The Dark Corners of the Night

by Meg Gardiner

  Outside the conference room, on a sunny hotel patio, a family walked past. Cheerful grandparents, their son pushing a stroller, a young woman with a toddler on her hip.

  A shadow fell across the patio behind them, trailed by engine noise. Caitlin leaned toward the window and glanced up. An LAPD helicopter.

  She thought, Vampires never surrender.

  Emmerich stood and absently cleaned up the remains of his lunch. “Let’s check into the hotel. Then regroup. Meet in the lobby in half an hour to head downtown.”

  Caitlin walked from the conference room snarled in thought. Game it out, she told herself. Think through every scenario in which they might confront the Midnight Man. Envision the UNSUB’s behavior and design strategies to capture him. She visualized possibilities. Traffic stop. Gunfight in a victim’s home. Tip called in by the killer’s own family.

  Confrontation at a high school locker. Knife fight at the winter formal.

  As she headed for the elevator, her phone pinged. Sean.

  Miss ya.

  She exhaled. Telling the others she’d catch up with them, she headed outside and placed a video call. She crossed the hotel driveway toward the busy street, where she wouldn’t be overheard.

  When Sean appeared on her screen, she said, “Ya, too.”

  He was walking down the road outside his house, hair windblown under lowering gray clouds, his jean jacket pulled over a Cal sweatshirt. He turned the phone so Caitlin could see Sadie ahead, wobbling along the sidewalk on a tiny bike with training wheels. When he turned the screen back around, he was frowning.

  “You don’t look happy about what you’ve learned today,” he said.

  “It’s beyond disturbing.”

  “Tell me,” he said.

  The wind raked Caitlin’s face and hissed through the palm trees above her head. “Calling him ‘The Midnight Man’ is a misnomer. He’s the Midnight Boy.”

  She told him as she paced back and forth on the sidewalk. Then she continued gaming scenarios out.

  “What’ll the killer do if he’s identified? If his face is flashed across every television screen in the city? If the authorities confront him?”

  “Nothing peaceful,” Sean said.

  “He’ll have to be taken by surprise,” she said. “He’ll need to be surrounded and subdued before he has a chance to react. Otherwise, he’ll never go quietly.”

  “You’re picturing yourself face to face with him, aren’t you?”

  She slowed. “Yes. A troubled, potentially abused, maybe neurologically compromised teenager. Sneaky, smart, capable, but not an adult.”

  “Deadly.”

  “And a cop’s son.”

  “That’s really eating at you,” Sean said.

  She stopped. Traffic grumbled past. “I guess it is.”

  “Even more than it was last night. Now that you think he’s a teenager, you look ready to punch a garbage truck.”

  She pinched her nose. “Flip a garbage truck, maybe.” She started pacing again. “I don’t know why.”

  “Yeah, you do. You’ve been a cop’s teenage kid. You’re thinking about what that did to you in high school.”

  Sean knew her history of self-harm. Knew that, lonely, distressed, and isolated, she had believed her life was out of control and spiraling down, down, endlessly down.

  Most of the time when she reflected, she remembered what it was like to be Mack Hendrix’s kid. The daughter of the detective who went off the deep end. But all cops’ kids dealt with the pressures of their parents’ jobs.

  “You’re not the high school hero when you’re the son of the Man,” Sean said.

  “No, you are not.”

  Like her, the Midnight Man had probably felt the pride and fear that came from seeing a parent pin on a badge. Felt the pressure to grow up as straight as an arrow. Known the distrust of schoolmates. Like her, he may have had the word narc spat in his face.

  A kid who felt all eyes on him, all the time.

  “Part of you wants to tell this kid that high school’s survivable. That everything will be okay,” Sean said.

  She recalled herself at fifteen—thinking that a police officer’s life was a nightmare for everybody in his orbit. She’d sought desperate, false refuge in cutting herself. For months, until she accidentally cut too deep and ended up in the ER.

  “You want to grab this kid and tell him there’s a way out,” Sean said. “But Caitlin, you’re too late.”

