Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection

by Adam Nicholls

  Rachel had told him time and time again that none of this was his fault. She’d expressed her pride in him for finding Nick Hansen, announced her gratitude that he’d risked it all to come and rescue her, and then told him on numerous occasions how much she approved of his loyalty to Gary. “There aren’t many good people left in the world,” she’d said to him, “but sometimes it’s quality over quantity.”

  They walked in silence as they followed the boards that directed them to the correct waiting area. When they found it, they took a seat by the gate, which were the only two available in the crowded airport.

  Morgan took her hand and kissed it. Her skin smelled of strawberries.

  “Ever the gentleman,” she said.

  “That’s me.”

  “Will we bring something back for Gary and Hannah?”

  “It’s the least we could do.” Morgan glanced beyond the glass walls, watching a plane take off toward the setting sun. In less than an hour they’d be up there too, soaring in the direction of the Maldives. They had Gary to thank for that—Morgan’s blunt refusal to accept payment for the investigation had been declined repeatedly, but when Gary had seen the open travel magazine with this particular vacation destination circled in red ink, the tickets had magically appeared on their coffee table the next day. Rachel had been over the moon—still was—and even Morgan had trouble declining the generous offer. But what the hell; they needed it now more than ever.

  “When we get back,” Rachel said, her smile fading at the thought, “we’ll need to put all this behind us. Nick Hansen, his mother, the whole kidnapping thing… Let’s consider this a fresh start, all right?”

  Morgan wanted to agree—of course he did—but when was it ever that simple? He pictured himself as a tire salesman or a bank clerk, but neither of them seemed to offer the same reward that investigating did. That wasn’t to say he wouldn’t do them; if they needed the money he’d apply for twenty jobs in as many minutes, but right now, he felt like he was home. “There’s always going to be trouble. For as long as I’m an investigator or even consulting, life is never going to be simple. One day you’ll want to have children, and so will I, but until then I don’t mind the risk. As long as you’re safe.”

  “You’re so selfless that you’ve become selfish.”

  “How’s that?”

  Rachel adjusted herself in the seat. “I need you around. It’s nice that you put me first, but if something happened to you I’d never forgive myself. Think about what you told me yesterday: that you hate the idea of me getting hurt. That’s how I feel about you every day. I’d rather you work less and we struggle for money. It’s better than being well-off and you risking your butt every single day.”

  “Well, it’s a cute butt.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I know.” Morgan sighed and put his arm around her. “The thing is, I don’t know what’s around the corner for me. All I know is that I want to keep doing this. I mean, what are the chances of two psychotic killers putting us directly in harm’s way? After this I’ll probably be going back to following serial adulterers or finding missing dogs.”

  “That’s good. It pays the bills.”

  Morgan knew she was right, and he immediately saw it as his duty to ensure that happened. No matter which path they took from here, he would fight until his dying breath to make sure they had a roof over their heads, and if that meant taking on a thousand smaller clients, then he wasn’t going to turn them down. After all, Rachel’s work didn’t exactly bring in any money, and he’d be damned if he’d let her give that up. Too many lives had been changed by her efforts, and even if he had to scrub toilets for the next ten years just so she could save one more kid, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull on the gloves.

  “You’re right,” he said, resigned. “No more drama.”

  “No more drama.” Rachel snapped her head toward the screen, watching the times change as the overhead speaker announced their boarding. She stood and reached for his hand.

  Morgan grabbed it and took the weight, heaving himself up. Together, they headed for the boarding gate with a week of hot sun and sandy beaches ahead of them. Who knew what waited for them when they returned? All Morgan was certain of was that—in spite of their deal—there would always be at least a little drama, no matter how hard they tried.

  It was a part of the job.

  And it was a part of him.

  Chapter Fifty

  In days past, the man had acquired the appropriate tools for his first victim: two rolls of duct tape, one neglected old Buick he’d stolen from a piece-of-crap neighborhood nobody cared about, and a big, solid brick for the gas pedal.

  The rest was all on him.

  While he checked the engine from his safe place—an old warehouse that’d been neglected by everyone for years—he ground his teeth and thought of what’d driven him to this. Until now, he’d thought he’d come far up the long road of recovery, but if time told us anything, it was that some things could never be let go. Some things were necessary.

  And boy, was this necessary.

  He pulled at the rod and let the hood slam back down with an explosion of dust. The whoosh of air struck the overhead light, making it sway as the darkness danced around the cold, empty room. The man was alone, depending on which way you looked at it, but it still felt as if they were present—as if they were somewhere in the spiritual world telling him it was okay.

  But he already knew it was okay, and he would see it through.

  For moments he stood there, pondering the past long enough that the light above him rocked slowly to a standstill. Only then did he notice the music had stopped. Cussing under his breath, he marched toward the small metal steps and climbed up into the office at the top. He burst through the rickety door and found the radio still in its place. Had he turned it off and forgotten about it, or had it simply malfunctioned? It was an old hunk of junk, so the latter was more than possible, but the former could still have happened. Regardless, he picked it up and checked the knob. It was still on. He hit it with the heel of his hand, once, twice, until the music crackled back through the speaker—Elvis singing about his shoes.

