Of that, he was certain.
Chapter Forty-Five
All night he’d been up checking (then rechecking) the windows were locked. It was the longest night of his life, but he would have done it fifty times over if it meant keeping his daughter and Diane safe. He didn’t want to leave them.
It was almost time to arrive at the location, and the rain clouds shrouded the sky with a gray blanket that suited his mood. Sucking in a ragged breath, Mason crossed the street toward 388 Brownlee.
“Yo, cracka-jack.”
Mason spun around, expecting to see a gun in his face. It was hardly the neighborhood for a middle-aged white man to be out and about alone. He thought that if Anarchy didn’t kill him, one of the youths lurking on the street probably would.
“Hey, I’m talking to you.”
Mason was looking at a black man, around thirty and wearing tacky basketball gear. A threatening look hardened the man’s eyes, but he was alone, and Mason thought he could take him if he had to. “What do you want?”
“Give me a couple bucks.”
“No.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because you didn’t say please.”
The man tilted his head back and looked down his nose at Mason. “Ha. Fine then, please give me a couple bucks.”
“No.”
The man startled. “Why the hell not, white-bread?”
“Because you didn’t say please the first time.”
“Fuck you.” He stormed off, waving a hand.
The rain trickled from the sky, a low grumble setting in. Mason watched the man hustling away, and then a thought occurred to him. “Hey.”
“What?” He spun around, hopeful.
“What’s your name?”
“Jackson. What’s it to you?”
“How about you earn…” Mason produced his wallet, flicked through the notes, and held them out in a tempting hand. “Forty-eight dollars?”
Jackson looked at the money with skepticism, as if he were being tricked. “I ain’t sucking no dick.”
“What the— No, I don’t need that.” Mason waved a hand and pointed at the building. “Come here and look at this.”
Reluctant, Jackson stepped forward and snapped for the cash. Stuffing it into his shorts, he followed Mason’s finger with his eyes, studying the building in front of him. It looked like the kind of place homeless people might seek out for warmth in the colder months.
“I’m going into this building. All I want you to do is wait here. You got a cell phone?”
“Yeah.”
“Right. If anyone comes out—anyone other than me—I want you to get a good, clear photo of him. Even if it’s five different people, all right? Just snap away until your thumb bleeds. Got it?”
“Sure, man.”
“Good.” Although he suspected Jackson would be gone by the time he returned, Mason approached the building with care. He was expecting a bomb of some sort but realized if Anarchy had wanted to do that, he’d have done it with the package.
The door creaked open, and Mason was left looking at an arrow on the floor. It was a red cutout that led to another arrow, which led to another.
Wherever that son of a bitch is, he’s in this building. I just know it.
Ever wary, Mason took a deep breath, drew his gun, and stepped inside.
Chapter Forty-Six
The hallway was so dark he could barely see the arrows on the floor anymore. One led to another, sending Mason between the rooms, his finger coiled around the trigger of his revolver.
Come on out. I dare you.
He came to what used to be a kitchen. The counters remained but were now rotten. The sink was there but full of mold and dead bugs. The whole house was emitting a foul, unbearable stench.
“Mr. Black?”
Mason spun on his heel, raising the gun in the direction of the voice.
“I’m in here. I thought the arrows would’ve been enough.”
It was the voice Mason heard at the hospital—a calm and slightly amused tone, with subtle hints of fatigue and frustration. Grasping the gun tight, he went through to the next room.
“Closer, little piggy.”
“Come out.”
“Shh. Just a little bit closer.”
Mason was ready for an attack and prepared himself for anything. But when he came into a large empty room with the familiar-looking man standing at the far end, he suspected there was little else to worry about. Besides, if Anarchy made a run for it, Jackson might take the pictures, or even try to stop him.
“That’s close enough.”
Mason paused, lowering the gun. “What do you want?”
The man took a small step forward into the beam of light filtering through the dirty window. He could clearly see Anarchy now—or Shaun Chambers, if the old lady was to be believed. “What do you think I want? I’m here to test you. You know, for a PI, you’re not very bright.”
Mason had to fight the urge to grab him by his throat. “What kind of test?”
“More of a trial, really.” Anarchy stepped back, as if avoiding a trapdoor.
“No.” Mason shook his head. “I’m not playing your stupid game, Shaun. Yeah, I know who you are. I spoke with your aunt, and you’re going to jail.”
Anarchy also shook his head, though in disappointment. “Such confidence. It’s quite admirable—it really is—but that’s not going to happen. And how do I know that?” He walked toward the back wall and leaned against it, folding his arms across his chest. “Because you couldn’t possibly arrest me and save the kids.”
Mason felt the first warm threat of sweat on his brow. He raised the gun again, way too tempted to squeeze the trigger. “What’re you talking about?”
“It’s called pyrotechnic composition. My own little cocktail,” Anarchy said. “Invisible to the naked eye, and you hardly notice the irritation before it’s too late. It eats through cloth and skin, attacking the spinal nerves until you begin to spasm. And that’s when the real pain begins. If you’re unlucky enough to survive it, there won’t be much of a life left for you.”
