The Hunter Inside

by David McGowan

  O’Neill turned away from Hoskins and back towards the corpse of John Riley. The feeling he had in the pit of his stomach was almost unbearable, and O’Neill was already convinced that this was not like most of the other crime scenes he had witnessed lately.

  This was a killer that would be on the mind of Sam O’Neill twenty-four hours a day, until he either caught him or was called to another scene like the one that lay before him. He was certain of that. There would be more murders, unless O’Neill could catch this twisted soul before he was permitted to execute his murderous will on the innocent people of America again, the people who paid O’Neill to protect them.

  This was a multiple killer. He sensed it in every bone in his body, and he was determined to stop this from happening again. He was sure that whoever had committed this crime had not banked on having Special Agent Sam O’Neill after him.

  Sam O’Neill thought that he was the hunter.

  5

  Paul Wayans cleaned the mess from the front of his under-used and under-valued Mercedes, using a cloth that he grabbed from inside the small closet in the hallway of his house.

  This task took him five minutes to complete, and by the time he went inside his nerves were shot to pieces. Five minutes seemed like five hours to Wayans, as he struggled with the mental image of a monstrous man jumping from behind the bushes outside his home, covered in blood from previous victims and heading straight for him with a blood-soaked knife.

  But it was broad daylight, and there were things that Paul Wayans didn’t know.

  Once back inside the house with the door locked, he grabbed the telephone and dialed 911.

  ‘911 Emergency,’ came the reply from the other end of the line.

  ‘Erm… hello… yes…’ His words were stuttered and his breathing was fast. ‘Can I please speak to somebody in the homicide team, someone with the authority to deal with a very serious matter? I’m talking FBI.’

  ‘Please hold the line while I put you through.’

  The line went dead for two minutes and then, just as Paul was beginning to wonder if he had been disconnected, a voice came from the other end.

  ‘Hello, you’re speaking to Special Agent Art Cassidy of the FBI homicide team. What can I do for you?’

  Paul Wayans’ continued to stammer, as he explained to Art Cassidy the events of the six months leading up to this day, and the fear and danger that prompted him to make the call.

  He told Cassidy how the letters had been coming intermittently for those six months, remembering as best he could the foul items of mail that he had discarded through an unwillingness to believe they were anything more than a practical joke.

  By now he was wishing he had gone to the police earlier, maybe he could have stopped this foul murder from happening.

  But he hadn’t. Art Cassidy spoke,

  ‘Okay. Paul was it? Paul, I want you to stay in the house and wait for me to get somebody to call you back in not too long a time. Is that okay with you?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Paul Wayans could not believe his ears. ‘Did you not hear me talking for the last five minutes? I tell you that I’ve received a photograph of a corpse and you tell me somebody will call me back. What is this?’

  ‘Now Paul, stay calm, it won’t take long.’

  ‘Are you trying not to help me here? How do you expect me to stay calm when I call your people and ask you to do your job, only to be told I have to wait? Excuse me for being a little nervous but hey, if your life was in danger, I expect you’d probably feel the same way I do.’

  ‘My life is in danger everyday, Mr. Wayans. I assure you I will be as quick as I possibly can in passing on your details.’ With that the telephone started to emit a high pitched ‘beeping’ sound, and Paul Wayans realized he had been disconnected.

  ‘Shit. The cheeky sonofabitch,’ he exclaimed through clenched teeth, a bubble of spittle forming at one corner of his mouth. He couldn’t believe the attitude of the FBI; he paid his taxes like everybody else.

  With nothing for him to do except wait and see if whoever was stalking him managed to get there before the police, Paul Wayans switched on the television set.

  The only other option open to him was to get in his car and drive. But where would he go? And how long would he be running for if he did? He sat down and looked at the clock on the fireplace. 10:30 AM.

  Powerless, he picked up the remote for the TV and began to flick through the almost endless amount of channels that seemed to show nothing but re-runs, adverts and rubbish. He settled on MTV. In a feeble attempt to take his mind off his gut-wrenching, heart-punishing fear, he wondered why every household in America, and probably the world, tuned in to MTV when there was nothing else on to amuse them. The violent shaking that threatened to unhinge his joints kept the thoughts of his stalker very fresh in his mind.

  The most worried man in the world could only sit and wait, listening to cheap pop tunes on the TV and staring at the telephone, willing it to ring. He remained in the same position for almost half an hour and was beginning to wonder if he’d dialed 922 and got the people whose business it was not to give a damn, when it did the thing he least expected it to do. It rang.

  Paul snatched up the receiver in his left hand. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, Paul Wayans?’

  ‘Yes, Paul Wayans. What the hell took you so long? I rang your people more than half an hour ago.’

  ‘Yes I’m sorry about that Mr. Wayans. My people had to get in touch with me. I am Special Agent Sam O’Neill of the FBI homicide team in New York. My people tell me that you have a photograph of a corpse. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, that is correct. So what took you so long when you had that information? Is murder not a serious enough crime for you guys to get involved in nowadays?’ Paul’s anger was boiling over and his lack of self-control was uncharacteristic. Since he had lost Marcie he had always had to be careful. Losing his temper over anything, even trivial, could result in an outpouring of the emotion that was pent up inside, and he had chosen to try not to lose his temper, rather than have a psychiatrist setting up camp inside his head. It was more difficult now than most other times, as anger was the only thing that gave him any sense of control over his situation.

