Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection

by Adam Nicholls

  The man looked once more over his shoulder, then followed Mason inside.

  Chapter Three

  When the man finally stopped sobbing, he settled into the chair and introduced himself.

  “Chris Healy,” he said, holding out a quivering hand.

  Mason took it, shook, then sat across from him at his desk. He clasped his hands together into a ball and rested his chin upon them. “Please, in your own time.”

  There followed a few moments of awful silence, the only sounds in the room the old radiator starting up with a soft hum, and Chris’s heavy breathing, the short, desperate gasps of a man trying hard not to burst into tears.

  Eventually, he sat up. “It’s my wife and daughter. They went out to some bar together, and they didn’t come back. That was four nights ago.”

  Mason remained silent, allowing him to speak. He clicked out the tip of his pen and grabbed a notepad, then began scribbling notes as he listened.

  “They were with my wife’s sister, Marion.”

  “Uh-huh.” Mason kept scribbling, avoiding eye contact so as not to make the man uneasy. “Go on.”

  “I’ve been in contact with Marion’s family. They haven’t heard from her, either. It’s like, one minute they were there and the next they were gone. Like there was no in-between—as if there wasn’t a moment when everything suddenly went wrong. All the while, I was lounging around at home like some heartless goober, eating pizza and watching crappy TV.” Chris Healy began to shake again, sinking his head into his hands. “I’m sorry.”

  Mason sat back in his chair and sighed. “You say kidnapped though.”

  “What?” Chris’s head shot back up.

  “Outside you said they’d been kidnapped. Those were your words. Have you received some kind of ransom note?”

  “No.”

  “Then forgive me for asking—” Mason leaned forward, his palms lying flat across his new oak desk. “—but why do you assume that somebody has taken them?”

  Chris rose to his feet. “Mr. Black, if you knew my wife or daughter, you’d know they were happy. They had no reason to want to go anywhere. They’re just too responsible for that.” His face started to redden, this time through anger rather than distress. “I came to you for help, and the last thing I expected was to be—”

  “Please sit down, Mr. Healy. I’m not accusing you of anything. I just want the facts.”

  Chris Healy slowed his breathing and finally sat.

  “Have you been to the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “And? What did they say?”

  “They said they have nothing to go on. No footage, no witnesses. Not even any reports of a suspicious character. They say they’re doing everything they can, and I believe them, but it doesn’t look too hopeful.”

  Mason was astonished. Given his own years of proud service with the SFPD, he’d never expected a member of the public would think they couldn’t be helped. The police, after all, were the authorities. To Mason, this meant the ability to protect and serve. “And that’s why we’re having this discussion?”

  “Yes.” Chris sat forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the cushioned arms. “Mr. Black, I’ve heard good things about your service. I’ve been told you’re competent, trustworthy, and resourceful. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to employ you to find my family.”

  Mason didn’t need to think about it. Putting this man out of his misery would be a pleasure. After all, it was his job, and he liked to think he was pretty good at it. “I’ll need photographs, information, and a deposit upfront. If this is okay with you, we can get to work right away.”

  The faintest of smiles crept onto the man’s face. It was one of great relief. “Thank you, Mr. Black.” He rose and reached out his hand again. “Thank you so much.”

  Mason stood, shook it, and looked his client in the eye. “I’ll find your family, Mr. Healy.”

  It was just then that Mason Black felt something familiar—the guilt of a lie, perhaps, or the sensation of overwhelming self-doubt. Either way, he was making a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep.

  Chapter Four

  Anarchy lit his cigarette, the paper burning into a wave of smoke. His legs up, he drew back and inhaled as he watched her crawl away.

  “Save your strength,” he said, smirking. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  The woman, whose name was something like Maria or Marion—he couldn’t quite remember—stopped and lay flat on her belly. The knife in her back had finally defeated her.

  “There you have it, folks.” Anarchy sat forward, took another puff, and blew it into a gray cloud. The postsex cigarette had always been his favorite. “Try not to feel too bad about it. You gave it some fight, after all. I’m almost impressed.”

  As if by some miracle, Marion (yes, it was Marion—one of the others had screamed it when he’d dragged her away) reached across the dusty floorboard, dug her painted nails into the soft wood, and pulled herself a little farther. She was nearly at the door.

  “Woohooo.” Anarchy laughed and stood, clapping. “You go, girl!” He stalked around her, watching her body shiver as each painstaking reach toward the door killed her a little more.

  “P-Please,” Marion mumbled with what little strength she had left. Her arm relaxed as if she’d given up, and her cheek dropped to the floor in submission.

  Anarchy—still loving his high school nickname—crouched beside her and looked into the dark, desperate pools of her eyes. There was something in there, genuine desperation to accompany her plea. “Please what, babe?”

  Marion’s face contorted in agonizing horror. “Please… Hurts…”

  Perhaps he could allow her to live and get her some medical attention. But what would be the fun in that? It wasn’t like he didn’t have two other women to fuck around with. Besides, this was a fun change of pace from stabbing drunks, burning down family homes, and other exciting pastimes. “It’s all right—it won’t hurt anymore.”

