In his paralyzed haze, keeping one eye barely open as he reached out for Cooper, he only saw one thing. It was the sole of a shoe passing over him. He thought of that alien movie where the ship hovered over a city, only this danger was more real. That shoe hit the floor beside him, stepping farther away, farther, until the man wearing it towered over Cooper Kelley, dark and ominous in the dim living room light.
“You shouldn’t drink,” the man said.
It sounded like the voice of a demon, and suddenly Morgan knew what’d happened—it was the wine. Whatever had been added to it left him feeling close to death, like he was drowning in mud.
The last thing he heard was that voice, deeper now than it had been before. Every syllable lasted a lifetime, the sound dragging on like it was sung from a whale deep in the terrifying, unknown depths of the ocean. “…where it all began…”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Arthur stepped over the black detective with a big grin stretching each side of his face. At least, it felt like it was there. The truth was that he hadn’t smiled in ten years. Not properly, anyway. That was what these vermin had taken from him: his capacity for happiness.
But they hadn’t taken his wits.
Far ahead of the game, Arthur knew the police would be watching this house. By then, he’d already mapped out the building, run his own surveillance from the roof of a house that was empty and still for sale. That house backed onto Cooper Kelley’s residence, and it was the perfect spot for watching all activity from a safe distance.
Too bad they’d left the back door unguarded.
Arthur had watched them set up their perimeter. He hadn’t been able to hear what they were saying, but their body language was telling enough; the winding maze of alleys behind the house was impossible to keep watch over, so they’d have to just lock the back door and keep all eyes on the front of the house.
What they didn’t know was that Arthur could pick locks.
It was one of the many useful skills he’d picked up in his years studying for this spree. He’d thought about all obstacles he might encounter while trying to claim his vengeance, and there wasn’t a chance in hell something as trivial as a door would stop him. It was laughable really, when you stopped to think about it.
Arthur had snuck in through the back, stepping carefully so as not to give himself away. He had the knife in his hand and was ready to use it if necessary, but what he really wanted was to take his victim away: to let him feel the same pain the others had. The same pain his wife and daughter had in their final moments. He had to show him the right way.
That was what gave birth to his genius idea.
As soon as he peered around the corner and found that detective who’d chased him was staying the night, Arthur returned to the kitchen and got to work. There’d been three drinks left out. One was a bottle of white wine—a screw cap, perfect for opening it unnoticed. The other two were half-consumed bottles of Coke. Arthur improvised on the spot, quietly searching the cupboards for something he could use. Within moments he’d found a combination that would work. It consisted of catnip, allergy tablets, and a ton of chamomile to take off the edge. Arthur—who’d reached tenure as a chemistry teacher and was more than well practiced in what would work—created the formula inside each bottle. They’d fizzed and popped, and he’d screwed the caps back on, making his way up the stairs where he could watch the shadows on the living room floor until the moment came.
If it came.
There’d been no way of knowing for sure whether they’d drink, but if they did they’d be seriously ill for a while. That was fine though; Arthur didn’t give a damn about their well-being. He just wanted them out for the count so he could drag Cooper out the back door without being noticed by the cops. After that, he could continue his big plan.
They’d taken the wine.
Now, Arthur stood over his prey, the lights dimmed. Nobody knew he was here, and nobody was coming to save them. He towered above his victim, fighting the urge to draw his knife and stick him like a pig. “You shouldn’t drink,” he said, already realizing his hypocrisy. Although, if anyone was entitled to drink, wasn’t it Arthur St. John—the man who’d lost so much? The man whose sole purpose was to seek justice?
Tension gripping his muscles and the fear of being caught spiking his adrenaline, Arthur crouched and grabbed Cooper’s arms, heaving him over his shoulder and grunting in agony as he took the weight. “Come on, fella. Don’t die on me just yet. We need to go back to where it all began so you can get what’s coming to you.”
From there, he headed for the back door, leaving the detective alive. Despite the fact he’d chased him down, that man wasn’t a part of this. Nobody else had to die but the man over his shoulder. He hauled him through the back door and down the alleyway toward the latest in a long line of stolen cars, before vanishing into the night.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Morgan came to with his vision blurred and a foul taste in his mouth. It was the acrid taste of vomit, which littered the floor in front of him. His hands shook like leaves in a strong wind, and there was no energy left in his body. All he could think, as he lay there in a puddle with glass shards piercing his cheek, was that he was going to die.
And how he’d messed up.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, poisoned on the floor of somebody you were trying to protect.
Cooper.
Morgan found just enough strength to turn his head, trying to look at where Cooper had fallen. When he finally made it, that area of the floor coming into view, all he saw was a vacant space. It occurred to him that there were two possibilities: Cooper could have regained consciousness, then made it out of the room to go find help. Then there was the chance that Arthur St. John had spiked the wine, knocking them both out and taking Cooper away. Morgan knew this was the most likely, and if true, they were all in for a world of shit.