  A situation that was out of his hands.

  ‘Mr. Wayans, you’re obviously a little unstable at the moment and I think I can understand why. But I have just returned from probably the same scene as you have in that photograph of yours, judging by the description you gave to Special Agent Cassidy, and I know how upsetting that can be. Do you know what I mean, Paul? Witnessing a murder scene first hand is a lot more traumatic, don’t you think?’

  ‘Special Agent O’Neill, are you trying to imply something?’ Paul was incredulous at the probing, possibly accusatory statement the Special Agent had made.

  ‘What I want you to do, Paul, is to stay put until we get there, don’t move so much as a muscle, okay?’

  ‘What about my safety?’ The tone in the voice of the Special Agent was unnerving Paul Wayans, who feared that he was already the prime suspect in this case, and although he knew that they would find it impossible to prove any involvement on his part, he feared that their willingness to believe the obvious scenario could (possibly fatally) affect his safety.

  Before he could protest any further he was told that his safety was assured and the phone line was dead. O’Neill statement was as good as saying ‘you’re not going to murder yourself, are you?’ and the enormity of the situation began to hit Paul Wayans.

  He was now hunted, victim, and suspect.

  All that he could do was to sit down and stare at the television set in disbelief. His racing mind meant he wasn’t aware of what was even on the TV screen, but from his mien he could have been watching CNN and being told of a nuclear attack on America. His fear and incredulity were etched onto his face in a grimace that tequila drinkers often wore.

  The teenage driven drone of Britney Spears was enough to bring him out of his daz
e, and he switched off the television set. He was finding it hard to believe that the morning’s events were actually real. It was like a lucid dream. Even more, he was finding it impossible to accept the suspicion of the police that he was involved in this terrible crime. Surely they would see that he was sane and incapable of such an act when they spoke to him. Only a raving madman could subject another human to such a depraved attack. Then they would help him, wouldn’t they?

  Forty minutes passed before he heard the car pull up outside his house. As he looked out of the window, two men got out of the car and approached his front door. Both wore long jackets, which were sensible for the temperature, even if the temperature wasn’t sensible for the time of year. Both also wore stern looks on their faces.

  As the two men reached the door of the house, Paul opened it. ‘Please, come inside.’ His nerves had been tugged at and nearly torn from his body in the time it had taken since he had opened the letter.

  He was determined to show these two men that he was sane and not capable of doing what he had seen in the photograph now laying on the table in his lounge.

  The smaller of the two men picked up the photograph, holding it by the edge and studying it intently before handing it to the other man who also studied it intricately, holding it close to his eyes to gain the best possible view. Both men wore latex gloves.

  It was the smaller man who then addressed Paul as the other slipped the photograph inside a clear plastic bag. ‘I am Special Agent Pat Forsby of the FBI. This is Special Agent Jim Ryan. I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to accompany us, Mr. Wayans.’

  ‘What? Where to?’ Paul was shocked that they were not asking questions or trying to gain an insight into his character, they seemed to be going about their work as a laborer would, happy to follow orders, and not too worried about fairness or quality of service.

  ‘We have a helicopter waiting that will take you-’ Paul interrupted at this point; keen to stir some recognition of the injustice of the situation. He was an innocent man.

  ‘You can’t just take somebody who has done nothing wrong and fly them off in a helicopter to god knows where.’ His earlier feelings of vulnerability and loneliness were by now returning and replacing the anger, and Paul felt like he was being caught up in a storm that would be too strong for him. He felt he was to be dragged along by it, incapable of escape.

  ‘Mr. Wayans, we don’t really know what to think at this moment. What I do know is that we have a corpse in Atlantic Beach. The other thing I know is that you are in possession of a photograph of the crime scene. Strangely, our men at the scene have informed us that the bloodstains on the bed where the victim lay bound are in fact ink stains. Also, the coroner has done a preliminary examination and estimates that the body may have laid there for four days. The man’s friend has confirmed that he never reached her. This man, Mr. Wayans, has been killed in somebody else’s home and we haven’t yet been able to establish when the body was placed back in his own home. Do you understand what I am trying to say? This man could have been killed any time since Friday, and he could have been killed in many places, including Stamford.’

  He knew there was no use in arguing. This man was obviously very determined – he was not going to take no for an answer, so he reluctantly locked up the house and got into the car with the two Special Agents.

  He was forced to sit next to Special Agent Forsby, a man whom he disliked after being in his company for only five minutes. As Special Agent Ryan pulled out of the driveway, Paul thought of Bristow.

  ‘Wait,’ he yelped, ‘what about my cat?’ as though it were his ticket into heaven.

  ‘Don’t worry about that Mr. Wayans,’ Forsby sneered as he turned the wheel suddenly and viciously, ‘it’s been taken care of.’