  When he reached for the knife in her back and tugged on it, Marion’s eyes shot wide open. She grunted, unable to find words to voice her pain. Anarchy slid the blade out, found a new spot in her back, and plunged it in.

  “How’s that?” he asked, watching her eyes close. “That should end the torment, no?” Once more, he took the knife from her back and stabbed her again. This time with a little more force.

  Marion’s body finally stopped moving, the knife’s hilt protruding from her flesh. She was at peace now, whether she’d wanted to be or not.

  Anarchy stood up straight, looked around the dusty old room, and rubbed his hands together. There was so much fun to be had.

  And this was just the start.

  Chapter Five

  Mason sat behind the wheel of his Mustang, heading toward the bar in which the girls had last been seen. It was a long shot, and the police had probably already been there, but it was as good a starting place as any.

  As he headed down Fernleigh, tapping the wheel to some new tune on the radio, he couldn’t help but think of Evie. There was once a time when the majority of his cases would begin by enlisting her help. As an investigative journalist, she’d always been eager to help. Sadly, since she’d learned about the incident with the Lullaby Killer, she’d become a different person.

  I miss you, Evie.

  It’d been a year since they’d sat and had a proper conversation. All necessary contact with her had been cold and formal, but that wouldn’t stop him trying. Even Diane had tried to bring them closer together, but there was still no sign of improvement.

  This much was now clear: Mason was on his own this time.

  It was midday when he reached the bar, and he wasn’t surprised to find it open. Inside, it was a total dive that smelled of stale beer, and dust motes swirled around like flies. Nobody was inside but the bartender, who was cleaning up behind the bar.

  Mason approached him. “Are you the manager?”

  “Owner,” the barman said withou
t looking up. “Listen, if you’re here about the missing girls, I’ve already spoken to you guys. I came in and gave an official statement.”

  “I’m not with the police.” Mason slid his PI badge across the bar and watched the barman’s eyes assess it. “I’m here in a more private capacity. I know you’ve done this all before, but I’d appreciate it if you could tell me what you know.”

  The barman cleared his throat, wiped a glass dry, and stored it under the counter. His hands came down to rest in front of him. “You get three questions, then I want you to leave. That fair enough?”

  “Absolutely.” Mason looked around, measuring his options carefully. It was a gloomy place—really quite miserable, despite all the garish neon. When he thought of his first question, he phrased it with care. “Did you know the women? All three of them?”

  “I didn’t know a single one. Only reason I knew they were here is because they were so damn loud. They were like a murder of crows. Drinking too much, screaming too loud. You know?”

  Mason nodded, taking it in. “You say you heard them. Anything in particular?”

  “Girl talk.” A phone rang out back. The barman ignored it. “They announced they were leaving, loud enough that anyone could’ve heard them.”

  “Did anyone else hear them? Anyone get up and follow them?”

  “They would’ve had a hard job. The girls took a cab home. Had me call it in for them. They were in no state to do it themselves.” He pushed himself off the bar and waved his palm toward the door. “That’s your three. I’m sorry it’s not much use, but it’s all I have.”

  Mason swallowed hard. It really had been a waste of time. “Thank you,” he said, stuffing the badge back into his pocket and heading toward the door. There was nowhere to go from here—no leads, clues, or witnesses. Only…

  “Hey.”

  The barman looked across at him, frustrated. “No. No more questions.”

  “Sorry, I just wondered if you could call me a taxi.” Perhaps there was somewhere to go from here. It may not be much, but if he could find the driver who’d taken the girls, he might just run into some luck.

  Exhaling a long breath, the barman reached into his breast pocket, extracted a business card, and slid it across the bar.

  “What’s this?” Mason asked, grabbing it up.

  “That’s the company they went with.” The barman crossed his arms and stood up straight. “Now get the hell out of here and call your own damn cab.”

  Mason left without another word.

  Chapter Six

  When the cab arrived, Mason tapped on the driver’s window and waited for it to roll down. Once it did, he found himself looking at a chubby, wrinkled old man with dark eyes.

  “I don’t got all day,” he groaned.

  Mason ignored the remark. “Four nights ago, three women used your company to get home. They were picked up from here.”

  “Mouthy bitches.” The driver nodded, his cheeks wobbling.

  “Do you remember where you took them?”

  “Course. Get in.”

  Mason walked around and climbed in beside the driver, ignoring cab rules. He needed to get in close and personal with this man, make him comfortable enough to search his memory for anything that might be important.

  The driver spun the wheel and hit the gas while he snacked on a candy bar. “So,” he said, spitting oats as he spoke through a mouthful, “what did these women do wrong?”

  “It’s not what they did, it’s what happened to them.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “They haven’t been seen since you dropped them off.”

  The driver screwed up his empty wrapper and dropped it by his feet. “Never?”

  “Never.” Mason was at a loss. Whatever had happened to these women must have been somewhere between the cab and their homes. The big question was, how wide an area was that?

  Around fifteen minutes later, the driver stopped on a rundown street. Graffiti plastered the shutters of failed businesses, and rough-looking kids bounced a dirty old ball around the trash-covered sidewalk.

