Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection

by Adam Nicholls

  Stepping out into the cold Washington night, Morgan descended the stone steps and looked up and down the street. There was no sign of her out here, so he simply waited in the cold while Rachel was inside being congratulated on her success. A couple of early leavers sneaked out and said goodbye to Morgan, to which he smiled and thanked them for coming.

  Meanwhile, something felt wrong.

  It wasn’t as simple as Emma saying she’d be there and then disappearing, but it was exactly that word—disappearing—that sent a cold shiver streaking down his tensed spine. With all that’d happened lately, Morgan found it hard to believe this was unrelated to the fact she had some information to share. Then again, could it be that he was paranoid? Was she simply using the bathroom, causing him to overreact?

  It wasn’t long before Gary stepped outside with Hannah on his arm. It was good to see him smile, but when he caught Morgan’s worried stare, the smile fell from his face, his eyebrows arching with concern. “What is it?”

  Morgan licked his dry lips, stomping toward him. “Have you seen Emma Cole?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The girl I was talking to before the show.”

  “Sorry, but no. Did you check—”

  His heart pounding now, Morgan stormed inside, inching between the people who were lined up to leave. He placed his hand gently on each person’s shoulder, saying Emma’s name and hoping for a reaction that wasn’t befuddlement. Only with each person looking as lost as he felt, he moved on to the next.

  Until one man spoke up.

  “You mean that pretty blonde thing?”

  “You’ve seen her?” Morgan asked. “Where?”

  The man, who looked like a beetle wrapped up in his thick jacket, nodded toward the fire exit beside the stage. “She went out that way a few minutes ago. Don’t ask me why, but she was crying pretty hard. Did you do something to upset her?”

  Morgan fell silent, taking in the words. “Crying?”

  “Yeah. Well, if it wasn’t you it must’ve been the other guy.”

  “What other guy?”

  “The… I don’t know. The other guy.”

  Panic and anger blended together, spiking Morgan’s blood pressure through the roof. Growing impatient, sweat beading on his temple, he spun on his heel and rushed toward the fire exit, cold air assaulting his cheeks as he burst out into the alley. His instincts drove him, making him run to one end where it split into two separate directions.

  Both of them were empty.

  Heading back, his sweat growing into thick droplets and dampening his back, he passed the open fire exit and sprinted to the far end, hoping to catch at least a glimpse of Emma Cole and the mysterious man she’d left with.

  But she was gone.

  Feeling the true magnitude of his loss, Morgan traipsed back to the fire exit, went inside, and closed the door. Rachel was waiting for him there. She approached with a sympathetic frown.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  It definitely wasn’t, Morgan thought, but that didn’t mean he had to ruin her perfect evening, as if he hadn’t done enough to bring her down lately. Instead, he nodded, pecked her on the cheek, and told her she’d done a great job. After that, he crossed the room and caught the attention of Will, official cameraman of HUCINS fundraisers.

  “I need a favor.”

  Will pushed his thick black glasses farther up his nose and continued to wrap a cable into a tight fold. He snapped his head, flinging a knot of greasy hair out of his face. “Sure, man. I’m just packing up my gear, and I’ll be right with you.”

  Morgan shook his head, his heart still beating like crazy. “Can I look at your camera?”

  “No, but… I can show you it.”

  “Good enough.” Morgan leaned over his shoulder and studied the digital recorder on the tripod. He watched the small screen as close as he could, asking Will to go back further, noticing he’d gone too far, and then scanning forward again until Emma Cole came into view. “There. Pause that.”

  Will hit a button and the picture froze.

  “Who’s that?” Morgan asked, pointing at a thin man in a dark hoodie. There was something too familiar about that hoodie, and the realization weakened his knees. Starting to piece it together, he fought to convince himself it couldn’t be true, but no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t argue with what was right in front of him.

  Will shrugged, his thin shoulders leaping up for only a second. “No clue.”

  “Play it from there.” Morgan noticed Gary appear at his side, but neither of them said anything. It was one of those unspoken exchanges, communicating with a single glance. Morgan read understanding in his eyes, and he was sure Gary could read panic in his. He returned his focused stare to the camera where the hooded figure slipped a dull blade out of his pocket, pointing it close toward Emma’s spine as he whispered something in her ear. Emma nodded, and together they went offscreen, heading in the direction of the fire exit.

  “That doesn’t look good,” Will offered.

  But it was worse than it looked.

  The hoodie made sense now, paired with the identical one from the Pizza Palace security footage. The killer had been here tonight, right under their noses, and nobody had known a damn thing about it. Somehow, he’d avoided detection and taken a victim right out from under them, and all they had was a useless recording of his back. The fact struck Morgan like a bolt of lightning, knocking the strength from his body.

  “Gary,” he said, gnawing on shaking knuckles. “I think we’re in trouble.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Getting his latest victim into the house wasn’t that hard—a short walk with a few whispered threats saw to that—but with his mom locking the place down like Fort Knox, it’d been tough to sneak Emma Cole inside. Tough, but not impossible.