“What have you done?” Mason spat.
“Me? Oh, nothing. It’s just that there’s a school out there somewhere, and it has this chemical coated all over the kids’ classroom chairs. There might be just enough time to get there and stop it, but not if you’re busy taking me down. So, the choice is yours: take me in, or save those little kiddies immeasurable pain and suffering.”
Mason ground his teeth. “You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?”
Mason grunted, unsure what to believe.
“Hey, as a gesture of good faith, I’ll even give you a little clue as to which school it is.” Anarchy stepped closer, glanced at his watch, then locked eyes with Mason’s. “It’s 7:40. Your little Amy starts school in twenty minutes.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Amy was running a couple of minutes late, since Diane had to run back and grab her car keys. It was bad timing, too, as her first class was with Miss Watson, who disliked everyone and for no good reason.
She jumped out of the car, thanked Diane for the ride, and sprinted up the school’s front steps. The hallways were quiet, and everyone must have settled into class. Amy checked her watch.
Six minutes late. Eek!
Pulling on the strap of her bag, she ran down the corridor toward her classroom, ignoring the no-running rule that had landed her in trouble on more than one occasion. Amy thought she had a pretty good excuse for being late, however. If she was being totally honest, it was a wonder she’d made it into school at all. With everything that had happened to her dad, she could quite happily have skipped school and spent some time with him.
And then there was Marcus, the first boy she’d ever liked. Amy really wanted him to stick around, and maybe that was a good thing. They shared most of the same classes, and that helped keep her attendance up. Even though things were rocky, her desire to impress was keeping her in check.
When she reached her class, she pulled open the door and went inside. “I’m so sorry, Miss Watson.” Amy looked around the classroom. All the other students were seated at their desks, although a lot of them seemed to be fidgeting, pulling at their clothes as if they had some kind of irritable itch. Even Marcus, who was sitting at the front and winked at her, was squirming in his seat.
“And why are you late, Miss Black?” the teacher said, pushing her glasses farther up her nose.
“It’s a long story.”
“Then you can stick around after school and explain it.”
Aw crap! Amy had never had detention in her life and thought she never would. Sure, she had a tendency to be too relaxed at times, neglecting a school policy or two, but her grades had always been good.
Rolling her eyes, Miss Watson waved her palm toward the room’s one empty desk. “Well? Take your seat.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Since leaving the abandoned house, Mason had sprinted to his car (shoving a confused Jackson out of his way) and sped toward Amy’s high school. But even with his foot planted hard on the pedal, he was still twenty minutes late.
By the time he arrived, the front of the school building was swarming with ambulances, police cars, and other services he didn’t care to identify. The children were scrambling everywhere, some crying, and others holding their weeping friends.
I’m too late.
Mason had never been as frightened as he was when he ran toward the front doors of the building. A police officer was just outside, setting up a line of tape to cordon off the area, but Mason was already inside by the time the officer could react.
“Amy?” he cried, running down the corridor toward a cluster of teenagers. He stopped and put his hand on one of their shoulders. They all froze and stared at him. “I’m looking for Amy Black. Do you know her?”
They all shook their heads, and Mason ran on. “Amy!”
“Sir.” A young, good-looking teacher stopped him in his path. “You can’t be here right now.”
Mason had met her before. She was Miss Innoles, Amy’s history teacher, and had once called him in to discuss his daughter’s excelling progress. “Amy Black—is she here?”
Miss Innoles shook her head. “I don’t think you should—”
“Please!”
Miss Innoles sighed. “Up the stairs, first door on your left, but you—”
But Mason was gone, leaping up the steps and rounding the corner to find the correct classroom. His adrenaline was at an all-time high, his nerves taut to breaking. When he found Amy’s room, his heart almost stopped.
Kids were being carried out on stretchers, clawing at their backs and screaming in agony. Their howls filled the corridors in haunting echoes, while others stood watching, horror creasing their faces.
That’s it—I messed up. I couldn’t get here on time.
Worse yet, no matter how many times Mason studied the fear-stricken faces of the teenagers—no matter how many times he scanned and rescanned—his daughter was not in the room.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Anarchy. His own name made sense now, even to him. And who cared if Mason had figured out who he really was? The fact of the matter was, he had some tests of his own.
As soon as Mason left, Anarchy had gone into the back room, which looked as though it had once been a dining room (it was difficult to tell with all the termites and moth-eaten drapes). In the far corner was his laptop, which he pried open and switched on.
While it booted up, all he could think about was how disgusted Mason had looked. The thought of hurt children was clearly one of his more sensitive spots. Anarchy had read all about his little incident with the Lullaby Killer, and was, to say the least, impressed.
But it’s not over yet, Mr. Black.
