On The Hunt: Gay M/M Mystery Romance

by Marina Lander

  “Hunter, what is it?”

  “I’ll call you back,” he says in rush, hanging up to dial Stephen’ cell phone. It goes straight to voicemail, and does so once more when Hunter calls it again.

  A week earlier, Hunter would just assume Stephen had taken off on his own without telling him, but now...something isn’t right. Hunter instinctively knows that Stephen was sincere last night, that he had every intention to wait for Hunter in the morning.

  The number for Stephen’ partner on the case is still in Hunter’s contacts. He paces the length of the living room, focusing on the burgundy tie draped over the back of the couch as the other line rings.

  “This is Agent Talbert.”

  “Talbert, it’s Morris. Have you heard from Stephen?”

  There’s a long, tense pause. “Is something wrong?”

  “He’s gone. There’s no answer on his cell.”

  Another pause. “Give me a second.” The line goes quiet, but Hunter can hear the muffled, distant sound of keyboard typing.

  When Talbert speaks again, his voice sounds tense. “GPS tracking on his cell shows he’s in Forest Park.”

  Hunter runs to the front window and shoves the blinds open. Parked outside on the curb is Stephen’ rental car, but the usual unmarked Chicago PD cruiser is gone.

  “It’s a residential house,” Hunter says, heart racing. “Get every one of your units out there, now. The Scholar’s kidnapped your agent.” He doesn’t wait for a response from Talbert; he hangs up, goes straight to Stephen’ laptop still sitting on the kitchen table. The screen wakes up to reveal a Word document with the exact address of Reeves’ mother, along with Reeves’ biography and the details of his sister’s murder. There was also a spreadsheet with every one of The Scholar’s clues, cross-referenced with each victim and their relation to Reeves.

  “It’s all here,” Hunter breathes. “Jesus Christ, Stephen, you had it all here. You figured it out.”

  And somehow, Reeves knows it, too.

  He knows it’s irrational, that he should wait for back-up and Alyssa, but an overwhelming rush of fear and rage builds inside him at the thought of Reeves holding Stephen hostage, or worse. He can’t get the sudden image of Stephen lying cold and lifeless on the floor, his neck circled in bruises from the rope used to strangle him to death, a note stuffed into his jacket pocket addressed to Hunter, telling him to pay attention.

  It’s a stupid move, but Hunter can’t stop himself from calling Stephen’ cell, just one more time.

  This time, someone answers.

  “So, you’ve realized I have someone you want?” a familiar, hateful voice says.

  Hunter’s hands twitch for his gun. “We know who you are, Reeves. There are agents on their way right now to your mother’s house. It’s over.”

  “Mmm, not quite. Before this ends, I’d really like to speak to you in person. I’m sure Agent Stephen would appreciate that as well.”

  He takes a deep breath, steals his nerves, pretends Stephen is still in his apartment, whispering nonsense at Sonny as he drinks coffee out of Hunter’s Paris mug. “Is that all you want? To see me?”

  “Yes, it’s that simple. After all this time, I feel you probably deserve to see my face.”

  “And Agent Stephen?”

  “He’s alive, but it’s probably in the best interest for both of you not to keep me waiting. Oh, and please try to come alone. Your little angel-faced partner doesn’t need to get involved in this.”

  Hunter is already plotting the various ways he can shoot Reeves between the eyes. “Fine. I’ll be there.”

  “See that you are. I’ll give Agent Stephen your fondest regards, yeah?” The line goes dead in Hunter’s ear.

  He throws the phone against the nearest wall, gives in the urge to scream, “Fuck.”

  ~

  “I’m absolutely insane for letting you do this,” Frederic says as he watches Agent Talbert fit Hunter with a microphone chip hidden in his shirt collar. They’re a block down from the mother’s house, hidden inside a black van.

  “I’d do it anyway, Captain. I’m the only one Reeves will deal with.”

  “We don’t even know if Stephen is still—”

  “He is.” Hunter gives Frederic a fierce look. “I know he is, Reeves wouldn’t—he’s keeping Stephen alive because of me. He’s too smart to try and bluff.”