It caused a great pain in his stomach to do so, but Morgan reached for his phone. His insides hurt with every twitch, every movement he made. He had no choice, however. Reaching his thumb to the recently called contacts, he touched Rachel’s name like she was right there—like he was wiping a teardrop from her eye. The phone rang, and she answered on the second ring, calling louder and louder for a response.
But Morgan couldn’t speak.
Before he knew it, his eyes were closing again. His body cramped and jolted, shooting hard spasms at the base of his spine. The taste of vomit returned to him, blindness making its way back around. If he could separate the awful, panic-inducing feelings from each other, there would be room for fear: fear for Rachel. Fear for Cooper.
“Rachel…” he wheezed, his voice a mere croak between lips that were turning ice-cold. He tried to raise his head, but trying only brought on more dizziness, shocking him into a swirling world that chucked the bile up his throat.
“Morgan, are you there? Morgan. Morgan!”
That angelic voice—no matter how urgent and afraid—was the best thing he could’ve heard as he closed his eyes. As tiredness took him and the soothing sound of the woman he loved bled through the phone, Morgan gave in to his deepest fears and accepted the hard truth: there were worse ways to die, and at least he wasn’t alone.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Morgan had no idea he would wake up at all, but when he did he was shocked to find himself in such a familiar place. He’d stared up at that ceiling thousands of times, processing his thoughts of the day. He’d seen that beam of light burst through the window just as often, raring for the day each time he saw it. The bed he lay on was the most recognizable; this was where he made love to his wife. It was where they slept entwined in each other’s embrace.
It was where he felt he was going to die.
The knotting in his stomach had gone, but the aftertaste of bile still lingered on his tongue. At least he was able to open his eyes, which was more than could be said for his most recent memories. That’d been an awful time that he’d never forget, full
of regret and despair, both for himself and for Cooper Kelley.
“Cooper,” he said, shooting upright at the thought.
“Hey. No, no.” There was a firm hand on his bare chest and a calm, soothing voice he knew more than his own. “It’s all right. Everything’s all right. Just hold still, or you’ll make all the pain come back. Easy now.”
Morgan rolled his head to the side, sluggish like he was drunk. He immediately saw her, sitting on her knees beside him. She wore her pajamas, soft pink and fluffy with a picture of a yawning bear embroidered onto the front. A gift from him. “What happened?”
“You’ve been to the hospital, but now you’re home where I can keep an eye on you. Hush now, save your strength,” she said. “Sleep all you can.”
He did.
It felt like he was out for days. By the time he woke again, the sun had vanished and a pale moonlight glow took its place. The room was dark, cold, with the air seeping in through the open window. Nonetheless, Morgan was drenched in his own sweat. The haze was lifting, his energy slowly replenishing, but he still felt like he’d been hit by a truck. There was no way he could stay here, even if he wanted to—Arthur St. John was still out there, only now he had Cooper Kelley as his captive. Was he dead already? At least a day must have passed since he’d drunk that goddamn wine, which was plenty of time to get creative.
He couldn’t risk lying here while somebody out there needed help.
Summoning all the energy he had, Morgan tried to sit up. The pain in his core was so great it felt like something ripped. He howled in agony, his scream filling the room and echoing off the walls. He reached for his stomach, holding it like he’d been kicked there, and from the corner of his eye he saw a figure rushing back to his aid.
“Hey, take it easy.”
“Rachel,” he mumbled.
Her hands were on him, soft to the touch as they laid him down. Leaping onto the bed, she reached behind him and shuffled a pillow, guiding him toward it so he had his back to the headboard. This was much better, he realized. Here, he was safe.
“Am I dying?” he asked. It sure felt like it.
“No, you’re not dying. The doctor said you’re going to be okay within a day or two, but in the meantime you need to get some rest. It wasn’t good, you know—forensics found traces of a hazardous substance in a few bottles around the house. It looks like you drank some.”
“Some,” Morgan said. It hurt to talk, but she was here with him. He had to let her know what he’d done wrong all this time. He had to let her know this path he was on was no good for anyone. He didn’t want to leave her alone. “Rachel, I…”
She put her finger to his lips. “Do you have to talk right now?”
He shook his head away, making her drop the finger. “Yes.”
Rachel sighed. “What is it?”
“I thought I was going to die. My body was out of my control. All I could think about was you and how you’d have to face the horror of parenthood without me at your side.” Morgan winced, holding his stomach tighter as he brought his knees up. It was a dumb reflex that only worsened the pain. “It made me think… maybe I shouldn’t do this.”
“Yeah, no shit.” Rachel grinned, a beautiful grimace in the moonlight.
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are, but isn’t it a bit late for that?”
“Any word on Cooper?”
Rachel shook her head and bit her lip. “None.”