  A laugh escaped him and Paul sat back in his seat with a demoralized thud, his mouth agape. He could not believe this final twist. They had ran over the cat on their way out of his driveway, and the laugh that accompanied the thud that signaled the death of his closest companion told him that it had been no accident.

  Paul Wayans watched his house shrink in size as they drove away from it. How can all of this be happening? he wondered. But there were no answers for Paul Wayans to receive or give that day. What he didn’t know was that this was only the beginning of his ordeal.

  Paul Wayans still had an awful lot to face.

  6

  It was 10:45 AM by the time Sandy Myers got to take her break. The diner was unusually busy for a Wednesday morning. It seemed like a Saturday morning, and it was only the earlier episode with the twins that made her absolutely positively sure that it was a weekday. Her days were a whirl of activity at the moment.

  By the time she’d arrived at the school with the two reluctant kids in tow they were twenty minutes late. She had arrived at work thirty-five minutes late and was already exhausted by the time she started clearing the always-messy tables and serving the always-impatient customers.

  At 10:45 Sandy was ready for her break. Despite her intention of leaving the diner to do some quick grocery shopping, she could do no more than get a cup of coffee from the machine and slouch down on the table provided for staff at the rear of the diner. She was so tired lately and the boys had been playing up something rotten. Joe found it difficult to spend the amount of quality time that he should with the boys because of his long working hours. He worked as a teacher, working days at Jude Rassell High School and evenings (four a week) at Highview College. They had no other choice but to work every hour they could. The bills kept on pouring in and they always had to be paid.

  She had taken the job in the diner six months ago. The main reason for her doing so was the future of the children. The money that Joe was making was paying their way and enabling them to keep up a pretty good standard of life, but the bills seemed to swallow most of it up every month, and they were afraid that their kids would not have any college money.

  They both agreed that they wanted Sean and David to have great careers, and if the exhaustion they both felt was the price, then it was just the price they had to pay. Their parental instincts were strong.

  It was only now, after six months of feeling that she was going to collapse at the end of every day and a virtually non-existent sex-life, that they were managing to get a foothold. Joe had said recently that she’d soon be able to give up her job at the diner, and if he were made the head of faculty at Jude Rassell then the raise in pay would allow him to give up his evening tutoring.

  Sandy was hoping that the pieces of the jigsaw were starting to fall into place.

  She was warmed by the security that Joe strove to offer her and the children. It was this notion of security that made her remember the envelope that she’d grabbed from the mailbox earlier that morning. Grabbing her purse from behind the counter, she quickly hunted through it until she found the envelope. It had slipped down the inside of her purse – almost as if to hide itself from the person it was addressed to.

  The diner was so busy out front that she could open the envelope without anybody watching her. She eased open the seal on the letter, a tingling sensation rolling down her spine.

  With hands that were beginning to shake, Sandy removed the letter from the envelope. It consisted of a single piece of paper that was folded once. Praying that it was not what she thought it might be, she slowly eased open the piece of paper.

  Sandy Myers couldn’t believe her eyes. She thought these letters had stopped for good. But here was another, with scrawled, child-like writing spelling out an ominous warning. At the sight of this format Sandy was blinded by a flashback, an image of a young Sandy Carson poring over dozens of letters. The contents of the letter soon brought her attention back from the past and onto the page in front of her.

  Your time will soon be here. Say goodbye.

  Underneath was attached a Polaroid photograph of a corpse.

  She would later find out that the corpse was one John Riley, a zookeeper from just outside New York, b
ut for now that didn’t matter. Everything around Sandy Myers had taken on a slightly blurred complexion. As she looked around her, the dizziness that was invading her senses grew unbearable. Blackness closed in all around her.

  Sandy Myers fainted.

  When she came round the diner was empty. Mr. Reynolds, her boss, had cleared out all of the customers. He was a man of about fifty years who did not have a single hair upon his head. The diner was one of three businesses that he owned. It was also the most profitable, and his decision to clear the customers was as much to do with a fear of scaring them away as it was for the health of Sandy Myers.

  Short-term pain for long-term gain. That had always been the motto he prescribed to.

  He was now hovering before her, his features swimming in and out of focus as she came round. She had been propped up on a chair.

  ‘You okay Sandy dear? You took quite a tumble there.’ There was a note of genuine concern in his voice that made Sandy feel as though she were about to burst into tears.

  ‘Yeah, I think so.’ Her response came through clenched teeth as she tried to stand, only to feel the lack of strength in her legs that was about to plop her right back down again.

  ‘Here, don’t try and get up,’ Reynolds said, coaxing her back into the chair she had tried to vacate using his right hand. She looked to him as though she had just seen a ghost. Her face was white as marble, and he could see goose bumps covering her arms. Reluctant to see another spectacular demonstration of the splits, he kept hold of her until she was firmly seated.

  ‘You get some bad news in that there letter dear?’ Reynolds gently coaxed her again as he saw the look of shock on her face subsiding slightly, his normally loud New York accent toned down into his most soothing voice.