  Meanwhile, Alyssa continues to glare at Hunter, her arms folded tightly over her Kevlar vest. “Hunter, you know this ridiculous, Stephen has said it himself—Reeves is just taunting you, there’s no guarantee he won’t shoot you both once you get in there.”

  “Then that’s a risk I’m going to have to take,” Hunter says sharply. “I’m not going to just sit by and figure something out while Reeves goes out and collects more victims because I’m not paying attention. I’m not going to be responsible for that bastard killing Stephen.” His voice feels too high, too loud inside the close confines of the van.

  Alyssa’s expression goes soft. “Oh, Hunter, no one’s blaming you for any of this. It’s not your fault—”

  “It is my fault if I don’t go in there and see Reeves face to face.”

  “He’s playing you because he somehow knows what Stephen means to you!”

  Hunter feels an uncomfortable heat in his cheeks, especially when Agent Talbert raises an eyebrow at him. “He’d get to me somehow,” he says, looking away to check the rounds in his Beretta. “We done here?”

  Agent Talbert nods. “But be forewarned, if anything funny happens in there, I’m giving my men the go ahead to move in. I won’t hesitate to take Reeves out.”

  “Just be careful. He’s hardly predictable.”

  “I could say the same thing about you,” Talbert says with a hint of a smile. “You know, Stephen talked about you over and over before coming out here. Said you were the best detective he’d ever worked with, that you had a lot of guts for someone so young.”

  It’s like a fist punches its way into Hunter’s chest and closes tightly around his heart. He smoothes a hand over his vest, pats his holster. “I think I’m ready.”

  Frederic sighs. “As you’ll ever be, I guess. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

  “I won’t do anything Stephen wouldn’t do.”

  “That’s hardly reassuring,” Frederic grumbles as he opens the van door for Hunter.

  “If anything happens, I’m coming in after you!” Alyssa yells after him. “Don’t think I won’t!”

  Hunter gives her a tiny half-smile over his shoulder. “Welcome to your moment of truth, Detective Harrington,” he says, then heads down the sidewalk toward the house, his palms slightly damp.

  ~

  The front door is unlocked, leading Hunter into a dark, stuffy foyer. The curtains are drawn, dust motes float thick through the air, and there is very little furniture. The place barely looks lived in.

  Hunter stands in the living room and calls, “All right, I’m here.”

  His cell phone immediately rings. The caller ID says its Stephen’ number.

  “Go up the stairs and come to the last room on the right,” Reeves says without preamble after Hunter answers.

  “No,” Hunter says through clenched teeth. “You meet me down here.”

  “Do you want your agent back or not, Detective? Follow my directions.” The line goes dead, and Hunter swears under his breath for a moment before climbing the stairs. He draws his gun, cocks the hammer loudly in the stiffing silence. With each step Hunter makes a calculated list of the things he’ll do once he gets past that door: secure Stephen’ location, then shoot Reeves. Whether or not that shot will be fatal, he hasn’t decided.

  The bare, windowless hall feels endless, and by the time Hunter finally gets to the last room on the right, his heart is in his throat. He pushes the door open with his gun, holds his breath and counts down from ten in his head.

  He’s met by the sight of Stephen on his knees, wearing the same clothes from the night before, his hands
tied behind his back. There’s a gag tied around his mouth, but he seems to be completely unharmed.

  Then Hunter notices the bloom of red across the lower left side of Stephen’ abdomen, soaking his shirt. Stephen raises his head just before Hunter kicks the door the rest of the way open, and the quick flare of intense fear in his eyes nearly breaks the last of Hunter’s resolve.

  It’s not until he gets his first look at Reeves—tall, gangly thin, matted brown hanging in his eyes—pointing a gun at Stephen’ head that Hunter gets his bearings once more, pushes away the dread and doubt because he’s got a job to finish.

  “Welcome, Detective Morris,” Reeves says in a disgustingly pleasant voice. “Glad you could join us.”

  Hunter concentrates on exhaling through his nose, on counting the beats of his pulse. “You shot him,” he replies, careful to keep his tone flat and emotionless. “That wasn’t part of our arrangement.” Out of the corner of his eye he sees Stephen shake his head, teeth gnashing at the gag in his mouth.