  Annihilation. The black nowhere. As a teenager, she’d heard it call to her—only to claw her way back from the idea in terror.

  The Midnight Man, drowning in paranoia, had a consuming dread of being obliterated. A vision of annihilation poured down on him ceaselessly. His dread, apparently, was so unbearable that to end it he might rush into annihilation’s embrace.

  Maybe their visions had the same bitter roots.

  She tried to see his face. Somebody who could never fit in. A smiling kid.

  Holding a gun, and a knife, and buzzing with shame, and terror, and rage.

  “Cat,” Sean said. “You’re thinking about what happens if this UNSUB forces you into a position where you have to use deadly force.”

  The air seemed to flicker. “He’s lethal.”

  “And you’re not cold enough to sight on him like he’s a paper target at the range—thank God.”

  “You wouldn’t either.”

  “Maybe. Neither of us wants to find out,” he said. “You know you’d never be the same if you pulled the trigger on a kid. That’s what’s eating at you. Even though he’s a killer.”

  She let her gaze lengthen, to the gleam of traffic and the shadows on the mountains.

  “I’ve got to go. He’s out there.” She put her fingers to her lips, then to the screen. “Thanks, Sean.”

  His gaze pierced her. “Eyes wide, Hendrix. He knows as much as you did at that age, and he has no limits.”

  She ended the call and walked back toward the hotel. The ground felt insubstantial beneath her feet.

  27

  By the time the BAU team walked into the war room, Caitlin’s nerves had turned acid. The room was hot. The writhing silver tinsel seemed feral.

  Detective Solis glanced up when Emmerich approached his desk.

  “We need to update the Midnight Man’s behavioral profile,” Emmerich said.

  Solis removed a pair of reading glasses and studied him. Emmerich’s expression was metallic.

  “Right.” Solis beckoned Weisbach and Alvarez.

  Alvarez had rolled up his sleeves. His forearms bulged with veins. His USMC tattoo practically throbbed.

  He was back to gnawing on a toothpick. “What’s up?”

  “The Midnight Man may be a teenager,” Emmerich said.

  For a fraction of a second, nobody reacted. Then Solis rocked back. Weisbach’s eyes narrowed.

  Emmerich outlined the team’s reasoning. Alvarez shook his head.

  “Where’s this coming from? The sticker that Hannah Guillory thought she saw on the guy’s windshield?”

  “That’s one factor,” Emmerich said.

  “Could have been a stolen car.”

  “True,” Caitlin said. “But the logo and letters on the UNSUB’s hoodie match those on the car. That, I think, significantly increases the chances the car belongs to him.”

  “Could be a teacher. Janitor. Could be borrowing his kid sister’s car.”

  “Absolutely,” Emmerich said. “But he could be a student himself. Investigating that possibility will allow us to narrow the suspect pool. It will give us a suspect pool.”

  Alvarez threw away the toothpick. “Juveniles commit felonies every day. They join street gangs. Work as runners for drug dealers. But it’s almost unheard of for a teenager to become a serial killer.”

  “It’
s rare,” Caitlin said. “Rarer than it is for a teen to commit spree killings or mass murder in a continuous rampage.” She held Alvarez’s eye. “But very young killers aren’t unicorns. Unfortunately.”

  Alvarez crossed his arms. Outside, the wind whistled past the windows. The storm that had already reached San Francisco was rolling down the coast.

  Weisbach broke her silence. “Alvarez is right. It’s too broad, too vague. I think it’s more likely that the killer is an immature young man in his twenties.”

  Emmerich’s voice was calm but pointed. “This isn’t a wild guess.”

  Keyes had his laptop open. “One more data point. The UNSUB has repeatedly invoked the idea of ‘Legion.’ That term doesn’t just have biblical and occult connotations. It’s a storyline in a top-selling video game. Demonocalypse.” He spun the laptop. The game’s website was up. “The demographic is male gamers ages fourteen to eighteen.”

  Solis, the dark circles under his eyes increasingly sooty, said, “I can see it. It’s worth investigating.”

  Emmerich didn’t react, but Caitlin knew he was relieved.