The laptop finally loaded, and Anarchy turned on the camera feed. Now he was looking at a live stream of the school. Before long, the emergency services would arrive to take care of all the kids who’d suffered. While he waited to see if Amy Black would be one of them, he slid a cigarette into his mouth and lit it.
Ahhh, sweet release.
While he took drag after delicious drag, blowing the purplish clouds of smoke in toxic swirls toward the damp ceiling, Anarchy thought hard about what he might do next. It could be anything from mutilation to a shooting spree. Hell, he could even be the Lullaby Killer’s copycat if he wanted to. Anything was possible.
This is my time, he thought, watching the screen and awaiting the chaos.
And I will make it tell.
Chapter Fifty
The police had escorted him out, and he stood trembling at the tape. Even his private-investigator badge and his association with Captain Cox couldn’t help him this time. It was, for very understandable reasons, considered bioterrorism.
The surviving teens were led out of the building by teachers and policemen, while the rooms and corridors were swept by the authorities. Nobody knew if there were remaining chemicals, or even if the person who’d done this was still in the building. Painful as it was, Mason decided to bite his tongue. At least for now.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to stand back.” A young officer—the one who’d tried to stop Mason when he’d arrived on the scene—waved back the ever-growing crowd, forcing them onto the road.
The press was there, too, and Mason thought of Evie. Normally, she would be the first on the scene, getting all the facts and sharing them with him. But it seemed those days were done, and while Mason stared longingly at the front doors of the school, he wondered if he would ever see his sister again.
The school doors burst open, and a crowd of schoolchildren came out in single file.
“These are the last of them,” Miss Innoles said to the policeman as she led them out.
Having heard this, Mason pushed forward to look at the students. His heart raced as he scanned their features, hoping to recognize Amy. His nightmares were on the verge of coming true. He imagined the chemicals burning at her back, inflicting awful, gut-wrenching pain.
And then he saw her, the last person in the line.
Ducking under the tape, Mason ran to her. The officer behind tried to stop him, but he wasn’t fast enough. Nothing could keep Mason from his little girl now. He reached her and scooped her up in his arms, holding her close. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Amy said, crushed by Mason’s firm hug.
“Where were you?”
“In the principal’s office.”
“You didn’t go to class?”
Amy’s cheeks flushed. “I had an argument with the teacher. She tried to give me detention because I was a few minutes late, and I didn’t think it was fair. So I told her that, and she sent me to the principal.”
Mason smiled, in spite of the terrible scene around him. “Good. That’s…” He enveloped her into his arms again, holding her tight. If it were up to him, he would never let her go. Never.
“Who did this?” Amy asked, whispering in his ear.
Although he knew exactly who’d set this whole thing up, Mason didn’t like the idea of Amy thinking she was being targeted. If she knew all these people had suffered because of Mason’s involvement, she would never forgive him. “I don’t know,” he said, lying to his daughter for the first time ever. “I don’t know.”
Chapter Fifty-One
It was early when Mason awoke and trod downstairs, still groggy from a night of disturbing dreams. He went into the kitchen, where Diane was folding laundry.
“Morning. Is Amy up yet?” He kissed her and joined in, helping her fold the clothes and place them to one side. “I want to see if she’s okay.”
“She’s sleeping in.” Diane handed him a separate pile and continued to fold her own.
While Mason got to work on a heap of shirts, he glanced over at Diane, who seemed to be in a pleasant enough mood to approach the sensitive subject. “So, I’ve been hoping to speak with you abou
t something.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah…” He cleared his throat. “Captain Cox has offered me my old job back.”
Diane paused, staring at the pants she held in her hands. “That’s great,” she said in a dry tone. “Are you going to take it?”
Mason felt something inside him crumble. He’d always thought of them as a team, which was why he’d thought to discuss it with her in the first place. But after that reaction, he was no longer so sure. “I was hoping to hear your thoughts.”
“Honestly?”
“Sure.”
Diane put down the clothes, took his hand, and led him to a kitchen stool. She sat on the one beside him, looked him right in the eye, and said in her calmest tone, “Personally, I don’t like it. But it’s not for me to say, really. This is your life, and these are your decisions. I wouldn’t want to be the one who stands in the way of you and your happiness.”
Mason rested his elbow on the kitchen island. “You are my happiness, but can I ask why you’re not hot on the idea?”
“Hmm.” Diane bit her lip. “With everything that’s going on, I was hoping to have you around a bit more. Amy doesn’t feel so safe, and if I’m being honest, neither do I. All this business with Anarchy is making everyone uncomfortable.”
She’s right, he thought but couldn’t bring himself to say it. Doing so would be to confess he was in over his head, and that would lead to her suggesting that he stop. “I’ll be around more—I will. As soon as this guy is stopped, I plan to take things slower. And, full disclosure, I think I want the job. Just not right now, you know?”
“Right. So, maybe you should take it.” Diane stood, ran her fingers through his hair, and returned to the laundry. “Honestly, do whatever makes you happy. We’ll adapt.”
Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection Page 41
