“Well, he ended up at Rigby’s,” she said, like it was supposed to mean something.
“Rigby’s?”
“Uh-huh. Trailer park up the road. It’s where all good trailers go to die.”
Mason snorted a laugh. “Can you point me in the right direction?”
The woman scribbled a messy but readable map on the back of his business card and Mason followed the directions as best he could, excited that he might just get lucky and find a trace of the RV.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Evie had never been so nervous. The house was bigger and better than she remembered it, meaning only that she’d made the right choice all those years ago. She was mentally preparing herself, summoning the nerve to knock on the door.
What the hell was I thinking?
A sudden question of conscience made her turn on her heels and walk away without knocking. She’d made it down three steps before the door clicked open.
“May I help you?”
Evie turned to the voice. It was Mary, the owner of the house and the person she wanted to speak to. She was slightly older than Evie, midforties and a real Oprah type. If Oprah was white, that was.
“I’m sorry.”
Mary’s mouth hung open as she squinted her eyes. “Evelyn? Is that you?” She didn’t look pleased to see her, but why would she? “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know, but it’s important. Can I come in?”
For a moment Mary just stared, looking alarmed. Then she pulled the door open wider and stepped back. “You’d better make this quick. I’m a busy woman.”
“Thank you.” Evie stepped into the house, where everything was cream-colored and polished. “You’ve had a lot of work done.”
“It has been thirteen years.” Mary showed her to the couch. “You said this was important. Is it something I did, or something I can do?”
“It’s neither.” Evie spotted a picture frame but tried not to look at the happy family. “Have you heard about the Lullaby Killer?”
“From the news? Some psycho snatching up children, right?” Mary clasped her hands and couldn’t keep them still. It was a clear-cut sign of discomfort.
“Yes. Well, he has a problem with me.”
Mary sat forward. “And you’re here because…?”
“Because he mentioned Amelia.”
Silence descended around the room. Both women gazed at each other.
“I think you should leave,” Mary said, standing up.
Evie rose with her. “Look, you don’t have to like it, but you need to go somewhere. Take Amelia with you until all of this has blown over. Do you have somewhere you can go?”
Mary looked insulted. “Well, yes, but I don’t see why we sho—”
“If you give a damn about Amelia, there’s every reason why you should.”
“Excuse me? Don’t you come into my house and threaten her. She became my daughter as soon as you signed the papers. You have no right to come back here now and start acting like a concerned mother.”
“It’s not a threat, Mary. I just—”
“Get out. Get out right now, or—”
The front door swung open and a high-spirited teenage girl came tearing through the room. “Hey, Mom,” she said, kissing Mary on the cheek. She stopped and looked at Evie, pausing as if she recognized a part of herself in her features.
“Amelia, this is my… my friend, Evelyn.”
Evie’s heart raced inside her chest. She’d seen Amelia from a distance but never imagined she would ever get to speak with her. She wasn’t even sure if she’d wanted to, until now. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” Amelia said, shaking Evie’s hand. “Are you staying for dinner?”
“Evelyn has to go,” Mary intruded.
“Oh, okay. Well, I have homework to do. Nice to meet you, Evelyn.” Amelia took off, heading upstairs to do what most thirteen-year-olds refused to do at all costs.
Evie stood, shocked.
“Please leave. Now. You shouldn’t have come here.” Mary took her by the arm and showed her to the door with more urgency than she should have.
“Wait. Will you take her someplace or not? I need to know.”
Mary opened the door and paused, clenching her jaw. Then, “Fine.”
“Thank you.” Evie breathed a sigh of relief and stepped out onto the porch.
“Don’t set foot on my property again. Ever.” Mary slammed the door, leaving Evie alone in the cold with her heart melted and her head a jumble of thoughts.
At least Amelia would be safe.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Lullaby Killer’s phone pinged before it lit up the dark.
Another email alert from the news site: the father of the twins wanted to make a statement. The killer touched the link and opened the video, which showed a man with red eyes and a solemn glare. He had the police behind him and a mass of reporters begging for information at his feet.
How pathetic.
“It’s with great relief that I can announce the safe return of my daughter, Kylie,” he read from the cue card. “Although she was able to get away, she was struck down by a driver as she ran for safety. We will not be pressing charges.”
The killer skipped the video on. He didn’t care for gratitude or well-being. He was still pissed off that the girl had tried to run from him, and even more aggravated that she’d succeeded. But now he cared for one only thing—how desperate the man was to see his son alive.
“And I pray that my son is returned to me. If anyone has any details that may help the investigation, please contact…” The video went on, but the drama ended there. Perhaps it was time for the killer to send in his ransom. But how much should he ask for? One hundred thousand? Two? Most people would pay anything for their children’s safety.
“Is that my dad?” The voice behind him was weak and whiny.
“Does it matter? It all ends the same for you.”
Little Ryan Carter whimpered in the corner, his arms folded and his face buried into them.