  The BAU wasn’t in charge of this investigation. They were working the case solely at the request of the LAPD. The murders were state crimes and the FBI couldn’t have taken over the investigation even if they’d wanted to.

  This was the task force’s ball game. But the BAU had thrown them a curve. Worth investigating wasn’t a random phrase. Devoting resources to this avenue—time, money, patrol officers, detectives—meant that other avenues would get short shrift. It was a choice. It would inevitably come at a cost.

  Solis said, “Let’s look at this suspect pool. Give it the weekend.”

  Alvarez said, “Where we supposed to start?”

  Emmerich straightened his already straight posture. “Juveniles who’ve had contact with the criminal justice system. The Midnight Man isn’t a neophyte. He knows the system from the inside out. White males, home addresses within the buffer zones in the geographic profile.”

  “You know how many that is? Hundreds of thousands.”

  The vibe among them was confused and grumbling. Caitlin knew her next remark might intensify that. But it was important.

  “It’s not hundreds of thousands. We can narrow it down tremendously,” she said. “Because there’s something else we need to add to the profile. I think the killer is the son of a cop.”

  Alvarez blew out a hard breath. “No way.”

  Weisbach took off her glasses. “I’ve been wondering something similar.”

  “The persistent vandalism of police vehicles. His familiarity with 911 dispatch sectors. The way his attacks have all occurred within thirty minutes of a shift change at the station nearest to his target.”

  Alvarez shook his head. “Because this asshole hates law enforcement, you think he’s striking back at Daddy? Give me a break.”

  Weisbach was small, and stern, and stood her ground. “He’s too knowledgeable. Somebody’s either guiding him, educating him, or he’s picked up an intense amount of understanding as to how local law enforcement operates.”

  Alvarez’s neck was growing red. “So he’s smart. I don’t think we need to add these off-the-wall ideas to our workload.”

  Solis, who was the senior Robbery-Homicide detective, ran a hand over his stubble. “It’s a possibility. An unpleasant one.”

  Alvarez’s carotid artery throbbed. He had to be exhausted and frustrated, but his resistance seemed deeper rooted than that.

  “Teenager. Cop’s kid. Fine.” He pointed at Keyes. “You’ve got the software. Get yourself access to every database in Southern California and knock yourself out. But I’ve got real leads to follow.” He turned to walk away, got five feet, and spun back around. “FBI flies all the way out here and you’re taking potshots in the dark.”

  Exhaling harshly, he did stalk off, head lowered. Keyes pulled off his slouch cap.

  “I’m on it,” he said. “LAPD, LASD, Arcadia, CHP, every police department in Los Angeles county. Sworn officers, civilian staff, active and retired. Federal agencies too. Give me logins and I’ll rock and roll.”

  Weisbach raised her hands. Maybe in conciliation, maybe surrender. “You got it.”

  She gave Solis an indecipherable look. They walked away.

  The FBI team stood alone, the golden afternoon light angling sharply across the walls.

  “That went well,” Rainey said.

  Caitlin said, “Like a fastball to the head.”

  Four forty-six p.m., the sun spat its final burning rays and plunged beneath the horizon, bleeding red along the surface of the ocean. A cavernous blue fell through the void it left, and a deepening cold, as night soaked the city. He could taste it, the night. It was him now—what he told them to call him, the Midnight Man. His.

  He climbed the last few flights of stairs and shoved open the broken fire door to the roof. The scarlet crevice along the horizon was a scar being sewn shut. The hustle and noise of downtown lay far below. Blazing lights, billboards, Staples Center glaring to the south, millions of people staring at televisions or driving cars. Holiday time. Hell time—a long, dying animal howl. Nobody seeing. Him.

  Up here, he was invisible by design. The building was abandoned. He could keep watch, three hundred sixty degrees, seeing, unseen. The giant towers that crowded the heart of downtown technically overlooked his aerie. But the building’s roof was tar paper, black, like his clothing, and gloves, and hat, and movements. Here, he could eye them all, and practically hear their scheming.

  The wind blew from the north, cold with menace. Turning, turning.