  “Here you go,” he said, pointing to the charge on the dashboard.

  Mason handed him a fifty-dollar bill. “They live around here?”

  “Not a clue. They got to ranting about who was going to pay the fare, and it was too hot an argument. When it looked like none of ’em were going to pay, I had to stop and let ’em out.”

  “In a neighborhood like this?”

  The driver shrugged. “Not my problem.”

  Mason shook his head and got out. The street stank of something spicy.

  “Hey.”

  Mason turned to face the driver.

  “Need a ride back?”

  He shook his head, closed the door, and was left looking around in the dingy street. He thought he knew where he was, but couldn’t be sure, and kept his eyes peeled for any dark and concealed areas.

  If I were up to no good, where would I hide?

  Of course, there was always a possibility the girls had jumped ship. Although Chris Healy had been so certain they would never do such a thing, Mason knew from his own experiences that you couldn’t always tell how your partner felt about you.

  The kids ran and screamed around him as he walked, playing as if there was no tomorrow. Mason thought how good those days had been with Evie—playing outside in the dirt, helping each other build a clubhouse that would later fall apart.

  Before his memories could seize him, he spotted a small pile of plastic.

  What is that?

  Mason strode toward it and dropped to a knee. It looked like sturdy stuff, although it’d been smashed as if in some kind of struggle. The drain beside the plastic looked promising, and he peered inside it.

  All of a sudden, it was like Christmas had come early. Deep beneath the grate, lying in a cluster of leaves, a cell phone rested against the wall of the drain. Mason groped at the metal and tore it off with a grunt.

  He reached for the phone, praying it wasn’t just a coincidence and that it had something to do with the disappearance of his client’s family. If he was wrong, this could all be a big waste of time.

  Chapter Seven

  The contents of Anarchy’s backpack included a combat knife, a tranquilizer gun (which he’d picked up for a good price from a pawn shop back in Washington), two cans of compressed air, and a Zippo lighter. To the everyday man, this would be a confusing assortment of items, but to Anarchy it was a bag of opportunities.

  There was only one reason he hadn’t yet sealed the backpack, and he was wrapping it now. The plaid cloth lay flat across the dusty ground, and he placed the severed head inside. The way the eyes stared back at him was amusing. He could almost hear her crying all over again.

  I made her break so easily. Pathetic.

  First, he flapped one side of the cloth over; then he rolled the head to wrap it quickly before stuffing it in the bag. He zipped it shut, slung it over his shoulder, and stormed toward his collection of vehicles. Of course, they weren’t really his vehicles, but they were in his possession. Until somebody stopped him, that was. And Anarchy wasn’t easily stopped.

  Anarchy sat atop the motorcycle. It wasn’t his favorite, but that was probably a good thing. This way, he could leave the head in a special place where it could be found—maybe somewhere a kid might find it and be fucked-up for life—and then get out of there. Potential witnesses would say, “I saw him on a green Kawasaki Ninja,” and then he wouldn’t have to feel bad about ditching the bike.

  With all but one of the ingredients he needed for a fun and chaotic day at hand, he slipped on his bike helmet, started up the engine, and roared toward the city to find that missing ingredient.

  Chapter Eight

  Mason parked outside the school, waiting for Amy. She was fifteen years old now and becoming every bit as incredible as he knew she would.

  While he waited, he studied the phone he’d found in the drain. It was an iPhone, just like A
my’s, but the battery was dead. Sure, he could just run into a store and buy a charger, but this way he got to visit his daughter, even if just for a moment.

  After an hour had passed, Mason sighed and tuned in to the radio. Bon Jovi blasted out, and he turned it down in a desperate attempt to gather his thoughts. To kill the time (and although he would never admit it, to satisfy his own insecurities), he tried Evie twice. Sadly, there was still no answer.

  Where have you gone, Evie?

  Just as his back started to ache—something that was happening more often these days—a group of schoolkids came funneling out of the double doorway, finally free from their day of hard schooling. Mason climbed out and looked around everywhere for Amy, until he spotted her with a boy’s arm slung over her shoulder. Whatever he was whispering in her ear was making her giggle, showing off a perfect set of teeth.

  Who does this kid think he is?

  “Amy,” he called, stealing her attention. The look of pleasant surprise made Mason smile.

  She ran toward him, leaving the boy in the dust. “Dad!” she cried and leapt into his arms, knocking him back toward his car door.

  Mason kissed her on the top of the head and held her tight for a moment. “How’s it going?”

  “It’s good! What’re you doing here?” She pulled away, tucking a stray wisp of hair over her ear and looking over her shoulder at the boy.

  “I needed a favor,” Mason said. “You have an iPhone, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “Mind if I borrow your charger? It’s for a good cause.”

  “Sure.” Amy unhooked the bag from her shoulder and rummaged through it. She produced the white cable and dumped it into his hand.

  “Thanks,” Mason said, keeping his eyes trained on the boy. “Who’s the kid?”

  Amy glanced over her shoulder again, waving the boy toward her. “This is Marcus.”