  Posing her as a potential colleague, the killer demanded privacy and escorted her into the basement, passing through the dark corridor and refraining from shouting at his mother. How he hated her could only be compared to his distaste for his victims, but he didn’t have time to worry about that now. The more pressing matter was getting Emma down the stairs and restraining her, the latter of which had been a battle in itself. She’d wriggled and squirmed, crying as she screamed at him in high-pitched wails until he was forced to reach for the nearest object—which happened to be a very sturdy glass ashtray—and swing it at her skull.

  The crunching sound was like heaven.

  Chuckling like a young boy as he pushed her onto the carpenter’s bench, the killer fastened the preprepared straps and silenced her by stuffing her wide mouth with a filthy rag. Eventually she stopped fighting, and only then could the killer relax.

  “Moonpie?” The voice came from up the stairs, needy and questioning.

  “What?” the killer yelled.

  “Come up here.”

  “Why?”

  “We need to talk.”

  The killer hesitated, gawking down into the wet, clenched eyes of his dazed victim. Whatever his mother wanted, his fun with Emma would have to wait. Hell, it was lucky she was even alive at this point. The only reason she was even breathing was because he wanted to try something new with his victims: prolonged torture. If he’d found her on another day, she’d already be a hideous mess rotting in her own home. And where was the fun in that?

  Double-checking that her straps were secured, he bounded up the steps and burst into the living room where his mother—surprise of all surprises—lounged in the armchair and stuffed her face with sugary snacks. The TV blared in front of her, but the food held most of her attention, her arms wobbling with putrid fat as she tried to steadily carry it into her mouth.

  The killer stood in the doorway, disgusted.

  “What do you want?” he said.

  Cramming what looked to be a donut into her trap, his mother chewed like she could win a prize and swallowed hard, the loud gulp signaling she had finished. At least for now. She licked her fingers one by on
e, then patted the arm of the chair. “Come. Sit.”

  “I’m not going to sit. I’m working.”

  “Oh, please. You’ve been living off savings most of your life.”

  “So? My work is important.”

  “Not to me, it isn’t.”

  Rage filled his chest. He steadied his breathing and folded his arms, mostly to bury his clenched fists into the pits of his elbows. There was nothing worse than when she knocked down his efforts, already deciding his soon-to-be-established carpentry business would fail. What an asshole this woman really was. “Listen, I’m really busy. What do you want?”

  His mother turned her head, staring daggers at him. “The girl.”

  “What about her?”

  “Who is she?”

  “I don’t see how that concerns you.”

  “Remember whose house this is?”

  “Ah.” The killer waved a dismissive hand and turned on the spot.

  “Don’t you turn your back on me!” his mother spat. “I raised you, fed you, and clothed you. I’m still looking after you now, and this is the thanks I get?”

  The killer saw red, his cheeks burning as anger flushed through his body. His hands shook as he clenched them into fists, spinning back around and storming toward her until he towered over her. “You’re looking after me? Do you think food magically appears in the refrigerator? What about the cleaning; do the cleaning cloth and vacuum dance around the room whenever you get off your fat ass and leave the room?”

  “Hey—”

  “You’re always condescending to me, Mom. I work really hard.”

  Her head snapped back, aimed toward the smoke-stained ceiling as she let out a harsh cackle. “You call your basement activities work? I don’t see an income from it, do you?”

  “It doesn’t mean it isn’t strenuous.”

  “What, having your fun with some girl? Give me a break.”

  The killer felt his heart pumping, his blood flowing like lava through his weak body. Gritting his teeth, he clenched a fist and held it out, not as a threat but as a channel for his uncontrollable anger. “You’re pushing your luck.”

  Saying nothing more, his mom shifted in her chair and turned back to the TV, her hand diving into the big bag of treats open on her lap. This was what she’d been getting too good at; the way she’d block him out in an instant was so immediate it really did appear as if she didn’t give a damn about him. And did she? Probably not.

  Although she did keep his secrets.

  Before his anger could boil into rage, the killer marched back to the basement and hurried down the stairs, slamming the door behind him. The old house shook as his feet pounded into each step, the wood creaking and groaning in protest. When he reached the bottom and Emma Cole caught his eye once more, he was shocked to find that same anger simmer into something else. He tried to recognize it as excitement, but that often got confused with anxiety.

  Whatever it was, it was different.

  Keeping his gaze fixed on her wide, terrified eyes, he approached the workbench and grabbed the first sharp object he could find—it was a cable cutter left over from his brief time as an electrician, and it would be perfect for what the present moment was telling him to do.

  “She really pushes me sometimes,” he said through his teeth, snapping the blades together in rapid succession. Adrenaline poured through him, catching his nerves alight with each snip that he hovered above her squirming body. “She really. Fucking. Pushes me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The charity hall was cleared of everyone except for the police, who buzzed around the scene to interrogate everyone. Morgan had stuck by Rachel’s side, insisting they not harass her on her big day and taking the hit of every question they fired at her. It was a long process that added nothing to his investigation, but it was necessary—Washington’s finest also had a job to do, and although they were slowing things down, he didn’t want to get in their way. Police work, at least as far as he understood it, was hard enough without that.