  Spin the wheel, let’s see which way to go tonight.

  He put his earbuds in and turned up the music beneath his hood. It filled his world. Made him here, and not.

  He was hungry.

  And more. He was brimming with indignation.

  Bay Rise was down there, along the snaking white line that was the 110 freeway. Unaware, ignorant—so oblivious that even with its eyes open, it was asleep. So many neat little homes crammed ass by jowl but each so sharply defined, each thinking it was insulated, protected. Asking for it.

  But he’d been shut out. Run off. That house, the solemn little bougie home on the tidy little bougie street, he’d shot out the street light with a ninja rock this time and nobody had even stirred. One dog had barked, but after that, nothing. The gate at the side of the house was well oiled, no rusty hinges, no creaking. Mommydaddy asleep, everything perfectly dark, the wind such a welcome cover, hissing as he strolled to the backyard and enjoyed standing on the patio, eyeing the choice of windows, catching sight of his star-flecked reflection in the sliding glass patio door. Standing there, an absence, giving away nothing, nobody able to see him, the only eyes his, on the lock, the ease of opening it, and the lesson that would be unleashed within.

  Then the light boomed from the fridge in the kitchen. Poured out across his feet and legs and the girl in the kitchen …

  He turned up the music in his ears. It shredded, a pirate recording of an Every Time I Die concert. Here, he could let it throb through him. Drawing power and inspiration and cocooning himself in it.

  The girl. Littlesister bloodblister. She’d shut the door, slammed off the light, the white heart of vision, and he’d seen her duck. Tiny coward, hiding. But he’d slid along the side of the house and found the cat door, easy-peasy.

  And then the girl, and her family, turned it all to shit.

  Thwarting him, after he’d done his research. Checked the map, located the substation. After he spent an hour, more, driving, feeling, needing, working up to it. Leaving him empty-handed.

  It was an outrage. How dare those people try to stop him?

  The city lights shimmered. The wind rose. A storm was rolling in.

  He climbed down from the roof and slipped through back streets to the
car.

  Time to feed.

  28

  In El Segundo, night had settled over the streets. The neighborhood was hushed. Kiki Bingham had been deeply asleep, but knew she’d only been out for ten or fifteen minutes. Then, pop, awake. She wasn’t surprised. This zero-to-alert reaction had become ingrained since she’d had the kids.

  She lay with her eyes closed, hearing no sounds from the boys’ bedroom. Rob was snoring softly behind her, his knee nudging her in the back. Maybe that’s what had woken her up. She fluffed the pillow and hoped she could drift back to sleep.

  But her mind fizzed. Christmas presents to wrap. Cookies to bake. Liquor to buy for the office party.

  She smelled the strong whiff of petroleum from the city’s oil storage tanks. The pong was heavy tonight, permeating the back of her throat. An onshore breeze must be blowing in from the beach. El Segundo had one of Southern California’s prettiest stretches of coastline, if you didn’t mind the cyclone fencing and power station and the vast oil refineries that lined Vista del Mar. She pulled the covers up around her ears. A jet roared, taking off from LAX.

  A jet—that must have been what woke her. Though after living in this friendly, crowded neighborhood for three years, she should have been able to tune out the noise of yet another departing airliner. The airport’s south runway was three hundred yards away. On this street, you learned to pace the rhythm of your speech when the evening KLM flight to Amsterdam commenced its takeoff roll. Search for their house on street view, you saw an A380 lifting off in the background, photobombing them.

  She was wide awake now, her mind pinballing in random directions.

  The jet howled away, over the ocean. The engine noise was thunderous. The smell of oil was too sharp. She opened her eyes.

  The bedroom sheers, ghostly in the thin starlight, were ballooning under a breeze. The window was open.

  She jerked up—too late. At the foot of the bed, a shadowed figure raised a gun.

  He held his arm straight out and fired.

  The shot hit Rob. Then Kiki was scrambling, a shriek sliding from her throat, kicking off the covers, clawing the wall behind her, and she knew who it was, knew it was real, and then he turned the pistol on her.