Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection

by Adam Nicholls

  It looked like she was alone.

  Perfect, Nick thought as he made his way to the door. Here he was, only a few feet away from Rachel Young, while her husband was, with any luck, halfway across town checking out his last-known location. It was a false report, of course. How else was he supposed to get her alone? The way he saw it, this was the easy solution.

  Heading inside, where the temperature rose so much that his neck sweated under the wig of long, braided hair, Nick announced his entry by scuffing his feet on the doormat.

  Rachel turned around with a jolt, her hand on her heart.

  “Sorry,” he said, stepping closer to her. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “That’s all right.” Rachel smiled. It was a pleasant smile, and Nick could see in an instant why she was adored by so many people. If the situation were different, he might even feel guilty about what he was about to do. “What can I do for you?”

  Nick shook a braid over his shoulder, assuming the role he’d adopted. “Nothing really. I was just passing, and I thought this looked like a nice place. What do you do here?”

  “Oh, we raise money for children.” She leaned back and slid a pamphlet out from the paper stack, then handed it to him with a bony hand. “We’re called HUCINS. If there’s a way to make money or raise awareness, we’re over it like fleas on a cat. There’s always room for more volunteers if you’re interested.”

  Studying the colorful pamphlet, Nick flicked the page and held it up to his eyes. It was more of a performance than anything, but he couldn’t help being impressed by the wide variety of activities they held here. “Looks interesting. Anything for the kids, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  Nick handed the pamphlet back, fidgeting with his wig once again. It was so hot in here he felt like he was going to faint. Maybe he would, and that would be the end of him. He pictured himself falling, the wig toppling off his scalp and leaving this woman to recognize his unconscious face. How long would he last then? Not long, he’d wager. “But I don’t have too much time. The real reason I’m here is—”

  “Rachel?”

  They both turned at the sound of the new voice in the room. Nick even flinched, terror leading him to believe this was it—he was going to be caught. But the man in the doorway paid him no mind, crossing the room and taking Rachel into his arms.

  She hugged him back.

  “Just thought we’d stop by for a gossip.”

  “You’re always welcome,” Rachel said, separating herself from him. “No Patricia?”

  “She’s just fixing her makeup in the car. She’ll be in.”

  Nick said nothing, only stood awkwardly watching the door and trying to time his escape. He hadn’t planned on anyone else arriving, and it was—to say the least—really frickin’ inconvenient. But there would be other opportunities. Hopefully not far from now.

  “I have to go,” he said, edging his way out.

  Rachel’s expression dropped into a frown. “Don’t you want to—”

  “I can’t.” Nick hurried for the door without looking back. It was already risky enough that he’d be recognized when he thought it’d just be the two of them. But when a third person, Patricia someone, was on her way in, he wouldn’t stand a chance at remaining undetected. He was good—he’d had plenty of practice with this—but he wasn’t a miracle worker.

  Finally out in the free world again, he ran across the street, made sure he hadn’t been followed, and entered the van he’d stolen from across the city. The thing was old and rusted. Loud and noticeable, but less likely to be missed, which meant it probably wouldn’t be reported as stolen. He only needed it for a short period of time, anyway.

  Just long enough to take Rachel.

  Sitting in the dark, shaded area of the driver’s seat, where a strong stench of sour liquor filled his nostrils, Nick watched the HUCINS Center. To pass the time, he drew the blade from the glove compartment and scratched patterns into the dashboard, glancing up only when he heard noises or something moved in the corner of his vision. It was boring as sin, but this was his mission now; the husband—Morgan, he suddenly remembered—had led the police right to his doorstep, and for that he had to be punished.

  And what better way to punish a man than to take the one thing he loved?

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Across town, Morgan Young was also sitting in his vehicle with Detective Gary Lee at his side. They watched from afar as the police did their work, staying out of the way to avoid the captain’s wrath. The last thing they needed was additional pressure from that guy.

  “They’re doing an okay job,” Morgan noted, watching the apartment building.

  “You mean the police?” Gary said.

  “Yes.”

  “Not bad, yeah. Still, I’d rather have you solve it.”

  Morgan laughed. “Because that’s nice and easy.”

  “Hey, Carrie meant a lot to me, and I want to see Nick Hansen suffer for what he did to her. I know the MPD are more than capable of finding him, but they won’t let me in a room alone with him when they’re done. Besides, I feel more involved this way.”

  His logic was weak, but Morgan understood. When the heart was involved, it was impossible to keep your head on straight. Many times over the years, Morgan had let his emotions get ahead of him. He remembered his own exam papers as he and Rachel were still exploring their feelings for one another. This was around the same time they were coming of a more sexual age, and there were plenty of distractions for a young man. Later, he caught up and managed to scrape in a good GPA, but just barely. As his teachers had put it, he had the gift, but he was giving it to someone else.

  There was finally some movement across the street. The front door swung open and two officers strutted down the path with a detective in a nice suit trailing behind. Morgan waited until they were in their cars and out of sight before he reached for the handle. “Time to move.”