“Then I’m in a messed-up position.” Morgan took a second to catch his breath, the wind leaving him more with each word. He couldn’t stop now. Not when he was so close to the end. “I want to be a good husband, but—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Rachel interrupted, sitting back on her heels.
“Why?”
“Because you are a good husband. You’re a good man, period. Just look at all the effort you’ve put in to stop the guy who killed your cousin. A normal man would’ve left that to the police. Okay, admittedly, those are probably smarter men.” She giggled. “But you’ve come so far. I meant it when I said you should slow down, but it’s not the right time to stop altogether.”
Morgan mulled this over. Her thoughts were written all over her face. Her eyes, which shone under the glow of the moon, begged for his safety. They showed love and admiration, but they also gave away her fear. It didn’t surprise him—he’d been in the path of serial killers almost nonstop for the past few weeks, and who would want that? What sane wife would wish that on the father of her unborn child? It must’ve taken so much strength not to say it aloud.
“You really do support me,” he said. “Don’t you?”
Rachel nodded, her auburn hair looking like fire in the soft light.
“Then I’ll stop. After we catch this guy, I’ll go back to the simple cases. I’m not even going to fight the police anymore. I just want Arthur St. John caught so we can continue with our lives.” He touched her stomach, still flat… for now. “We can raise that kid together.”
Carefully, she slid onto her side, curled up beside him, and draped her arm over his waist. She nestled into him, her touch soft and gentle so as not to hurt him. Morgan slid his arm around her, still clutching his stomach with the other.
“You’re all sweaty,” she said.
“Then get off me.”
“Never.” She held him closer.
For the first time in a while, Morgan felt like he was in the right place. According to what the doctor had said, he had a day, two at the most, of feeling this run-down. With any luck he’d be on his feet again by the morning, and as soon as he had a hot shower to wash off the grim sensation of death and failure, he’d be right back on the horse. Then he could solve this case once and for all, before finally settling down to run his business.
Until then, he had to retreat into his mind and think things through as a detective. It was in his blood to piece things together, to form patterns out of the slightest details. But as he lay there holding his wife, gaze fixed on the wall, he couldn’t think of a single thing.
It was going to be a long night.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The night was as slow and long as Morgan had expected. Thin sleep came in short waves, and even those were hours apart. It was like the cruel torture of insomnia had wrapped its claws around him, keeping him in a place between the dream world and the real one. It kept him groggy, sick, and every time he thought about moving, his body told him he couldn’t.
Meanwhile, all he could think about was Cooper Kelley.
How had he let that happen? How, with all the years of experience under his belt, had he not found it unusual for wine to taste so sweet? If his first sip hadn’t been enough, he’d made it through a whole glass and then some. When they were young, Morgan had kept Rachel from downing a spiked drink at an after-college party. Why should it have been any different when it was his own body?
It was simple: he’d become careless.
Was that how it was now, he wondered? Was there any way back from becoming so relaxed that he fell for even the oldest tricks in the book? And there had still been no word on the whereabouts of Cooper Kelley. It could be that this was the end, and he’d simply have to let Arthur St. John ride into the sunset. The only question then would be whether he would stop or not. Serial killers, at least as much as he’d read about them, rarely hung up the knife. It was an animalistic instinct that drove them. It came as naturally as they need to eat or sleep, both of which Morgan needed right now.
Still dazed, the room spun in circles while he tried to focus on a painting that hung on the far side of the room. It was a single ship from the 1700s, lost on a calm ocean with a dark, stormy sky chasing it from behind. Rachel had brought it home from a garage sale once, explaining that if you never looked back, then you’d never know what was coming. Now, as the room rotated and made him sick, Morgan could do nothing but think back: back to that night, when Arthur St. John had said something.
“…where it
all began…”
Morgan kept circling those words, something about them standing out. His mind was trying to tell him something, of that much he was sure. But where had it all began? How was he supposed to know where it started? Unless they’d known each other beforehand—which he doubted, considering St. John had only just figured out who’d been driving—the night of the car accident was the first time they’d crossed paths.
“That’s it,” he whispered, slowly sitting up.
But he fell back into sleep.
He was onto something, and he knew it. If Arthur St. John was taking Cooper Kelley back to where it all began, there was a strong chance he was going to finish his work. Aside from Tom—who he might not even come back for—there was nobody left to kill. Nobody left to punish. And if Morgan could just get out of bed, he could check it out at once.
Gary.
Yes, Gary could do something about it.
Morgan reached for his phone to send a text, but sleep claimed him again, and for the next few hours he was gone.
Chapter Forty
Arthur St. John stood by the side of the road as the sun rose, a bottle of vodka in one hand and a small but sharp knife in the other. Behind him, a Ford Escape sat with the door open and the engine running. That car was integral to his grand plan, which would end everything on a high, but until then he had to plan this one perfectly. There was no room for the rookie errors he’d made of late, so every detail counted. Every. Last. One.
Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection Page 74
