macadam with a thump and the sound of glass breaking.

Michael took another rapid step forward, closing the distance between them. With his right hand, he grabbed her by the hair and jerked her head back and up, peering into her eyes. He saw her plan a moment before she tried it, but a moment was all he needed, and her knee glanced off his thigh instead of slamming into his groin. She didn’t dare use her hands or risk passing out in moments—one of the reasons he enjoyed the throat slash as his opening move—but she tried with the other knee, nonetheless. He countered that blow as well, his grin stretching and stretching.

Her mouth worked, but she couldn’t make a sound thanks to the deep bite of the Liston knife. He’d severed her trachea and esophagus as well as her carotids and jugulars. The blackness spilling from between her fingers was a mix of arterial and veinous blood, and she had only seconds of consciousness remaining, a few seconds more of life.

She tried again with her knee, but the blow was weak and ineffectual against his thigh. She floundered backward, trying to create space between them, and he let her go.

“Mary Ann, stop all this foolishness,” he said and saw the confirmation of her suspicions in her eyes. “Yes, you know me, and I know you.” He pulled the balaclava off his head and grinned at her, enjoying the relatively cool air across his cheeks. “Come, we both know you are already dead.”

She turned and stumbled toward the mouth of the alley, reeling like a drunk, stumbling over her own two feet. He chuckled as she tried to run, then listed to the left and fell into the ground cover lining the right side of the alley.

“See there?” he asked. “I’d say you have seconds, Mary Ann, so let me assuage your curiosity. I chose you because you’re a slut, a dirty little whore. Your tight uniforms, your bouncing little ass. You are beautiful, especially your eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a hazel so bright. But…unfortunately, I can’t abide a woman of low morals, a seductress, a slut.”

She rolled to her back and looked up at him, her eyes imploring him to help. She didn’t dare shake her head, not with the death grip she maintained on her throat, not if she valued her last few moments as a living woman, but he could see the denial in her eyes, and it enraged him.

“Don’t pretend I’m wrong!” He strode to her, bent, and pulled her hands from her throat. She had no strength left to fight him—even the arterial jetting from her severed arteries had weakened to a gush.

She thrashed from side to side, her mouth forming words she didn’t have the air to speak. She tried to kick him, but it was no more effective than the knees to the groin had been.

“You’re a dirty little whore, Mary Ann, and I’m going to make sure the world knows. They will call me ‘Jack,’ which is quite a compliment, really.” He cocked his head to the side. “Do you believe in a god or gods, Mary Ann?” Her eyes were glazing, rolling from side to side, and her struggles had weakened to the point that he hardly needed to counter them. “Do you? A simple nod will suffice.” She blinked rapidly, trying to focus her eyes, looking past him, looking through him. “Who do you see? Mary Ann? What do you see?” A momentary regret flashed through him. She’d never make another sound, which meant he’d never get an answer.

Her eyes rolled, and her mouth made gasping, fish-like movements. The gush from her neck became a sluggish dribble, then stopped altogether. He felt the rush, reveled in it, throwing his head back and releasing a satisfied sigh. Then he dropped her wrists, watching her arms flop to her sides. He stared down at her a moment, then turned and jogged back to his gear, retrieving the other surgical instruments he’d brought with him and arraying them beside Mary Ann Blocker’s cooling corpse.

He knelt astride her legs, his butt resting on her knees, and reached for one of his custom knives, the one he’d fitted with a number ten scalpel blade, and started cutting.

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