  Reeves smiles, and he looks disarmingly young, almost innocent. Hunter can see why he’d make a charming interviewee. “Well, I don’t think we really hashed out the details, did we? I figured I had to keep the playing field level somehow, and if your darling agent’s life isn’t truly in danger, then what reason do you have to stay?”

  “There’s no way out of this,” Hunter says, tilting the aim of his gun directly at Reeve’s forehead. He refuses to meet Stephen’ eyes again.

  “Actually, there is. Agent Stephen here has been bleeding out for quite some time now—at least four or five hours, I think, give or take; you know stomach wounds, they always take their time. But the way I see it, you’ve got two choices, Detective: one, you let me leave right now, alone, without a police escort, and your agent lives to see another day. Or two, you keep me talking, eventually kill me, and meanwhile Agent Stephen passes out from the blood loss, possibly fading into a coma.”

  Hunter takes a step closer. “Or three, I just kill you now.”

  “Yeah, that’s an option. However, if you kill me, you’ll never be able to solve your puzzle.”

  “I’m not interested in solving puzzles, I’m interested in getting justice for the victims you murdered in cold blood as some sort of fucked up vengeance crusade.”

  Reeves clucks his tongue as he shakes his head. “Oh, Hunter, you don’t fool me. You’ll never be satisfied until you have all the answers. That’s what makes you tick, right—knowing how people work?”

  He’s trying to distract you, Hunter tells himself. He worries that Agent Talbert has heard every word and is seconds away from descending on the house with every once of manpower he has. At this point, Reeves could kill both himself and Stephen in a heartbeat, just to prove a point.

  Hunter prays Frederic trusts him enough to give him just a little more time.

  “I know how you work,” he says slowly. “You’re getting justice for your sister, right? The same sister whose killer got away because the law had a loop hole. You dropped out of law school and devoted your life to fixing the law’s mistake. You even moved back home.” He doesn’t mention the fact that there’s no sign of another person living in this house, which sets off all sorts of warning bells in Hunter’s mind.

  Reeves’ emotionless expression falters slightly. “The police thought I was just a grieving brother, that I couldn’t possibly know how to do their jobs better, but I knew they were incompetent. I studied the law, know it inside and out, and the rest of law enforcement can go to hell.”

  “But you never found the guy, did you?”

  “That wasn’t my fault. The police arrested the wrong fucking man, and by the time I took it upon myself to figure it out, he was gone, vanished. There was no way for me to find him, and the pain of it, the agony of the injustice, it ruined my mother.” Reeves’ voice is rising, catching on the last few words.

  The warning bells get louder. “She’s dead, isn’t she?” Hunter asks.

  Reeves sneers, “You don’t need me to answer that.”

  “It happened just before the murders began, didn’t it? That’s what set you off, that was the final straw for you.” Hunter shifts his grip on his gun. “But why me? What about me is so goddamned special you thought I deserved all this attention?”

  “I watched you, Detective Morris. You were a bright kid, a new detective—I thought perhaps out of all the idiots taking up space on the Chicago PD, you would be the exception, the one to listen. And I saw the way you were with your partner, how close you were...it’s a dangerous thing to fall in love in such a precarious line of work.”

  It feels horribly intrusive and wrong to have Reeves talk about his relationship with Stephen, and Hunter hates him with every fiber of his being for the mocking tone in his voice.

  “You don’t know anything about us,” Hunter whispers through clenched teeth.

  “Why do you think I came back after all this time? Because you’d lost focus, Hunter. You lost it the moment your partner left you for the FBI. There wasn’t any point to me carrying on if it meant nothing, if no one cared.”

  “So you started killing again just to get the FBI involved? Just to get Stephen back in Chicago?”

  “No, Detective, I came back because I felt enough time had passed that you would finally know what it was like to be in my shoes. You’d lost someone dear to you, and living with that pain can change a person. I felt you would understand me better this time around. It was a fortunate coincidence that Agent Stephen came back as well; your focus was always better with him around, anyway.”

