Mason demonstrated against the air. “I think someone else did this, leaning against the wall while they wrote with the severed finger. Check the prints, see if they match.” Mason handed the black light over and took a few steps back. This guy is sick.
Mason had barely accepted what he’d seen before Captain Cox appeared at his side. “What do you make of the parents?” she asked. She’d always respected his opinion and had no trouble telling him as much, but he thought she might have a clue of her own by now. After all, she was the youngest person in San Francisco to have ever made captain.
“I haven’t spoken to them yet.”
Cox screwed up her face. “Wait, you don’t know?”
Mason shook his head, sensing this was about to get a whole lot worse.
The captain walked him to two nearby gurneys, unzipped the body bags and showed the faces of a young couple, one of which had a gunshot wound in the center of his forehead, the woman with one in her stomach.
“These were found here?” Mason leaned in close, desperate to find some sort of explanation.
“Right over there on the couch. Still think this is the Lullaby Killer?”
“Without a doubt. I just… This isn’t like him. It’s as if he was rushed, or—”
“Or what?”
Mason was drowning out the sounds of everyone around him. It was the way he’d trained himself to make a scenario from a jumble of clues in order to reach a conclusion. Suddenly it twigged. “The boy.”
“What?” asked Bill and Captain Cox in unison.
“It was the boy.” Mason looked up, feeling more sickened than he ever had before. “I think he made Ryan Carter do this.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Ryan was shown into the dark room. The door slammed shut behind him.
“Wasn’t that great, boy?” the killer asked him, but it sounded rhetorical.
Ryan felt an unfamiliar feeling inside, a distasteful cocktail of sadness and shame. How had be been persuaded to do such a horrible thing? In that moment it had seemed like a good idea, but now? His father would never be able to look at him if he found out what he’d done.
“Hey, I’m talking to you.”
Ryan shrugged, taking a seat on the floor where he knew he belonged.
The killer looked down at him like he’d been insulted. “You don’t feel smart? You don’t feel powerful? What the hell’s a matter with ya?”
“I feel… bad.”
“Well, tough shit. You did something today that your dad could never be proud of because he only gives a damn about your sister. But listen here,” the killer said as he crouched in front of him, “I’m proud of you.”
Ryan smiled at him, but only because he knew it was the easiest way of shutting him up. By now he was learning the best ways to avoid further aggression. “Thank you.”
The killer rose. “Good boy. Now stay here and watch TV. I need to run out and do something. But don’t you get up off that floor, ya hear?” He switched on the ancient TV and headed out, closing the door.
He didn’t lock it. Ryan sat staring at the door, ignoring the cartoons on the television. I could try now, unless… Is it a test? That hopeful part of him said to get up and try, but the angel on his shoulder told him he’d better stay put.
But it can’t hurt to check, can it?
His hand hurt as he pushed himself off the floor and crept across the room. Perhaps just a little peek won’t matter, he convinced himself. If the killer was still there, he could just say that he was making sure he was safe inside.
Yeah, that’s not a bad idea.
Embracing the fear, he wrapped his good hand around the knob. Trying his damndest not to shake, he twisted it and gave it a pull. To his surprise, it clicked open, and a cold autumn breeze assaulted his face.
Ryan poked his head through the door and winced.
Up the walkway, the killer stood enjoying a cigarette, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. He had his back to the room but could turn at any moment. And then the punishments would begin.
Pushing the door to a close, Ryan pondered how fast he could run. If only he could make it to the street, he could cry for help and get out of there before the killer even noticed.
But it was risky.
Well, Ryan asked himself, what’s it going to be?
Chapter Fifty-Three
It was the hardest decision of his life, but it was his only hope.
Ryan darted out of the room as fast as his legs could carry him. He was barely off the property when he heard the killer shouting after him.
“Boy? Boy! Jesus Christ.”
He didn’t want to look back, to see the man catching him up. All he could do was ignore the shooting pains in his legs and push forward.
Ryan hit the street, bare on each side here but with a variety of bars and houses farther up the road. He tried his hardest to sprint faster, to reach the public places sooner. And then he heard the RV behind him.
The killer sounded the horn, startling Ryan. It was close behind him, but how close? Close enough to hear the engine roaring, that was for sure. The cold breeze brought tears to Ryan’s eyes as he ran, making snot dribble from his nostrils, but he was almost at the lively street.
“Help!” he screamed, realizing with horror there was not another human being in sight.
The RV closed in behind him, tormenting him rather than stopping him.
Should I stop? The devils of simple submission were playing a number on him, telling him the easy option was just to return and accept his punishment. No, I need to get home, even if my dad still hates me.
Ryan’s toe hit the curb, sending him tumbling to the ground. He brought his hands up just in time to guard his face, but his knees and elbows took an agonizing, damaging blow. He winced, hearing the RV revving even closer and the killer shouting out the window.
“Don’t make me get out of this vehicle!”
Panicking, Ryan picked himself up and disappeared into a nearby alleyway, not stopping to dust himself off. As he rounded the corner, he saw something only God could have sent, to save him from his captor.
