The Hunter Inside

by David McGowan

  As she slipped between the fresh white sheets and inhaled the lavender odor of detergent, she thought about Joe, wondering if he was still awake.

  This was the worst time for Sandy. She was not used to being alone in bed, and being away from Joe did not seem right. It only increased her desire to curl up into a ball and ignore the rest of the world. Maybe rest would do her good and give her a desire to fight, but at that moment fighting was the last thing in the thoughts of Sandy Myers.

  Joe was not asleep. Pacing up and down the lounge of their home in Springfield, he tried to think of all the places his wife could have gone to. He knew she had gone somewhere to ride it out alone. She did not have any family besides him and the boys, and the one real friend she had lived miles away. Besides, they only really sent birthday and Christmas cards to one another nowadays anyway, and very rarely spoke on the phone. Joe ruled out the possibility that Sandy had gone to Melissa’s after considering this, and his thoughts turned to the lack of a phone call.

  Wondering why she had not rung brought out his own paranoid streak. He considered the possibility that the phone line was tapped. Maybe Sandy was reluctant to ring in case her whereabouts were disclosed to her stalker through the conversation.

  Sandy lay, exhausted but unable to close her eyes, as Joe panicked at home. He decided that she was not going to ring and went through into the boys’ room to check on them. He would sleep in the spare room at the front of the house in case the boys woke and needed him and, after seeing that they were both fast asleep, he sat on the edge of the spare room’s single bed while he undressed.

  As he did so he threw each item of clothing onto the floor. He could not be bothered to fold them; his organization was shot to pieces, but he knew that come morning time he had to put on a brave front for the children. Therefore he must try and get a good night’s sleep.

  He lay down on the cold mattress and was struck by the emptiness of the bed. Even this single bed seemed too big for just him, and he hated the fact that Sandy was not there. Everything had happened so fast. The shock of Sandy’s revelation and her subsequent disappearance hit him, as his feeling of emptiness and loneliness fostered a feeling of helplessness. He said a prayer that his wife was being watched over and was safe, before switching out the light and trying to achieve the impossible of sleeping through such turbulence.

  Despite thinking their exhaustion would mean they went to sleep instantly, both Joe and Sandy took more than an hour to fall asleep; their heads whirling with all the possible outcomes to this unexpected situation. When they finally did sleep they had similar dreams, in which they each stood on a ledge and tried, unsuccessfully, to reach one another.

  The inability to reach one another came as a result of a gap between them; a chasm that dropped as far as either of them could see. The more they reached, the further apart they seemed to be.

  The prayer that Joe Myers had said for his wife was actually quite apt.

  Sandy was being watched over.

  There was somebody at her side - wherever she went and whatever she did. It was only the safety part that was in question.

  Sandy had decided to go it alone and try to escape her stalker, hoping he would tire of chasing her. But Sandy still had one crucial thing to realize if she was going to survive. She could not run. It knew her every move. Wherever she went, whenever she went there, it would know.

  Sandy Myers had to realize that she had to stand and fight.

  12

  Paul Wayans was tired. It had taken until 6:15 PM for Jim Brown to arrive, and he had been left alone up until that time. Spending the time thinking about what his next move would be had done little to provide him with a sense of relief. His time at the cop shop had not been pleasant and he would be glad to get away, but the person that waited for him; or the thing that waited for him, seemed like a whole different proposition from the big cop who had assaulted him earlier.

  Paul considered himself to have two options. If his fear overwhelmed him he could stay in Atlantic Beach and not go home. That would mean not speaking to Todd and telling him information that may save others: if his wildest fears were true. Also, he knew that whoever had sent him the letters, whether Shimasou or not, had definitely been in Atlantic Beach, and therefore his decision was to go and speak to Todd, while he still had the chance.

  By the time he made up his mind to go back to Stamford and speak to Todd, half an hour had passed and he had been allowed to make a phone call in a room halfway down the long corridor down which he had been led upon his arrival. He called Todd at home and spoke only for a minute, asking Todd to meet him at Chee-Uz later.

  Todd had chuckled, saying ‘Where else do you think I’m gonna be, Paul?’ When Paul told him it was serious, Todd had gotten concerned, asking him what was the problem, but Paul had merely deflected his questions by saying ‘I’ll tell you later Todd. I gotta go’ and slamming down the receiver without telling of his current whereabouts or the danger posed to him. It was not something he wanted to tell Todd over the phone.

  It had to be face to face.

  He had then been taken back to the same small room to wait for Jim Brown and to contemplate his future. When Jim arrived he was interviewed again and asked the same questions as before, the difference being the level temper of Special Agent Sam O’Neill. After probing questions, that were obviously desperate gestures from a Special Agent whose best efforts had not yet yielded results were answered, Jim Brown had quickly and surely told the Special Agent that he had no strong evidence to hold Paul Wayans, and it was obvious to all in the room that there were no charges to make. His confident manner and proficiency meant that O’Neill had no option but to release Paul, despite his reluctance to do so, and his offer of help when the big Special Agent left the room was quickly turned down by Paul Wayans. He was not planning on asking anyone else for help until he absolutely had to; such was the feeling the day’s events had provided in him. Todd Mayhew would hear the whole story, but he would be the only person Paul would tell. For now at least.