  Hunter’s mind is racing with the knowledge that Reeves has known his every movement for God knows how long and somehow thinks Hunter getting his heart broken is equal to having a murdered sister. He makes the mistake of glancing down, and sees that Stephen is watching him with wide, pained blue eyes. His shoulders are subtly flexing, like he’s pulling at his bounds in a quietly desperate need to help Hunter.

  “So what do you want from me now?” Hunter asks, tearing his eyes away from Stephen.

  Reeves nudges the muzzle of his gun against Stephen’ temple. “I want you to understand, Hunter. I want to hear you say it. And then I want your promise that the man who killed my baby sister will be found.”

  Hunter holds up his hand. “I get why you’re upset—”

  “This isn’t about being upset, this is about listening.”

  “And you think killing a bunch of innocent people is the only way to get your point across?”

  “The criminal justice system murdered those people by being this corrupt, pathetic lame duck of our society! Those professors, all those students? I did them a favor—I stopped them from being sucked into the void of ignorance.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Stephen throw his shoulder back, wincing against the gag. “It doesn’t matter what I say to you now,” Hunter says, “you’re not getting out of here. You can kill me and you can kill Stephen, but nothing’s going to change that fact.”

  “So you’re really going to just stand there and watch me kill him?” Reeves suddenly screeches, all the unhinged insanity apparent in his eyes. “You’re just going to let me take him from you because you won’t listen to me?”

  “He’s not mine to take!” Hunter yells back, heart in his throat. “He hasn’t been mine for three goddamn years, but it doesn’t matter! It didn’t matter then, and it doesn’t matter now, because I’m going to kill you myself, Reeves. I’m going to kill you first, and whatever havoc and pain you think you’re going to bring down on me and this city will be a moot point.”

  The smile Reeves gives him is pure, raw evil. “Nothing’s ever a moot point,” he says, then turns his aim on Hunter and pulls the trigger.

  There’s a suspended moment just before Reeves shoots, when Hunter sees Stephen pull his hand free of his restraints and lunge at Reeves. Hunter opens his mouth to tell him to stop, don’t being a fucking hero, don’t leave me all over again, only Reeves shoots and everythi
ng narrows down into a fierce explosion of pain.

  He’s aware of falling to ground, legs crumpling awkwardly beneath him, his gun falling out of his hand. Another shot rings out, followed by Stephen screaming, “Get a fucking medic in here!,” his voice hoarse and cracking. Hunter can’t really see what’s going, everything is quickly going dark and hazy at the edges, but he knows he’s gasping Stephen’ name.

  Cold, trembling fingertips skim over his forehead. He can hear Stephen’ voice again, saying, “You’re going to be all right, love, help’s on the way, you’re gonna be fine...”

  Hunter suddenly remembers of the first time he was shot. Nothing’s changed, he thinks with an ache that has nothing to do with gunshot wounds. Still fucking love you.

  There’s an odd gasping sound, like laughter choked with sobs.

  “I know, you bloody idiot,” Stephen says, words broken and desperate, and Hunter realizes as he slips into unconsciousness that he somehow said the words out loud.

  ~

  There was one memory Hunter could never make himself let go of, even months after Stephen had left and never looked back. He’d lie on his back in the dark, alone in the bed that still felt too large and too empty, playing back the moment on a painful repeat. He wished he could scrape his mind clean of the memory, just wipe out everything that held even a trace of Stephen.

  It was just after the The Scholar’s second killing, the accompanying note sitting on Hunter’s desk, mocking him and his inability to put the pieces together. They had officially labeled it a serial killing, and Hunter, who had once thought being a detective on a serial murder would be everything he’d ever wanted from the job, tied himself into knots dreading the idea that he’d never measure up, that he’d somehow let these victims’ families down.

  He’d sat in the car with Stephen after interviewing a half dozen students who knew the victim—a young TA working on his PhD, a year younger than Hunter himself. He couldn’t think of anything to say, just stared out the window at nothing until he folded his arms on the wheel, rested his forehead against his hands, and simply breathed, telling himself over and over, You can do this, you’re smarter than him, you can do this...