Robin leaned forward and planted a wet kiss on Nick’s cheek.
“Thank you, Detective Burkhardt.” The moment her lips touched his skin, a warm current surged into his body.
It passed through his chest and spread toward every limb before gathering around the mysterious object hidden within him.
Nick’s smile briefly froze.
He suppressed his surprise and gently stroked Robin’s soft blonde hair.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.
From now on, listen to your mother and stay on the main road.
No more taking shortcuts through the woods like Little Red Riding Hood.” Robin nodded with complete seriousness.
She kissed his other cheek, then turned and ran into her mother’s waiting arms.
A few feet away, Hank stood with his arms folded carefully across his chest.
The anxiety that had covered his face earlier was gone, replaced by a warm smile as he watched Robin’s family embrace her.
Police reinforcements had arrived quickly.
Hank’s emergency call had mobilized nearby units, but headquarters had also received an anonymous report from a concerned citizen who claimed to have heard a young girl crying somewhere in the forest.
Nick’s backup plan had worked.
If their polite visit to the cabin had failed, the anonymous call would have provided enough justification for officers to search the surrounding area more aggressively.
Fortunately, the Postman had exposed himself before that became necessary.
The once-quiet clearing was now crowded with marked patrol cars, unmarked vehicles, ambulances, and crime-scene vans.
Flashing lights cut through the trees while forensic technicians and medical examiner personnel moved between the cabin and the body outside.
Hank watched Robin leave with her family before turning toward Nick.
“I still don’t understand how you found this place,” he said.
“The entire process was strange from beginning to end, but I have to admit that you did one hell of a job.” He reached out as though intending to put an arm around Nick’s shoulders, then stopped when his partner’s expression suddenly hardened.
“What’s wrong?” Nick did not answer.
A disturbing thought had surfaced in his mind.
He turned and walked quickly back into the cabin.
Hank hesitated before following him through the front door and into the kitchen.
A forensic technician was dusting the cabinets and countertops for fingerprints.
The damaged apple pie remained on the floor near the wall, its filling mixed with broken pieces of crust and metal from the bent tray.
Nick approached the strings of sausages hanging beside the meat grinder.
He stared at them for several seconds.
The polished kitchen, obsessive cleanliness, concealed cellar, and collection of red coats no longer felt merely eccentric.
The machine on the counter had probably served a much darker purpose than preparing ordinary food.
Nick looked toward the technician.
“Bag all of these.” The officer glanced at the sausages.
“For evidence?” “Yes.
Send them to the laboratory for DNA testing.” Nick pointed to the grinder.
“Take that too.
Swab the blades, feeding tube, handle, and every interior surface.” The technician’s expression slowly changed as he understood the implication.
Hank stared at the hanging meat.
“You think he…” His voice faded.
Nick did not need to finish the sentence for him.
Hank looked from the sausages to the grinder, then back toward the hallway leading into the living room.
“How did you know?” “I don’t know yet,” Nick replied.
“That’s why we test everything.” Hank remained silent for a moment before swearing beneath his breath.
The possibility was horrifying, but it fit the evidence.
Sylvie Oster had been torn apart in Forest Park, and several portions of her remains were still missing.
Nick left the kitchen and returned to the living room.
He descended through the hidden doorway into the cellar with Hank close behind him.
Two forensic officers were already photographing the bed, ropes, gag, and surrounding shelves.
Evidence markers had been placed across the floor while another technician examined the ladder for fingerprints and trace material.
Nick borrowed a pair of gloves and crossed to the wardrobe opposite the child-sized bed.
He opened the doors.
Several red coats hung neatly inside.
Hank came to stand beside him.
The smallest belonged to Robin.
Her name had been written on the tag, and the garment matched the description provided by her mother.
Four larger red coats occupied the remaining hangers.
They differed in size, brand, and style.
One was an athletic jacket similar to the torn clothing recovered with Sylvie’s remains.
The others appeared to have belonged to young women of different ages.
Hank counted them silently.
His face lost all color.
Nick placed a hand on his shoulder.
“You didn’t just stop a kidnapper,” he said quietly.
“You took down a serial killer.” Hank continued staring at the coats.
“A cannibal,” he whispered.
“That’s what the laboratory will determine.” Neither man truly doubted the answer.
The Postman had hunted people dressed in red, killed them during separate attacks, and preserved trophies inside his cellar.
Robin would have become his next victim if Nick and Hank had arrived any later.
Hank had ended the killing with two shots.
This time, he was the officer placed on mandatory critical-incident leave.
Captain Sean Renard arrived at the cabin shortly after the scope of the evidence became clear.
He listened to the preliminary report with a dark expression while investigators carried numbered bags from the basement.
When he learned about the sausages and additional coats, anger briefly broke through his usual composure.
“No one speaks to the press,” Renard ordered.
“All media inquiries go through public information.
Do not speculate about additional victims until the laboratory and medical examiner confirm what we have.” It was not a formal court-issued gag order, but every officer understood the instruction.
Unauthorized comments could compromise the investigation, frighten the public, and cause unnecessary pain for families who did not yet know whether the recovered clothing belonged to their missing relatives.
The district attorney’s office and city officials would need to prepare before the full story became public.
Portland took pride in its reputation as the City of Roses.
Residents celebrated its parks, local breweries, environmental culture, and relatively safe neighborhoods.