  O’Neill had returned and taken them to the front desk of the cop shop to sign release forms.

  After walking once more down the nondescript corridor, they had reached the reception area, and Paul had been surprised by the presence of another big man. Despite not being quite as large as O’Neill he was still over six feet and Paul wondered who he was. His reason for being there could not have been that important, as he had waited for Paul to be dealt with before he had spoken.

  He had a big nose. He must be a cop, Paul thought, when the large man asked him what had happened to his face; and he had just about had enough of cops for one day. He gave an answer that wasn’t an answer and looked at the ground before signing the form that was passed to him and leaving the building.

  Now, Paul Wayans sat on a low wall that was about twenty or thirty feet down the road from the aging building, shivering slightly in the cool night air.

  He forcibly relaxed the muscles in his shoulders, only to realize within ten seconds that they had tensed again.

  The confinement of the previous hours gone, he sucked in fresh air. He looked at the ground, wondering how and what time he would get home. In a moment, the sound of a car approaching made him raise his eyes. In the fading light, the headlights dazzled him. He watched as it approached, frozen with fear due to its slow pace. His inability to see past the lights and into the car made him shiver harder, as it pulled to a halt at the curb next to him. The tinted window opened with a low buzz, to present Special Agent O’Neill wearing a familiar stern gaze.

  Not a psychotic killer, he thought, but not far off.

  The silence that ensued lasted twenty seconds before O’Neill finally broke it. It seemed like twenty minutes to Paul, who was determined not to piss the big cop off. When he did speak it was in a low and grumbled tone.

  ‘Listen Wayans… I’m gonna put my eye on you, so you’re gonna have to watch yourself. Do you understand me?’ Wayans could gesture only with
a tired nod as he wished feverishly that the cop would leave him the fuck alone. O’Neill’s attention was distracted by the approach of another vehicle, this time without its lights on.

  As the car drew closer, Paul Wayans could make out a male figure. As it approached it slowed, and when it got near he saw that it was Pinocchio from the cop shop. The big man who had poked his big nose into what was none of his business only minutes ago. He was doing it again now. O’Neill tipped him a salute as he drove by, all the time rubbernecking like he was witnessing a car accident and couldn’t avert his eyes even if he tried. Both men watched as the car shrank into the distance, before O’Neill turned to Wayans once again and repeated, ‘Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yeah I understand,’ Paul replied. Despite his reserved and placid approach to the situation, the inside of his stomach was beginning to churn. Paul felt like an animal that attacks only after it has backed off and been cornered by its aggressive stalker. Eat or be eaten was the way that life was beginning to seem for Paul Wayans, and he feared he might strike out and present a vulnerable spot to his attackers. That could be fatal. He had seen nature programs on TV where the scared and cornered animal lashed out and was dead within two minutes.

  Paul determined that if he had to sit quiet for two hours he would try and do it just for the chance of getting away and seeing Todd before it was too late. He knew it would be difficult, and he feared he was being watched, one way or another. Also, he knew that if this were a straightforward multiple killer then it was a determined one who was prepared to travel and premeditate his crimes.

  Thankfully, O’Neill was finished with Paul Wayans for now. His gaze never shifted from the bruised face of Wayans as the electric window buzzed up smoothly, further and further, until the Special Agent’s face was finally gone. The car’s engine purred and it moved away slowly to a sigh of relief from Paul Wayans. He was glad to see the back of the big cop and continued to watch as the car disappeared down the block, before taking a right turn and leaving him alone once again.

  Left with his thoughts, Paul decided it was time to get moving. He got up from the wall and brushed the seat of his pants, ridding himself of the accumulated dust, and walked in the same direction as the two cars had gone, wondering what means of transport he would be able to find to get him home. He would not welcome a cab fare; it would cost him a small fortune, and he was mightily surprised and relieved to see a road sign pointing directions to a bus station when he reached the point where the two cars had gone in opposite directions. He was almost as equally glad that the direction in which he had to travel to reach the bus station was the one that Pinocchio had taken, and not the same way O’Neill had gone, making their chances of encountering each other along the way a lot slimmer.

  As he set out on his journey, not knowing how long it would take him to find the station, he felt a renewed sense of purpose. He was moving again, and therefore he was making progress. He would get home and collect what he needed, talk to Todd, and then get the hell out of dodge. With every second that passed, he knew he was a step closer to achieving his goals. This spurred him on through what turned out to be a journey of only ten minutes, before he turned a blind corner to see a line of buses that looked like a line of giant gold bars, such was his relief at finding them.

  When the clerk in the ticket booth told him that a bus was to leave in ten minutes time, and that it would be going right through to Stamford, he began to cheer. Things were finally looking up.

  Paul bought a ticket and boarded the bus, settling in a seat near to the front and taking the chance to relax as the bus pulled away. The journey was two hours long and Paul rested, preparing himself for what was to come over the next however many hours.