“Quit your crying, boy.” The killer set down his cell phone and continued to tap away at the keyboard. There was a lot to get done, but he couldn’t do it with that sobbing noise behind him, ruining his focus.
“Please, just let me go.”
“I said shut it!” The killer turned and pointed a finger, bellowing at the kid. “Little boys should be seen but not heard, and you’re pissing me off.”
“I just want to go home and—”
The killer shot to his feet, grabbing the nearby scissors. “Back at the beach, you asked me what these are for.” He stepped forward, leaning toward Ryan and spitting through his teeth. “Another word out of you and I’ll show you.”
His anger getting the best of him, the killer launched the scissors across the room, smashing through something made of glass. Distracted by his jittering nerves, he dropped back into his chair and continued his work. Damn kid’s more trouble than he’s worth. But how much was he worth?
It was time to find out.
Chapter Forty
Mason headed into Rigby’s trailer park with the plate number and a better photograph. He clutched them tight, unwilling to lose the progress he’d made. And with the dark gray clouds crawling all over San Francisco, he feared they might get wet.
The ground was mostly dirt that squelched under Mason’s boots as he trudged through the site. The woman had been right; it was where all good trailers came to die.
All around him were row after row of battle-scarred trailers, some of which had once given less-fortunate families a place to live. There was no getting past it, of course; 90 percent of the people who lived in these things were junkies or fugitives.
Screwing up his nose at the lingering mustiness, Mason headed for the reception booth, where an underweight and grubby-faced teenager sat fiddling with a chunk of metal. He looked up as though he hadn’t seen another human being in years.
“Mason Black, private in
vestigator. I’m looking for an RV.” He took out the plate number and held it up to the glass.
The boy—no older than sixteen—got to his feet and came around to a nearby door, meeting with Mason face-to-face. “Yeah, it comes by here a lot. Hey, man, can I interest you in some spares? We got bits for all sorts of things. Check this out.” He leaned into the booth once again and pulled out a VCR. “Still in good working order, look. Even cleaned it and tested my Tom & Jerry tapes. Reckon it’s worth a fortune, but you can have it for…” He looked to be calculating a large sum in his head. “Eighty bucks.”
Mason stood in shock and tried to stifle a laugh. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen a VCR. “Just the RV today, kid.”
The boy lowered his head. “Oh, sure. Okay.” He went back inside the booth and pulled a hardbound book from an overhead shelf, flicked it open, and perused the vehicle log. “Yeah, thought so. It’s every two weeks, and he comes and parks in lot B. It’s out back.”
“How long does he stay for? Does he say what he wants?”
“A couple days or so. Usually takes some scrap metal and throws it in the RV.”
Mason nodded and showed the photograph. “Is this him?”
The kid leaned forward and nodded. “Yeah, man, that’s him for sure. Is he under arrest?”
“I’m just a PI, kid, with as much power to arrest someone as you. I just want to ask him some questions.” Mason played it down for a reason. If he made a big deal about the fact he was tracking a serial killer, the boy might let an early warning slip. Then it would all be over. “Do me a favor? Here’s my card.” He slid it into the payment tray. “Give me a call next time he comes by here.”
The kid took the card and looked it over with intrigue. “Sure. Except I won’t need to call ya. He’s here right now.”
Chapter Forty-One
Mason stormed toward the Mustang and grabbed his revolver from the glove compartment. He considered calling for backup—or even just calling Bill—but people were encouraged to be absolutely certain they needed help before rounding up the cavalry.
The boy ran behind him, struggling to keep up. “Slow down, mister!”
But Mason had no reason to stop. For all he knew, the Lullaby Killer was just around the corner and could even be caught in the act. He imagined finding Ryan Carter inside, still alive and well, though he knew it was a long shot.
“Shh.” He put his finger to his lip as they approached the RV and gripped the revolver tight. He crept along its side, his shoulder raised and the barrel aimed at the driver’s-side door. He used the side mirror with ever-growing doubt until he approached.
Shit.
Nobody was inside. Not in the front, at least.
“Looks like he ain’t home,” the boy said, far too loud.
Staring daggers at the kid, Mason swept back to the side door. It was a dangerous risk, but he needed to be sure, so he rapped on the door and listened for any sign of movement inside.
There wasn’t a peep.
Mason stepped back and raised the gun.
“No, no, don’t—” the boy yelled, holding his ears.
Three bullets blasted the lock at an angle. He shoved open the creaking door, and with his gun raised, he stepped inside.
“You can’t do that!” the boy yelled.
Mason continued, fumbling around for a light switch. On the wall to his left, he found something and flicked it. The lights flickered on one at a time, revealing something that Mason could barely believe.
Kylie Carter had told him it was a metal box, and it was exactly that: a cold, empty prison that stank of stale blood. He would have loved to have a black light in here. But it was also quiet, his own echoes the only sounds. “Help me out, kid. Keep shouting until I say stop.”
“You can’t be in there! There are rules!” he shouted, though it was unclear whether he was meeting Mason’s request or displaying real disagreement.