“Help!” he screamed to the two men at the end of the alley. “Please help!”
The men stepped forward. One was black and wearing sports gear, in spite of the cold, while the other man, slightly older, wore a business suit. They looked an odd pair to be hanging out in an alley, but Ryan wasn’t about to complain.
“What’s going on here?” the younger one asked. It looked like he was zipping up his fly.
“Someone’s chasing me,” Ryan wheezed.
The killer entered the alleyway and caught up to them, smiling and wiping his forehead. “Sorry, fellas, my boy’s just being a bit dramatic. You know how it is.”
“This your son?” the old man asked, crooking an eyebrow and pushing his chest out.
“Oh sure, yeah.” The killer looked down at Ryan. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
But the men weren’t buying it—something about the crying child suggested he wasn’t simply disobeying his father. The old man stood in the way. “Sorry, sir, but you’re going to have to prove—”
With lightning speed, the killer drew a gun from the back of his pants and fired a quick shot into each of the men. They landed to either side of Ryan, making him squeal with horror.
“Nice try, kid,” the killer said, spitting as he stowed the gun away. “Just when I thought I could trust you.”
Ryan jerked back as the man grabbed him, dragging him back to the RV.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Mason got back in his car and told Evie what he’d seen. He was watching her expression as she digested the information, mostly to see if it affected her as much as it had him.
“It’s hard to see the bright side, but this suggests Ryan Carter is still alive, right?”
“Yeah, but try telling his father that. Look, I need to pay Mr. Carter a visit. Do you think you can head to Keira’s, see what you can dig up?”
; “It’s a strip club, for Christ’s sake. Couldn’t you—”
“Can you go or not?” Mason snapped.
“Fine. Whatever. As long as I can take the car.”
Mason reached into his pants pocket and grabbed a handful of cash, then held it out to her. “For the cab fare.”
Evie stared at it, then snatched it and left. “Be careful.”
Mason made his way to the Carter household, wondering how the man would take the news. Moreover, how would Mason phrase it? Sorry, sir, but your son mutilated a young girl? Your boy is alive, but he’s working with the killer? Something was amiss, but what it was eluded him completely.
Owen opened the door and showed him in, but Mason only stood in the hallway.
“What is it?” Owen asked, clearly expecting bad news.
He has no idea. “It’s not much of an update,” Mason said, speaking slow and trying not to further upset the man, “but I think your son is still alive. For now.”
Owen sniffed and wiped his eyes, then looked up. “That’s great though, right? That means I can pay the ransom and get my son back.”
Mason shook his head. “I still don’t think it’s that simple.”
“I don’t understand. Why can’t I just pay the money and have my son? I don’t care about the million dollars. I just want to see Ryan and tell him that I’m sorry.”
“Because you have to think about the other children, Mr. Carter. If you pay that money, a serial killer goes free. Whose kids will be next? I don’t give a damn about your million, either. I just want the killer in cuffs, if not—” Mason caught sight of young Kylie cowering by the upstairs banister. It was good to see her out of the hospital, and he couldn’t blame her for wanting to know where her twin brother was. “If not dead.”
“But my son dies regardless?”
“Not at all. You know we’re trying to—”
“Trying to what? To catch a killer at any cost, including my boy’s safety?”
“Hey, now you listen here,” Mason snapped, trying to ignore his guilt at speaking harshly to a man with a missing child. He knew that if Amy had been abducted instead, he would slit throats to get her back. “You’re trying to counter everything I say with the same comment. You’re going to give me one more day. I’m close, Mr. Carter. I just know it.”
“How close?” Owen asked, pleading with his eyes.
“Close enough.” Mason headed for the door.
“What if I—”
“One more day!” Mason closed the door and sucked in the fresh air, steadying his nerves. Time was not on his side, and he knew it.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Evie maneuvered between the tables of perverted creeps.
It wasn’t her kind of scene—everything from the sleazy music to the down-and-out women flashing their skin, bringing shame on ladies everywhere who were trying to make a decent living. But still, she thought, people do what they have to.
Arriving at the empty bar, she flashed a photo of Marvin Wendell to the bartender. “Do you know this guy?” she asked.
He polished an assortment of shot glasses one by one, staring at the photo until recognition settled in. “Might have seen him. Who’s asking?”
“Evelyn Black. I’m a private investigator, of sorts.”
Flicking the cleaning cloth over his shoulder, the barman assessed her for a moment before dialing a number on a landline. He kept one eye on her, explaining to the person on the phone what was happening.
Now why would you need to make a call?
Evie glanced around her, studying the men in black suits who stood bolt upright and scanned their surroundings. When she’d first come in, she’d thought they were bouncers, but now she finally understood: they were bodyguards.
Two of them approached her, one of whom had a finger to his earpiece.
“Miss Black? Come with us.”
Evie swallowed hard and followed them through to the back, wishing she’d taken the gun from Mason’s car. They were backstage, heading up a set of creaking wooden stairs until they reached a door, where the bigger bodyguard punched in a code and showed her inside.