  His only distraction to rest was the small, round and inquisitive face of a little girl who peeped out from around the corner of her seat at the front of the bus, cautiously inspecting his bruised face and shying away when Paul made eye contact with her, preferring the comfort of her mother to the gaze of a stranger who must look, to a five year old, somewhat like a monster. Paul’s repeated attempts to make eye contact so that he could smile at the girl and thus dispel her fears were thwarted, always by the girl’s fear.

  He mused on the young girl’s submission to fear and considered the vicious circle that she, and most human beings, were part of. He always marveled at great feats of bravery such as skydivers and tightrope walkers risking their lives to conquer their fear, but always fell prey to his own fear when confronted with anything that placed threat or restriction upon his existence. He saw a similar future for the young girl who had still not managed to see him smile even once when she and her mother left the bus at one of only four stops; the one before Paul himself reached home and the bus terminated its journey.

  His continued sense of renewed purpose was further bolstered by how near to his house the bus actually went, leaving him with just a five minute walk before he surveyed the darkened, lifeless windows of his house with a mixture of fear and relief. He stood still for more than a moment, wondering just what awaited his arrival at the house. Standing in front of the mailbox made adrenalin surge through his body, and his arms felt like they were made from elastic as he reached forward and opened the flap on the mailbox, dreading an inspection of its contents.

  It was empty.

  He heaved a sigh of relief that he thought might well have been heard by his neighbors if they had been listening for it. He thanked his lucky stars as he stood in the drive and decided that he would be safe enough to quickly clean himself up before he left for Chee-Uz to see Todd Mayhew.

  He walked up the drive towards the front door of the house, making his way with ease, unobstructed by the darkness that shrouded his surroundings. Suddenly his heart thudded in his chest, and his renewed sense of hope drained away abruptly.

  Nailed to the door was a single square of paper.

  Now he would be unable to stay and clean himself up. He would have to go immediately to Chee-Uz. He was part of a race where he wished to set the pace.

  He ran inside the house and up the stairs to the main bedroom, fumbling through the dark recesses of the closet until his hand came to rest upon the file that he sought, and fearing with every second that something would loom out of the dark towards him.

  He grabbed the file and ran as quickly from the house as he had entered, not pausing to make sure the door was properly closed behind him, and pursuing a pace down the street that left him out of breath before he had lost sight of the house, such was his eagerness to escape to the warmth of Chee-Uz and the company of Todd Mayhew.

  By the time Paul turned the corner at the end of the street his pace had reached that of walking.

  He looked at the piece of paper that he had torn from the door of his home. It was not unlike messages that other people had received through the years.

  In fact, it was a message that two people had received that very day, but he didn’t know that. It contained those same four words, ‘I AM WATCHING YOU’.

  But for Paul Wayans that didn’t matter. The night was still young and the morning sunlight would be something that he might never see. For the piece of paper that he dropped as he continued his journey at a brisk pace was correct.

  Paul Wayans was being watched as he moved towards Chee-Uz.

  He was being followed.

  The Hunter

  ‘The consciousness of being hunted, snared, tracked down had begun to dominate him.’

  Oscar Wilde

  The Picture of Dorian Gray

  13

  It had been cold for a couple of weeks. Too cold for Connecticut at this time of year. The nights were like winter and the mornings always brought a frost that coated the ground and affected anybody who was forced to venture through it. Paul Wayans had been affected by this. He had never been a big fan of cold weather, and although he didn’t have to rise early in the mornings, the cold often kept him awake at night, yearning for the warmth of a wife to comfort him through to a
warmer, sunnier day.

  For five years he had hoped that day would come – the day when the torture of losing Marcie would be replaced with something other than depression – but each day he had felt the same chill that now bit at his joints and made getting out of bed difficult. The chill went further than his stiff fingers; it went all the way to his heart, and Paul did not think the sun would ever rise on that warmer day he envisaged. It was like a sailing boat that bobbed up and down on the horizon but never got any closer.

  It was normally about eighty degrees at this time of year. The theory of global warming actually making the Earth hotter seemed to have by-passed New Jersey; the temperature hadn’t gotten above sixty for four weeks. Bill Arnold had been affected by this. The journey he had undertaken had been made ten times more difficult by the cold. Extra layers made it difficult for him to turn the wheel at any great pace and this, coupled with the effect of the early morning frost upon the roads, had made him fear being part of an accident not unlike the one he had witnessed as he returned to Glen Rock. It also made him wonder if he had made the correct choice of career.

  It had affected Sandy Myers, who was finding it nearly as difficult to get herself out of bed as she was to rouse the children each morning. Sean and David’s reluctance to come to life each morning, and their subsequent disinclination to move away from the fireplace each day made her wish for sunny, warm mornings when the world seemed better and children wanted to play and everybody had an extra spring in their step. Sandy loved the sun.

  Day after day the sun did not seem to want to shine though, and this had the same effect on Special Agent Sam O’Neill as it did on Sandy Myers. His bed was the only place he wanted to be, and he always wore the wrong clothes for the climate that he was by now starting to get used to. Things would be different if he had somebody to keep him warm at night and to give him advice on the clothes he chose each day, but the demands of murderers had put paid to his relationship with Louise after just six months of dating. Every day was now a bit of a challenge.