“Where’s the money?” the man with the gun asks, though he’s staring straight at my suitcase.
“Where’s the girl?” I demand.
“Where’s the money?” he repeats, anger building up in his voice. “Give it to me.”
I jerk my second gun, a Glock 27, out of my ankle holster. I pull the trigger and the bullet tears into the man’s hand. He drops the gun, screaming. I point the Glock at the other man, who raises his arms, dropping my other gun.
“Look, man, we have her, she’s just—” the man stops, looking behind me as he takes a step back. I’m about to turn when I feel something heavy hit against the back of my head.
Then, I’m falling into the shrubbery below me and my mind is clouded by darkness.
15
Mason, 2015 (Saturday night)
I HOLD THE METAL baseball bat over Aaron’s body, waiting to see if he gets back up.
Nope.
Pete pulls off his mask first.
“Is that mine?” he asks, pointing to the bat.
“Yeah, I took it from your car.” I drop the bat and pull my leather gloves up higher. It would have been a shame to get blood on them. “Your car is in the same place it always is when we do pickups. You guys are so predictable that it’s sad.”
“Bleeding hand!” Kenny hollers and waves his hand that had been shot through. “I think I need to go to the hospital!”
“Yeah, and how are you going to explain how your hand was shot?” I ask.
His shoulders slump as he realizes his predicament. “How did you even know we were here?”
“Well, considering you’re trying to get a ransom from my father and you’re using your favorite spot…” I say. “It didn’t take a genius, which…speaking of genius…I have to say this idea is actually pretty clever.”
I kneel down next to the suitcase Aaron had to unlatch it. When I open it, the money is all in twenty-dollar bills, stacked together in neat rows. “This is mine?”
“Of course, man,” Pete says. “Thanks for saving our asses. We didn’t think to make sure he didn’t have a second gun.”
“No, thinking isn’t your guys’ strong point.” I take a few steps toward Kenny. “Is your hand injury that bad? Do you need a tourniquet?”
“Nah, man,” Kenny says, though the blood is trailing down his arm. “Maybe.”
Pete walks over to Kenny and peers at the hand. “That’s pretty bad-ass, though,” Pete says.
I bend down and grab Aaron’s gun from the ground. I point it at Pete.
“Mason, do you think”—
BAM.
I see the slight dilation of his irises right before the bullet hits him square in the chest. As he falls back, I point the gun at Kenny. I pull the trigger again and the bullet goes straight through his throat. He falls back after a halfhearted gurgle.
Morons.
I move back to Aaron. His chest still barely rises and falls with every breath he takes. Normally, I’d be annoyed by his failure to die, but I need him to survive in order for the police to believe he shot Pete and Kenny after being hit in the head. I use his shirt to wipe off the gun. There shouldn’t be any prints since I’m wearing gloves, but I’m not taking any chances. I wrap Aaron’s hand back around the gun, making sure one of his fingers lies against the trigger. It’s actually quite perfect—he has already fired the gun, so he’ll have gun residue on his hands.
I drop Aaron’s hand, pick the suitcase back up, and head out of the woods. They say monsters live among these trees, but I’ve spent my life in them since childhood, and I’m the only thing in here that should be feared.
16
Mason, 2013
WHILE I WAS IN school, there was one consistent assignment teachers gave between elementary and middle school: what are your life dreams? What other kids wrote down always confused me. To get married. To become a firefighter. To visit France. To fall in love.
All of their dreams were connected to exploration or pursuing happiness. My dream wasn’t about that—it was about escaping misery.
I wanted to get the hell out of Alaska.
It didn’t matter where I ended up—New York, Texas, South Carolina, Mexico, even Canada would suffice—I just wanted to get out. I didn’t want to live anywhere near my parents. I didn’t want to live anywhere that I would be known as Judge Latham’s son. I didn’t want to live in a place that looked down on me because they knew I was a fuck up.
“Mason.” Greg Martin hands me the duffle bag.
I stuff it into the trunk of my Mustang.
“Watch out for anyone who seems eager to buy it at any price…and anyone that looks older than twenty-five. They’re probably cops.”
“I know, Greg, I’m not a moron.” I pull out an envelope and hand it to him.
He rifles through the cash. “How did you even get this much money? I’m not going to find out this was counterfeit or you robbed a bank, am I?”
“That depends. Do you consider me taking money out of my old man’s bank account robbing the bank? It’s not my fault bank tellers are so trusting.”
He shakes his head. “If Judge Latham finds out—”
“He won’t,” I say firmly.
“I’m just saying…the judge’s son selling weed? He won’t be too pleased.”
“I’m selling the weed in Anchorage and leaving as soon as it’s gone. I’m taking a plane, so I can skip over Canada. Where do you think he’s least likely to find me—Montana or Iowa?”
“I literally don’t know where those are on the map.”
I peer into the bag. “Is this good weed? I don’t want angry customers. The last thing I need is to be shot before I get out of here.”