  The man sucked in a large, dusty breath and let it flow out. He needed a drink, but he couldn’t do that yet. Drinkers made mistakes, and there was no room for mistakes when you were about to carry out your revenge. That kill had to be executed perfectly, and all tracks had to be covered, no matter what. Alcohol was a temporary fix, but it would ultimately land him in trouble when the time came.

  And when was that time?

  He stole a glance of his wristwatch: 4:30 a.m.

  The sun would come up soon, which left him a very small window to go about his business. The only option would be to wait another day until night came again, urging him to take control and do what had to be done.

  Clicking his tongue behind his teeth, he looked over his shoulder at his victim. The victim was still out, unconsciousness making him sleep like an innocent little baby. But he was far from it. The man studied him, hate brewing in his stomach as he examined the binding. An old blanket and some rope had done the trick, but he saw no harm in bending down to the floor and checking the restraints were secure.

  They were.

  Fine, then, he thought, pushing himself back up to his feet. His back groaned and clicked as he did so. Was this the first sign of old age, or had he just been neglecting his body for too long? If it was the lack of maintenance, he would let it slide; he didn’t give a shit about his own well-being, for as long as he lived long enough to do what he had to do, the rest of it didn’t matter in the slightest. He only wished the next night would come sooner, so he could take this son of a bitch to the prepared location and watch him die.

  It looked like he had time for that drink, after all.

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  Watch Them Die

  Chapter One

  The k
iller stood beside his victim, facing the water. It was the coldest night of the year, and he felt it in the wind; it brushed across the surface of the Potomac River and assaulted his cheeks. He closed his eyes against the freezing air, breathing slowly through blocked sinuses. It soothed him, easing his nerves while he prepared to take a life.

  When the breeze lowered and the wind’s whistle dimmed into nothingness, the killer turned his attention back to his victim. He crouched down, resting his hands on his knees as he stared into the driver’s side window. Even at this time of night, he could see the paralyzing fear in his victim’s eyes. He would probably have heard it too, had he not taken the time to apply duct tape to the guy’s mouth. That same roll of duct tape had already served its other purpose: to bind his hands to the steering wheel, securing him in place.

  “It’s getting kind of cold, huh?” The killer knew he couldn’t answer. In fact, he depended on it. His burning desire for this moment had been haunting him for a while now, and he’d gone to great lengths to create the opportunity. “But I bet it’s even colder in that water.”

  Pushing up from his knees, he stood and stalked around the vehicle, the cold wind picking back up and assaulting his already dry skin. He felt it in his hair, brushing it back toward its natural direction of growth. A younger version of himself would’ve caught a glimpse of it in his reflection and stopped to tidy it, but such things didn’t bother him anymore. Not as the person he’d become. The only thing he gave a damn about now was getting the job done, and that would never happen if vanity had anything to say about it.

  Wasting no more time, he opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, leaning on his side to study his victim. Those cold, pleading eyes begged forgiveness. His hands—although securely fastened to the wheel—trembled under the thin light that shone from the dockside lamps on the corner of the faraway building. The man before him was completely helpless, which was everything he deserved and more.

  “See,” the killer said, the air whispering through the open door and up the back of his shirt, “being young and reckless isn’t always as fun as you think it is. Sure, it is at the time, but the problem with you guys is that you don’t understand consequence. When I was young—and that probably seems like a long time ago to you, but I’m only forty—we were punished for all sorts of things: stealing milk from front porches, trashing tree houses the other kids had made. No matter how small it seemed, consequence was waiting for us. It helped keep us straight. It made us behave. But you don’t have that problem, do you? Personally, I blame the internet. It’s given you some misguided claim to immunity. I mean, you’re safe behind your computer screen, right?”

  His victim nodded, but he wasn’t really the victim in this situation, and the killer knew it. Watching him now, tears seeping from his dark little eyes, only reminded him of why they were there. The memory was accompanied by anger. That anger grew and grew until it was ready to explode inside his head. It was all he could do not to strangle the life out of him right there and then, putting an end to this once and for all.

  But that would be too quick.

  Too merciless.

  And there was a plan to stick to.

  “Well, guess what?” the killer continued. He turned to face the rippling waves at the end of the boat slip. “Today you’re going to accept the consequences of your actions, and it’s not going to be pleasant. Tell me, do you think about them late at night, in your most personal moments? Do they even cross your mind? I was watching you long before I made contact, and if I had to guess, I’d say you didn’t pay a single thought toward them.”

  The killer knew the man couldn’t reply, and that was exactly what he’d longed for. He’d dreamed of this moment over and over, preparing what he’d say when he finally got everything in order. But now that he was here, that rehearsed speech felt stale and meaningless. Now, there was nothing but the true words that fell seamlessly from his lips, straight from the heart. It was the most honest he’d ever been.