“Miss Black, is it?” A ponytailed man in his forties sat at his desk, shuffling some things into a drawer.
Evie tapped her nose and flicked her head at him, letting him know some powder remained beside his nostril. Embarrassed, the man understood and brushed the cocaine from his nose. He sniffed, to make sure.
“I hear you’re asking about a guy.”
Glancing around and trying not to freak out that they’d closed the door behind her, Evie approached the desk and showed the picture of Wendell. “Some say he comes here often?”
The man studied the photo, then glanced up at Evie before speaking with that croaky Manhattan accent. “What are you, police?”
“A PI, actually.”
“Right, right. Can I see your credentials?”
Shit. Evie knew she should have borrowed Mason’s badge. She’d done that on multiple occasions in the past—it was surprising just how many people saw the shiny brass and looked no further. “I left them at home.”
The man laughed, and his bodyguards followed suit. “You can see the trouble here, miss. A young woman such as yourself comes in here asking questions about a paying customer, has no identification, and yet wants information. How do you think that looks?”
Evie, trying to conceal her shaking hands, cleared her throat. “Look, I’m trying to pretend this is just a strip joint, and that I couldn’t head downstairs right now and hire one of your whores.” She licked her dry lips, shuffled her weight to the other foot. “I’m not a dyke, but I’d do it just to prove a point. Listen. This man is dangerous.” She pointed at the photo. “He’s killed before, and he’ll do it again. So unless you want the police at your door, how about you show me some professional courtesy?”
The smile fell from the man’s face in an instant, but he didn’t speak as he paused for thought.
“Well?” Evie prompted, fake courage to the fore.
“Miss Black, this is the only courtesy you’ll get from me: turn around and go back to whichever hole you crawled out from. Never come back here. If you do, even the police won’t be able to protect you. You hear?”
It sounded to Evie like a generous offer. It was obvious he wasn’t going to give up any details, so what other choice did she have than to walk out while she still could?
Without another word, she took the door and headed back downstairs, where the music had picked up its tempo and some skinny redhead was sliding out of her panties on stage. Men were hollering and whistling like a pack of excited dogs.
Evie kept her head down and went for the exit, keeping a cautious eye over her shoulder. She almost screamed when she walked into the stripper.
“Easy there,” said a topless blonde, feeding a scrap of paper into her hand while glancing over her shoulder. She walked away without looking back.
Evie knew better than to open it in plain sight, and made for the exit and darted around to the side. Nervous and curious, she unfolded the note and read the message with its one clear instruction: Meet me out back at midnight.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Midnight was approaching, but not fast enough. Evie hugged herself in the cold alleyway, refusing to take her eyes off the filthy old man taking a piss behind the dumpster.
He zipped up and stumbled drunkenly toward her.
“Want some fuh-fun, gorgeous?” he asked as he swayed from side to side.
“I’m not here for that.” Evie took a step back, disgusted.
“You don’t want—” He burped. “—some of this?”
The club’s back door swung open and the stripper who’d left the message stepped out. It was a complete transformation to see her in clothes. Inside she’d looked like a whore who’d do anything for money. Now she looked like somebody’s mom. “Go home, Jeremy,” she said to the drunk.
He turned, oblivious to what was going on, then stumbled into th
e darkness while muttering incoherent words.
“Sorry about him,” the stripper said, stepping closer.
“Thanks for the rescue.” Evie held up the note. “You have some information?”
The stripper chewed on her gum. “You a cop?”
Evie believed this woman deserved the truth, at least. “Just an interested party.”
After a longer stare of assessment, the stripper took Evie by the arm and led her away from the club, lowering her voice. “That man you’ve been looking for? His name’s Marvin Wendell. He comes here a lot.”
She knows his name. At least I know she’s not lying to me. “You’ve danced for him?”
The stripper laughed. “My profession extends a little further than just dancing, if you catch my drift. Wendell is a client of mine. Into some freaky shit, but he always pays.”
“Have you been in his RV?”
“RV? Sweetheart, we catch a cab to a motel up the road. Romero’s, I think it’s called.”
Evie wasn’t at all surprised the man was into prostitution. “Are you sure it’s him?”
“Couldn’t be surer. Guy was missing a finger. Kind of reduces the pleasure, if you get what I’m saying.” The stripper winked. She was a friendly woman, kind of overkeen to please but generally big-hearted.
“I get you,” Evie said, avoiding her gaze. “You say he pays you. Is he wealthy?”
They passed the drunk they’d seen only moments ago, now sleeping it off on a nearby bench that was still wet from the recent showers. The street was otherwise empty.
“He pays me for the whole night because of the distance to the motel. It suits me—I don’t have much of a life outside this place anyway, and I’m saving to go back to college.”
Evie felt for the woman, but what could she do? “Romero’s. Got ya. Thanks for your help…?”
“Jennifer.”
“Jennifer. You take care.” Evie handed her the cab money Mason had provided, smiled, and walked toward the nearest bus stop to wait for her brother. She had a feeling he’d be more than a little interested in the new information.
Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection Page 12