“Well,” Greg says, the corners of his mouth turning up in a crooked smile. “If you don’t mind me dabbling a little bit, why don’t we try some? I have the most incredible new bong. It’s made of blown glass, but there’s something about it that makes the high so much better. You won’t know what hits you.”
I smile at him. “You’re a bad influence.”
He laughs. “I’m just an instigator. You’re actually dangerous.”
“Not if I get out of here,” I say. “If I get out of here, I’ll be just another wild animal. Not trapped in a corner while they try to tame me like I am here.”
17
Mason, 2013
MY FATHER STALKS BACK and forth in front of the fireplace, his hands balled into fists, his nostrils flaring, and his face so red it seems like all the blood in his body has shot straight up to his face. “Do you know what this is going to do to me? The judge’s son, charged with driving under the influence and possession with intent to distribute. I am going to be the laughing stock of this town, of Anchorage, of the whole damn law system of Alaska for the rest of my fucking life.”
“I don’t see how that’s any different from now,” I say.
He grabs me by the neck and pins me against the wall in one swift movement. I feel the pressure of every one of his fingers against my throat.
“Earl…” Vanessa cautions, standing up from the vintage, rose-decorated loveseat. “We know you’re angry, but—”
“Shut up!” he snaps.
I can feel the lack of air triggering my heart to beat faster—the body’s desperate attempt to survive—but I keep a sneer on my face for pure spite.
“I’m talking to my son right now.”
He points a finger in between my eyes. “You need to get your shit together. You are so selfish, so single-mindedly stupid that I can only assume you lost some brain cells coming out of the birth canal.” His spit lands on my face with every enunciation. “I want you to understand this right fucking now. I am done. I have only saved your ass this many times to save my own goddamn career that you keep trying to ruin. I want you out of my house, out of my life, and I want it done right now.”
He releases my neck. I rub around my throat, already feeling where the bruises will blossom up through my skin. I look over at Vanessa, who h
as sat back down, and her eyes are wide with fear. My father usually doesn’t have his tantrums in front of her, so I’m sure this is the first time she’s truly seen the beast…and this is barely a peek of him.
“You know he said the same thing to my mother,” I tell her. “He’ll say the same thing to you and your daughter one day.”
I don’t even see his fist coming, but the next thing I know, I’m on the floor next to the fireplace screen and my left cheek feels like it’s on fire.
“Don’t get up,” he orders. “Don’t get up until you can stand up like a man.”
There are a thousand things I want to say, fuck you, what kind of man punches his son across the face?, and one day, I’ll kill you, but all I can think about is how I was so close to escaping. I almost had enough money to get out of here, but now I’ll probably end up in prison and my wings will be clipped forever.
My father walks over to Vanessa, whispering reassuring words to her. It’s his fault for many, many things, but not for me being trapped here.
That’s Detective Grant’s fault and I’ll be damned if I don’t burn down his life like he has burned down mine.
18
Sarah, 2015 (Early Sunday morning)
MY FATHER SLAMS THE gavel against the sounding block as I sit in the witness stand. He turns to me as a faceless crowd quiets their jeers.
“Miss Latham, tell me why do you think you’re here?”
“I don’t know,” I confess. “Dad, what’s going on?”
“Are you saying that you haven’t committed any sins?” he demands. “You haven’t done anything wrong?”
“Of course I have,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean I should be in a courtroom.”
“You don’t think you should be judged?” His voice rumbles through the room.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you know?”
“That I’m innocent. I didn’t do anything so wrong that I should go to prison.”
He turns to the bailiff. “Bring in her first witness.”
A woman around my age walks up to the stand. Something tells me to remain seated. She stands in front of me with her hands on her hips and her wavy chestnut hair flows behind her shoulders. I’ve never met Debbie Latham, my deceased half sister, and I’ve only seen a photo of her once when I was unpacking boxes after we moved, but I am certain this is she.
“Sarah…how could you have let those boys get the jump on you?” she asks. “You took those self-defense classes a few years after your father began to hit you. You really couldn’t stand up for yourself? You couldn’t stop them?”
I stare at her. “I tried, but there were two of them. I was surprised and tired. How can you blame me for my own attack?”
“Easily,” she says. “You’re not simply a cheerleader, you’re a lioness. You could chew off your own hand to survive.”
I look her up and down. She appears completely corporeal. “Am I dead?”
She shrugs. “How would I know?”
“Because you’re dead.”
“That’s rather rude for you to say.” She sniffs, but then she smiles. “Though, two dead sisters would be quite the act, wouldn’t it? We could make big money in Hollywood.”
“So, I’m not dead?”
“That’s up to you. Are you going to lie down and die, or are you going to fight?”
I jerk straight up. My head hurts, I’m cold, I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, and my whole body feels weak. At first, I can’t see. I’m surrounded by darkness, but slowly everything becomes visible and by visible, I mean all I see is dirt.
The dirt curves above me and the floor is dirt as well. There are wooden planks that seem to be keeping the dirt from caving in and lamps every couple of yards.
I stumble onto my feet. My head feels even worse as I move. I rake my fingers through my hair and notice a raised bump on my scalp. Someone must have hit me against the back of my head. Those two addicts…they must have attacked me, but why would they put me here? Where is here?