Mason pulled the door to a close, drowning out the sound of the yelling until it was silent. He opened it again and heard him at full volume. Interesting, he thought. It’s soundproof. The killer has gone to a lot of trouble to do this.
“What’s going on here?” A large bearded man approached, his chest puffed out.
Mason stepped out from the RV, tucking away the revolver. “I’m a PI, sir. Tracking a killer. Your boy here gave me permission to shoot the lock and go inside.”
“That true, boy?” the man snapped.
“What? No! I—” The boy’s voice cracked like he was almost crying.
“Go see your momma right now. I’ll deal with you later.”
The boy disappeared, shooting a middle finger at Mason as he ran.
“Sorry about my son. He can get a little adventurous when I leave him in charge.” The man seemed to have a respect for authority, and that would be helpful. “A killer, you say?”
“Yes, sir. He stole this RV and has been keeping it here from time to time. It looks like this is where he brings the abducted children.” Mason held out the photograph. “Have you met him before, had any contact at all?”
“Oh, shit.” The man—presumably the owner of the yard—looked at the photo. “I knew there was something off about him.”
“Off? What makes you say that?”
“Hard to explain. He’s just a creepy guy. Look, man…” The guy glanced around as if there were prying ears. “I can let you look in the logbook, but can you keep this from leaking out? This kind of stuff is bad for business.”
“Of course. What’s in the logbook?”
“My boy didn’t show you?” The owner smiled, revealing a small number of black teeth. “When people come through here, we make ’em put down their home address or a contact number. Rules is rules, ya know?”
Mason tried to conceal his excitement. Would the killer have put his real address, or was he smarter than that? Something told Mason he would have to slip up somewhere, and if Mason got lucky, he wasn’t far from finding that mistake.
Chapter Forty-Two
The Lullaby Killer hid behind the scrap heap with clenched fists.
You really are pushing your luck, Mr. Black.
He’d hoped to simply come back and collect his RV but was shocked to see the PI’s Mustang parked out front. Perhaps he should have stayed away, but his curiosity made him follow, watching from a distance.
Black had his gun drawn and moved close to the RV, looking to catch him in the act. Soon after, a larger man approached. The killer had spoken with this man before—the owner of the yard. How can I ever come back here now?
When the kid stormed off in tears, the killer tried to grab his attention with a low whistle. The boy stopped, looked behind him, then joined the killer at the scrap heap.
“What’s going on over there?” he asked the boy.
“That man is looking for you.”
“Did he find anything?” The killer peered over the scrap heap and saw Black and the owner heading back toward the reception booth. This could be a problem.
“I don’t think so.”
“All right.” He dug into his pockets and took out a ten-dollar bill. You didn’t see me here, okay?”
The boy’s eyes lit up greedily as he snatched the bill. “Sure.”
“Hey, who closes the gates around here?”
“I do, mostly.”
The boy seemed eager enough to take money that he might not want to burn his bridges. If he could keep the kid thinking more money would flow his way, he would be under the thumb until the killer said otherwise. He dug around in his pocket for more cash and found another ten dollars. “This is yours if you forget to lock the gate.”
With immediate understanding, the boy took the bill. “Yes, sir.”
“Good boy. Run along now.”
As the kid scurried away with his twenty bucks, the killer had to consider how to get his RV back. He’d gone to far too much trouble to craft the interior that he really didn’t want to lose it now—especially at t
he hands of Mason Black.
Maybe it was time to send the video, to put a wrench in the works. Without a doubt, that would make the investigator stay out of the way for a while. But he was so damn persistent—it seemed as though nothing could make him stop.
You’d better be careful, Mr. Black, the killer thought as he crept around the heap and hopped the fence out of the yard. Because I know more about you than you do about me.
Chapter Forty-Three
I have an address. Mason could barely believe his luck as he climbed back into the Mustang and punched the zip code into the GPS. He was so close he could almost taste it. But he couldn’t go alone. He would need backup for this one, and he knew exactly who to call.
He tapped the button on his phone, and Bill answered right away.
“Mason, I’m glad you called,” Bill said. “Things are getting tight here.”
“Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait. I have a potential address for the Lullaby Killer.”
“What? That’s—Mason, that’s fantastic.” Bill lowered his head like he was subdued.
Mason turned the key in the ignition. The engine purred. “Right? I didn’t want to officially call in the troops, so get down here and help me out, will you?”
“I can’t right now. Look, there’s been a development.”
Mason’s heart rate notched up. In the police force, development was code for problem. “Just tell me and get it over with.”
“Owen Carter received a ransom video. I’m at his place now, trying to convince him to wait, but he wants to pay it.”
“Did you tell him his boy might be dead already?”
“What? No. I can’t tell him that.”
“You might have to, Bill. If you let it slip that the killer might not play fair, there’s a chance he’ll hold off on the ransom.” It was true, as much of a bastard as it made him feel.
Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection Page 9