The discovery that a serial killer had hunted women and children inside those same forests would shake the entire city.
Renard controlled his anger and approached Nick and Hank with a more measured expression.
“You both did exceptional work tonight.” His gaze dropped to the way Hank was holding his side.
“You need medical attention.” “I’m fine,” Hank replied.
“You were thrown through a doorway.” “I’ve had worse.” Renard did not look convinced.
“You’re going to the hospital.” He then turned toward Nick.
“You should take several days off as well.” “I didn’t fire my weapon.” “You worked through the night, entered an isolated cabin without proper backup, encountered an armed and violent suspect, and recovered an abducted child from a hidden cellar.” Renard’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Take the time.” Nick did not argue.
The follow-up investigation would be handled by a joint PPB and FBI task force.
The case involved a kidnapped child, multiple suspected murders, possible interstate connections, and evidence that might belong to victims outside Portland.
Federal involvement was inevitable.
Nick and Hank had no objection to letting a larger team handle the mountains of reports, laboratory requests, missing-person comparisons, and searches connected to the Postman’s history.
The suspect was dead, Robin was safe, and Hank’s role in stopping him had been witnessed by Nick and supported by physical evidence.
No later investigator could erase that achievement.
Two agents from the FBI’s local office approached them before Hank was taken to the ambulance.
One extended his hand to Nick.
“Excellent work finding the girl.” The second agent shook Hank’s hand more carefully.
“And good shooting.” Hank managed a tired smile.
“I was aiming for him.” The agent glanced toward the body.
“That usually helps.” Cases involving serial offenders rarely ended this quickly.
Such killers often selected strangers, prepared their crimes carefully, and left little personal connection between themselves and their victims.
They might stop for weeks, months, or even years between murders, making patterns difficult to recognize.
The FBI generally treated serial murder as two or more victims killed by the same offender in separate events.
The red coats suggested at least four earlier victims, though investigators still had to connect each garment to a specific disappearance or death.
What made this resolution remarkable was not only the speed of the investigation.
Robin had been recovered alive.
Nick gave the official version of how they located the cabin.
After apologizing to Monroe for the mistaken search, he learned that the clockmaker had seen a suspicious delivery vehicle near Berkeley Park.
Nick then reviewed available traffic footage and traced a similar box truck toward the wooded area.
The explanation contained enough truth to survive casual examination.
Hank did not challenge it.
He had watched the Postman transform into a wolf-like creature, heard the inhuman howl, and seen him run on all fours.
The impossible had struck him hard enough that he no longer felt qualified to question how Nick found the cabin.
His immediate concern was speaking privately with his partner once the doctors finished examining him.
Nick accompanied Hank to the hospital.
X-rays confirmed two fractured ribs from the impact at the doorway.
The injuries did not require surgery, but the doctors admitted him overnight for observation, pain management, and breathing exercises to prevent complications.
Hank complained throughout the process.
“I don’t need to stay here.” “You can barely sit up without swearing.” “I swear when I’m healthy too.” “That isn’t helping your argument.” Several nurses recognized Nick from the officer-involved shooting footage and Robin’s rescue.
Their attention made Hank increasingly irritated until one of them reminded him that he was the patient.
By the time the examinations ended, dawn had already broken over Portland.
Nick remained until Hank was settled into a room and the medication began making him drowsy.
He then said goodbye to the nurses, ignored another attempt to obtain his phone number, and took a taxi home.
The rising sun cast pale light across the quiet neighborhood when he reached his house.
Nick closed the front door behind him and stood motionless in the entryway.
He had worked through the night, chased a cannibalistic Blutbad, rescued a child, and spent hours inside a hospital.
His body should have demanded sleep.
Instead, excitement kept him completely awake.
Nick raised his right hand and opened his palm.
The Magic Movie Ticket appeared above it.
The card no longer looked dull or dormant.
Soft golden light flowed across the intricate patterns covering its surface, illuminating his fingers and casting a faint glow onto the nearby wall.
It was fully charged.
Nick’s breathing quickened.
Only two years had passed since his last journey.
Based on the ticket’s previous charging speed, he had expected to wait many more years before entering another movie world.
At that rate, reaching full power before his mid-thirties would have felt fortunate.
Robin’s kiss had changed everything.
The moment she sincerely thanked him, a form of energy entered his body and flowed directly into the ticket.
Her gratitude had completed in seconds what ordinary time might have required years to accomplish.
Nick finally understood.
The Magic Movie Ticket did not recharge through electricity, heat, sunlight, or any conventional source.
It responded to his actions.
Solving cases.
Saving innocent people.
Receiving genuine gratitude from those whose lives he changed.
That might be the ticket’s true fuel.
Nick touched the cheek Robin had kissed and stood there grinning for several moments.
The solution had been in front of him all along.
His profession as a police officer was not separate from his supernatural ability.
Each person he rescued could help open the path toward another movie world, another reward, and perhaps the healing power he needed most.
Aunt Marie’s thin face appeared in his thoughts.
Nick’s excitement settled into determination.
He closed his fingers around the glowing ticket but did not tear it.
Entering a random horror movie without preparation had already killed him once.
Before beginning another journey, he needed to speak with the person he hoped to save.
Nick picked up his phone and dialed the familiar number.
The call rang several times before connecting.
“Hi, Aunt Marie,” he said softly.
“How have you been feeling lately?” [Goal Tracker]