  It appeared Gary didn’t need to be told twice—he was out of the car and taking over before Morgan even had a chance to lock the door. Morgan shook his head with disapproval, thinking that overeagerness would get him into trouble someday, then locked up and joined him in his ascension of the old, dusty staircase until they found the correct floor.

  “This is it,” Gary said. “You ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.” Morgan pounded on the door.

  A tall man answered. He wore a stained white tank top and baggy pants. A long, wiry gray beard trailed down to his chest where it tangled with hairs of the same color. His eyes were muddy brown through thin slits. “What the hell do you want? I already spoke to the cops, and I got nothing more to say.”

  “We are the cops,” Gary said, flashing his badge.

  Morgan stayed silent. He didn’t want to be asked for his ID.

  “Then I’ll tell you what I told them,” the old man said, turning his head only to spit onto the floor of his own hallway. He stood up straight and fed his thumbs into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “I don’t know nothin’. He comes here, he pays cash. I didn’t ask no questions, and he didn’t tell no lies. Far as I’m concerned, his business is his business.”

  Morgan exchanged a confused look with Gary and took over. “Who?”

  The old man—who was presumably the landlord of this building, if his previous comments were anything to go by—looked from one to the other, his mouth agape with confusion. “The young guy who made the call.”

  “You didn’t make it?” Morgan asked.

  “The call came from this address,” Gary chimed in.

  “Well, it wasn’t me.” The landlord leaned out of his door, hanging from his grip on the doorframe. A foul vinegary stench leaned with him, and he pointed to a phone at the end of the hallway. “That there’s a shared phone. The bill’s included in the price. Whatever your man did, he did it without my knowing.”

  Everything fell together for Morgan then, like the remaining pieces of a complicated jigsaw puzzle. It wasn’t
this man who’d made the call at all; somebody else had called, which meant they’d pounded on the wrong door. Worse, they were wasting time.

  “Sir,” Morgan cleared his throat, “can we talk to the man who called?”

  “Could if he was here.”

  “Where is he?” Gary asked.

  “What do I look like, a fucking Google map?” The landlord leapt back into his doorway, slipping his frail, pale hand to his side with a little slap. “Look, the other cops can’t go in there without a warrant, which means you can’t go in either. ’Til then, leave me the hell alone to live my life in peace, goddammit.”

  The walls shook with the force of the slammed door, leaving Morgan alone with Gary. He was starting to figure that the officers, and the detective who was with them, had left without finding their answers, which meant they still had a chance of catching up.

  “What do you suppose we do?” Gary asked.

  Morgan turned with him and studied the door that’d been at their backs. “Did you notice he kept looking at this apartment? I’m willing to bet the one who made the call lives here. What’s the harm in giving it a little knock?”

  “I was thinking more of a kick.”

  Morgan frowned at him. “You and illegalities don’t mix.”

  “But you do.”

  “No.” He shook his head in violent swipes. “I’m in enough trouble with your boss. Anyway, what do we even know about this guy? That he made a phone call to report a false location? That tells us absolutely nothing. Hell, it might not even be a he.”

  “Landlord said it was a he.”

  “Right, and what was it about that guy that told you to trust him?”

  Gary sneered. “Okay, well, I’m not waiting.”

  Before Morgan could stop him, he stomped toward the door and raised his foot, slamming his heel into the side of it. The lock buckled but didn’t bust. A quick second kick destroyed it completely, and the door swung open with a bang as it hit the wall, then groaned shut.

  “What the hell?” Morgan said, grabbing him by the arm. As if they didn’t have enough trouble to contend with, renegade behavior wasn’t going to do them any favors. It got worse too; Morgan was angry at him for the first time in years. “You can’t do that.”

  “I just did.”

  “Well, congratulations, you just committed a crime.”

  “It’s all right. If the captain says anything, I’ll just pin it all on you.” Gary straightened out his suit and gestured toward the door, his wry smile igniting Morgan’s anger further. “Are you coming in or not?”

  What choice did he have?

  The damage was done.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The apartment was little more than a dusty collection of rooms bathed in darkness. Morgan treaded carefully, hugging the wall and peering into each alcove. He expected somebody to be there, ready to surprise him with a pistol or some kind of melee weapon. There was no logic to this suspicion, however. It was simply based on intuition.

  But the apartment was empty.

  Although “empty” only went so far as describing its lack of people; the place was cluttered with junk food wrappers, empty shopping bags, and used food cans. A mouse darted from its unsafe hideaway of a drink’s carton, scrambling across the creaking wooden floor and into a hole where it met the wall. Morgan shivered as though it’d scaled his leg. He’d be careful where he stepped from now on.

  “Jesus.” Gary swept some trash to the side with his foot. “The guy’s a slob.”

  Morgan agreed. Basic hygiene went a long way, and it was clear the tenant of this room had little or no interest in self-care. At least, assuming this was his one and only home, which the large pile of dirty clothes suggested.

  It reminded him of a time shortly after high school when he’d moved into his own place, and Rachel’s father hadn’t given his permission for her to leave. He’d lived in a shabby, one-bed apartment in the slums. It was disgusting, dark, loud, and unsafe, but it was only a short bike ride to his workplace at the gas station. Better yet, it was cheap. That moment, and every moment thereafter, was spent building a better future for his family. It was the one thing he’d never stop working on, no matter how tough things got.