  “You can’t answer, but I wouldn’t be interested even if you could.” The killer reached back toward the door, kicked it open, and climbed out, feeling the fight of his age and recent diet: fast food and alcohol, when and where he could find it. He shut the door behind him and wondered why he’d bothered as he returned to the driver’s side, leaning far into the window and gripping the handbrake. With his hand wrapped around it, he tilted his head at a slight angle and stared deep into the desperate eyes of the man he was about to murder. “I…”

  What was it he’d wanted to say? The killer felt a pressing urge to further his speech, to try to make him understand. A selection of words circled in front of his eyes—revenge, deserve, comeuppance—but what was the point? What could he really say to make this man understand what he’d done wrong? Even if he could, what would be the point? It wouldn’t bring them back, and he wasn’t about to try. Instead, there was only revenge.

  “Ah, forget it. You’re not worth it.”

  The killer said no more. He thumbed the button and lowered the lever, releasing the emergency brakes. As the man inside sobbed into the duct tape and uttered a muffled howl, the killer quickly stepped back. He watched with morbid satisfaction as the car rolled down the slip toward the water, smoothly floating onto it like a boat. Water rushed inside, and with every drop, the killer felt justice ease his headache. He watched as the river consumed the car, the man inside finally claimed by his watery grave.

  It was over.

  There was only silence.

  Enjoying one last moment, the killer took a deep breath of the cold night air and enjoyed the tranquility. He pictured his victim’s face, water filling his lungs as he desperately tried to wiggle free, his lungs collapsing under the pressure. Under the hopelessness.

  It was perfect.

  Turning now, the killer hurried away from the boat slip, exiting the yard with a surprising lack of satisfaction. The hole he’d expected to fill was still nothing more than a painful vacant lot, but that was fine. If he could turn back time, he’d have done it all over again. Why? Because it was right. Just like it would be right when he got to his next victims, during which he was certain he’d feel the same way.

  After all, each and every one of them deserved it.

  Chapter Two

  The vacation was supposed to be a chance to relax, unwind, and hit the reset button. The whole purpose was to return with a new lease on life, as if the dark crimes of Washington had never tainted his soul, but Morgan had not made it to the airport’s exit doors before trouble came for him once more. It was as if he’d never left.

  He was yet to know what the problem was exactly, but as he hauled a large suitcase out of the arrivals section and found Detective Gary Lee waiting for him, he knew something was amiss. Even Rachel, Morgan’s wife, who’d enjoyed the Maldives vacation just as much, gasped with surprise. A visit from Gary was never a good thing if he wasn’t smiling.

  He wasn’t.

  Morgan steeled himself for bad news. As a private investigator, work could come calling at any time. He just hadn’t expected it to be waiting for him the moment he hit US soil. Hell, he didn’t even have an office at the moment anyway; when the work had slowed down, he’d decided to close up shop and set it up at home instead, but over time the spare room had become a dusty old box room, and neither he nor Rachel had mentioned it since. Morgan suspected this was due to his own embarrassment. Another reason he loved his wife.

  As prepared as he could be, he dragged the suitcase toward Gary, keeping Rachel close to his side. The solemn look on Gary’s tired face told him all he needed to know. “Let me guess, the Homicide Department has hit a snag, and they need a PI who has nothing better to do.”

  Gary shook his head, his expression unchanged. “You wish.”

  The tone in his voice struck a nerve. Morgan recoiled, all hopes of a pleasant exchange diving out the window in a matter of seconds. Even Rachel stepped back, pulled her own rucksack farther up her shoulder, and announ
ced she’d go find the car. Morgan nodded and took note, but his eyes were fixed on Gary’s.

  When they were left alone, Gary raised a hand and clamped it on Morgan’s shoulder. His chest heaved up and down, as if to exhale a heavy burden. This definitely wasn’t going to be good news. “Let’s get some air.”

  The idea was music to Morgan’s ears, and although he dreaded the coming news, he couldn’t wait to get outside and suck up some of that thick Washington smog. While they marched in silence toward the exit, he wondered what could possibly be wrong. Was there another murder spree? Had the DC Carver broken out of prison to take his revenge on Morgan, the man who’d put him away in the first place? Anything was possible, making this short walk to the outside a long, tedious journey. It didn’t help that the suitcase weighed a ton.

  Eventually the time did come. They passed through the automatic doors and took a left, pulling to one side where two smokers stood around an ashtray and talked too loud about their recent trip. Morgan passed by them and stopped the suitcase, leaning on the raised handle while he addressed the situation head-on. “What’s this about?”

  With the same frown he’d worn inside, Gary raked a hand through his hair and made eye contact. He pursed his thin lips, cleared his throat, and finally spoke. “There’s no easy way to say this, so here goes: your cousin died while you were away.”

  The news hit him like a brick. Morgan only had one cousin—Dylan “Dusty” Young, a nice guy who attracted bad news. Having spent the first ten or twelve years of their lives inseparable, there was a bond that should never have been broken. It wasn’t until Dusty’s mother—Morgan’s least favorite aunt—announced they were moving away that they had to say goodbye. Since then, they’d only been able to keep in touch over the phone, and although they’d both tried their best to maintain that friendship, it’d withered away over the many years. People changed and friends drifted. They both understood this, and it had never turned sour.