I get on my tiptoes to look at the lamp. There’s no switch and the lamp appears ancient. It won’t help me. I rub my arms. This isn’t good. I have to find my way out.
I glance left and right. There’s no way to tell which way is out.
I touch the lightbulb and spin it until I can pull it out. I need to remember that this is where I started and I’ll remember if this lightbulb is missing. I need to fight my way out of here.
19
Aaron, 2015 (Sunday afternoon)
THE INSIDE OF MY head feels like a battlefield that had been ravaged by bombs and dead bodies. As my mind tries to escape from the horrors of war, I smell disinfectant and the faintest scent of vanilla.
My eyes shoot wide open. The FBI agent sits close to me, writing something down on a clipboard.
I try to sit up, but my arm won’t move. I glance down to see a handcuff attached to my wrist and the hospital bed.
The agent raises her head to me. “Good morning,” she says and glances at her watch. “Maybe good afternoon would be a more appropriate greeting.”
“What happened?” I mumble. I rub my head with my free hand, hoping to massage out the headache that is ten times worse than any hangover pain I’ve had, which is saying something.
“Well, that’s what everyone wants to know. You were found unconscious at the site where you were meeting the kidnapper…but there were two guys there, both shot dead, and all the evidence points to you being the shooter. So, what happened? We need the kidnapper, and if they were both involved, we needed both of them. You couldn’t take a nonlethal shot? You had to shoot some guy in the throat?”
“I don’t…” I shake my head. “I don’t remember shooting anybody…I don’t think….wait…I shot one of them in the hand…”
“Are you sure you didn’t miss and shot him in the throat or chest instead?”
“I don’t think so…I don’t remember much after that. I pointed my gun at the other guy…but I didn’t shoot…”
“Your gun is missing three bullets. Ballistics matches your gun,” she says. “Did you drink before you went down to meet them?”
“No,” I insist. “I hadn’t had a drink since the night before. I think…I think I was hit in the head.”
“Well, I can confirm that,” she says.
I look up, surprised at her agreement.
“The doctor said you had quite the bump. And since you have a clean record, I can believe that the kidnappers tried to mug you and take the money, and you had to kill them in self-defense—”
“That’s great you believe me, but that’s not what happened.”
“What happened then?” she asks. “Because there’s two dead bodies and a girl still missing.”
“I don’t know. There must have been a third kidnapper—”
“That killed his two friends?” she asks. “As they say, ‘No honor among thieves’? It doesn’t seem likely. We finally received some surveillance video of the parking lot—we had to get it from the bookstore beside The Charcoal Grill—and it only shows two guys. The two murdered in the woods. Maybe you killed them and then you blocked it out…Mr. Grant, let me be honest. I like your take-no-bullshit attitude. But there’s another theory going around and it doesn’t make you look too innocent.”
“Innocent?” I blurt. “Why are you questioning my innocence?”
“I’m not. Some of the police force and other people in the FBI are. Sarah Latham was a cute girl. Sweet. Smart. Your daughter's best friend—”
“What are you getting at?” I demand. “And don’t say Sarah was. She is still alive. I’m sure of it.”
She leans back in her chair. Her smile is either condescending or sympathetic depending on whether or not her scent entices me.
“Some people are suggesting that you might be missing your daughter a little more than is healthy.”
“Who the hell would think that?” I ask. “My Dad? He doesn’t miss her enough, so you can’t take his judgment seri
ously.”
“Actually, it’s a waitress at The Charcoal Grill. She said you were being creepy toward Sarah Latham the day she disappeared. You were talking about your daughter and how you all used to hang out together—”
“I missed my daughter and Sarah is one of the last connections to her! It doesn’t mean I would kidnap her!”
“Then, there’s also Mason Latham,” she adds, glancing down at her clipboard.
“What the fu—”
“Judge Latham sent his son to keep an eye out for you. He was concerned about you going in without backup—which, like I said before, was a stupid move, almost as stupid as civilians being enlisted by your local judiciary. He thought you might get attacked by the kidnappers…which might be exactly what happened, but you're saying it's not.”
“It's not.”
“Mason Latham found you lying next to their dead bodies. He called the state police, who contacted us, since there was a kidnapping involved.”
“Why would he call them? Why didn't he just call Dad? Or go get him—Dad was right there—”
“Maybe one reason was that he was thinking your father would cover things up and back you up, instead of doing his job.”
“You don't know my father very well.”
“I know small towns very well, Mr. Grant. I’ve heard about the deal with Judge Latham to keep Mason Latham out of jail. Drug possession with the intent to distribute is a felony. Most people get at least a few years in prison for it…but a father would do anything for his son, just like your father would do anything for you.”
I try to cross my arms, but the handcuffs stop me. “So, now I’m being treated like a criminal because everyone thinks I went crazy and kidnapped Sarah in order to replace my daughter.”
Midnight Sun: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (A Grant & Daniels Trilogy Book 1) Page 6