  Venturing farther in, Morgan pinched his nose and tore back the drapes. A cloud of dust exploded in front of his face, making them both cough and gag. Dust motes danced in a chunky beam of light that targeted the floor but not much else. There wasn’t even anything here worthy of illumination: a rusty metal bed with a stained mattress, the pile of laundry, and a few trash bags in the corner. Morgan approached them and ripped open a small hole. Cloth protruded through the fresh gape.

  “More clothes,” he said.

  “Mmhmm.” Gary cocked his head and examined the smoke-stained ceiling, following it through to the next room. “Got a bathroom in here. I think I’ll leave that for you.”

  “Yeah, right.” Morgan’s attention was fixed on something else—the only other thing in this room that wasn’t a necessity in the modern age. Not for a lonely squatter or the next best thing, anyway. It was a thin, wooden desk with no drawers. A fold-up chair leaned against the wall, disregarded and disused. Atop the desk was a mess of paperwork and a lamp with no bulb, which seemed to match everything else in the room.

  “Find anything?” Gary asked, calling from the kitchen.

  “No.” He moved toward the desk and began shuffling through the papers. “You?”

  Gary made a fake puking sound, but the repulsion was real. It was like he’d just smelled something rotten. “There’s a refrigerator, but it doesn’t work. The cupboards are full of bean and chili cans. Rodents too. Not much else.”

  Taking in the information—or lack thereof—Morgan dropped the last loose sheet of paper and swiped a notepad off the desk. Gary joined him at his side, but by then he’d already read the words that would change everything.

  Morgan froze, the notepad shaking like a leaf in his hand. He read them over and over, each time becoming harder to focus as the letters jumbled around like they were dancing, teasing and tormenting him. But despite his inability to take it in, he knew what it said. There was no denying it, any more than he was able to deny the cold sweat seeping onto his temples or clinging his shirt to his back.

  It read:

  Rachel Young

  HUCINS Center

  Tuesday night

  Morgan dropped the pad onto the desk. The discovery led to a realization as his eyes scanned the room. The trash, the cheap, dirty clothes, and even the low supply of food in the cupboards—it all meant something that was so obvious it was impossible to unsee.

  Nick Hansen had been here.

  “He made the call.” The words fell from Morgan’s mouth in a weak breeze.

  Gary cocked his head. “What?”

  “The…” He looked again at the notepad on the desk. His eyes shot to the doorway where a singular telephone hung on the wall outside. It made perfect sense. How had he not understood it until now? Nick Hansen had fled his own home and taken up residence at a crummy old apartment in Nowhereville. He’d paid cash. Somehow, he’d derived a problem with Morgan, and then he’d written down Rachel’s name.

  “Are you all right?” Gary leaned past him and looked at the pad. “Whoa.”

  Morgan’s stomach knotted. His head felt woozy and his hands shook. It occurred to him that Hansen had made the call for a reason, and going by the fact he wasn’t yet in cuffs, Morgan was willing to bet this whole thing was nothing more than a distraction.

  The nagging question was, a distraction from what?

  Rachel was alone, and that fact stuck out to Morgan like a sore thumb. He felt the blood drain from his face, swirling down into his gut like a whirlpool and unsettling the contents. He imagined the worst—losing Rachel wasn’t an option, and although he had no clue why anyone would want to hurt her, he did know that she was alone.

  Not just alone, but vulnerable.

  “We need to go,” Morgan sa
id, bursting into a sprint through the doorway. He took the stairs two at a time, with Gary shouting questions behind him. But he had no time to stop and answer. Time was a precious factor now, and he had to reach Rachel before anyone else did.

  Unless it was already too late.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Before the engine had even stopped, Morgan dove out of the car and toward the charity hall. He didn’t bother shutting the door—there were far worse things at stake than losing a door—and darted up the steps as fast as his legs could carry him.

  Bursting through the doors of the hall, Morgan yelled her name. The lights were on, and a table was set out. There were two people at the far end whom he recognized, but they only watched with blank, horrified stares while Morgan stormed backstage. From there, he ripped back curtains and kicked open doors, calling for his wife.

  There was no reply.

  His heart in tatters, he rushed back to the main hall where the two men sat with plastic cups in their hands, cradling them like they were some great artifacts. They wore thick coats and frightened expressions, their lips wobbling like fat, pink worms.

  “Have any of you seen Rachel?” Morgan asked.

  “R-Rachel?”

  “My wife. The…” How best would they know her? “She runs this place.”

  “Oh.” One of them sat forward on the rickety wooden chair. “She was here earlier.”

  Morgan crouched down to meet his eye level. “Where did she go?”

  “No clue. Home, maybe?”

  “She didn’t say where she was going?”

  “Nope, and I didn’t ask. What if you call her and—”

  Panic stole over him, shooting him up and back out the door before he could hear the last of that suggestion. By now, Gary was at the top of the steps, keeping watch outside. When he spotted Morgan, he reached the same height of urgency and ran back with him to the car, asking no questions.