  By the time they were done and asked to leave, Morgan found Gary and Hannah outside. He stopped a few feet from the car where they waited, turning to Rachel and staring into her beautiful blue eyes. They were too moist tonight. It didn’t feel right. “I hate to say it—”

  “But you have to get back to work?” she finished, adding a thin smile.

  Morgan nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? It’s your job.”

  It was his turn to smile now, though it was interrupted by an abrupt shove from a passing officer who was too wrapped up in work to stop and apologize. Morgan shook it off, ignoring it as best he could while all his nerves pricked like pins. “Gary’s going to take you home. Are you all right with that?”

  “Sure. What will you do?”

  “No idea. I need to talk with Gary before you go. And hey, I’ll help with the next one too.”

  Rachel leaned in, kissed him on the lips, and held his cheek in one cold, open hand. “Whatever you do, just be careful. That creep was here all night, which meant we were all in danger without even knowing it. That makes me uncomfortable.”

  She left before he could reply, climbing into the back seat of Gary’s car while Gary hurried over to take her place. His worried eyes shone under the bright light of the streetlights, his brow furrowed in disbelief.

  “What?” Morgan said. “You want a kiss too?”

  “Maybe when this is all over.” Gary heaved a sigh. “What’s the plan?”

  “That depends. What do you know about Emma Cole?”

  “Not much more than you do. Although I know she was married.”

  Morgan nodded. “I’ll need to have a few words with the husband.”

  “Way ahead of you. I already texted you the address.”

  “Thanks.”

  A rush of civilians roared behind him. It reminded Morgan of the press, who’d already been escorted far from the site. It was starting to disgust him just how keen people were to get the latest in a long line of grim news, but he had to knuckle down and focus on the important details: Why was Emma taken? Why wasn’t she killed like the other two? And most importantly, where the hell was she?

  Morgan sighed. “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m okay.” Gary shrugged, raising his hand to scratch his beard but apparently thinking better of it. “Captain Bray is giving me a hard time. He thinks I’m still a little too close to the case. I could argue that I’m working on something else entirely, but I guess he’s right. I mean, I got that address for you, didn’t I?”

  Morgan pressed a hand against his pocket, feeling for the cell phone. He nodded.

  “I hear he’s getting pissed off with you too.”

  “Well, that can’t be helped. Do I have anything to worry about?”

  “Nah. He’s probably just worried you’ll solve this thing before he does, whereas I’m worried you won’t. Now that there’s a third victim, he’s starting to lock things down pretty tight. You know what that means, right?”

  “Let me guess; I’m not allowed to talk to Emma’s husband?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Then I guess I’ll just have to wait until the police leave.”

  Gary let out a thin smirk. “That’s the spirit.”

  Realizing the new complication, Morgan turned his head to look back at the building. So much had changed in the past couple hours—what had once been a charity event and one of Rachel’s finest moments felt like such a long time ago. Now? It was just a hive for policemen and forensic experts desperately looking for an anomaly in a sea of fingerprints. But it still hurt to know that her big night had been ruined, and as he turned to stare back at the car where Rachel sat in the back seat laughing at something Hannah had said, he felt like the luckiest guy in the world all over again. How could she remain so positive, even after tonight?

  It was a skill he could’ve used.

  “I need you to do something for me,” Morgan said, stepping in close to his friend.


  “Anything,” Gary said, frowning.

  “Make sure Rachel gets home safe, will you? I mean, I know you’re taking her there, but could you not leave until she gets in the door? If she invites you guys in for coffee, go ahead and accept. Tonight was a big deal for her, and I don’t want her to be alone.”

  “Sure. No problem. But you know she understands your need to work?”

  “Sometimes it feels like she understands too much, you know?” Morgan inhaled, noticing the cold struggle in his lungs, then released it through his nose in twin streams, the air clouding into the night. “She keeps telling me it’s okay and that I should go ahead and continue investigating, but it feels like I’m leaving her behind.”

  “You’re not,” Gary told him. “She understands. Trust me.”

  Morgan squeezed his hands into balls, releasing some stress. It sure didn’t feel like she was okay with it, but he didn’t believe he had a choice. Not one that involved letting Gary down and risked seeing more victims on the news, anyway. “If you say so. Look, just take care of her for me, will you? Make sure she’s all right.”

  Smiling, Gary patted him on the shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “With my life.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  While the Metropolitan Police Department were keeping Mr. Cole occupied with a barrage of questions about his wife, Morgan used that time to swing by Pizza Palace and request some printed images of the surveillance footage. There hadn’t been much to go on other than a jagged outline of the killer’s jaw, but at this point anything would help.

  After he’d obtained the pictures—not without a small service charge from Mr. Morales, of course—he’d climbed back into his car and taken the long route to Emma Cole’s house, hoping to burn enough time for the police to leave. Unfortunately, by the time he arrived and parked across the street, he was still surrounded by the vehicles of officers and investigating detectives. It made Morgan realize just how awful it would be for Mr. Cole, not only having to deal with all the questions—spouses were always looked at first in these scenarios—but then putting up with some additional inquisition from himself.