Maybe Marcie’s death had finally become too much for Paul. He hadn’t been himself for a long time, and Todd regretted not doing anything to help him sooner.
Over the past six months, he had retreated back into the shell that he had been in when he had arrived in Stamford, and his repressed grief seemed to be suddenly and spectacularly revealing itself in its manifested form to Todd.
If it was a mental problem he was seeing here, Todd didn’t want to make it any worse. He decided he would listen to what he had to say and take things from there. It was not too late to help him through this.
‘How does this affect you now, Paul?’ Todd spoke in a hushed tone, mindful of the other people in the bar.
‘For the past six months or so I’ve been receiving letters threatening my life. Letters that told me I was about to die and that my time here was running out. I tried to ignore it and hoped it would go away. Well, I figured it was a prank; someone winding me up, so I carried on as normal. I guess I figured that if someone wanted to kill me then they would come and kill me, not just send letters saying they were going to kill me.
‘The reason my face looks this way is because of a letter I received this morning.’
Todd sensed Paul was near to the end of his story and couldn’t wait to get away from the bar; it was beginning to freak him out.
Paul continued, ‘It told me I was about to die. The kind of stuff I was getting used to seeing, until I noticed the photograph of a corpse that had been deposited inside the envelope. I called the police and they flew me to Atlantic Beach.’ He drained the last few drops of beer from the glass and put it down on the table with such a crash that the other people in the bar turned to look at the two men.
Todd assumed a smile and waited for a moment before continuing.
‘Atlantic Beach? But that’s miles away.’
‘I know. They came and took me in a helicopter.’
As far-fetched as the whole story seemed there was a look in Paul’s eyes that unnerved Todd. He found himself engrossed in the story, and began to wonder if just maybe what he was telling him was actually real. He seemed perfectly lucid, and Todd had seen plenty of mad people in the movies that did not look the way Paul did now.
He looked sane; scared out of his mind, but sane.
‘The police thought I had killed the man in the photograph.’
‘But that’s bizarre. You’re not a killer Paul.’ Todd believed that what Paul Wayans was telling him about the letter and the photograph was true. This was certainly no joke.
‘I know I’m not a killer, and you know it too, but they don’t. They were investigating the crime scene when I received the photograph. Hell, I had a photograph of that crime scene before the police and I didn’t have an alibi because I haven’t seen anyone since I saw you last week. Remember?’ This was the first time Todd could remember Paul asking him a question; it had been the other way around since he had arrived.
‘Yeah, I remember. Shit Paul, what are you gonna do? Didn’t the police offer you any help?’
‘No. There’s one cop who’s sure I did it. Says he’s going to be watching me. He won’t be able to though because I’m gonna run Todd. Tonight, before it’s too late.’
‘Wait a minute Paul. What do you mean you’re gonna run? If you run the police will definitely think you did it.’
‘Yeah, but if I stay then I’ll be next Todd. I’ve got to take that chance. I’d rather be alive and thought a murderer than innocent and dead. You didn’t see what it did to this man. Here, I want you to take this.’
He held out the file he had brought from his home.
‘What is it?’ Todd asked as he reached out and took the file.
‘When I was old enough I researched Shimasou. I didn’t find much, but what I did find is in that file. Take a look through it and I’ll call you once I’ve put some distance between myself and Stamford. I’ve got to get away.’ He rose to leave, looking flustered as the alcohol made his head spin momentarily.
Todd put a hand on his friend’s arm and said, ‘Whoa, you just sit down there and I’ll get you another drink before you go. I think you’re gonna need it.’
‘Yes, I think I will. Make it a double.’ He said this as Todd walked to the bar, carrying the tray in one hand and the empty glasses in the other.
Todd looked back at him and nodded before speaking to Gloria and asking for drinks. He remained silent while Gloria poured them.
That’s probably because he thinks it’s all bullshit though, Paul thought.
Outside in the cold evening, the lone figure continued to wait for Wayans. He was beginning to weaken slightly as his body temperature dropped. The fear of Wayans had lessened; probably because of the alcohol he had consumed, and standing in the shadows, the figure wished he would hurry up and finish his drink and come to be killed. He was tired of waiting.
Inside Chee-Uz Paul was finishing his last drink. It was a double malt whiskey, and it went down so easily that Paul began to wonder whether he should stay for another.
He was not relishing being a fugitive.
Sometimes problems could be forgotten through drink, but he knew that drink was not the answer. If he got too drunk he would be slowed down on his journey, and that was the last thing he wanted.
‘I’d better go Todd. I’ll call you, okay?’
‘Jeez, okay Paul. But I hate to let you go like this.’ Todd was reluctant to allow him to leave. Should any mishap befall Paul Wayans tonight, it would haunt him for the rest of his days.
‘It’s okay Todd. I gotta go.’ The look on his face made arguing with him a waste of time. Todd knew the look of a determined man, and he saw one before him at that moment.
‘Okay Paul. But you take care of yourself and call me as soon as you can. Any time you want.’ Todd extended his hand to Paul, who took it in a firm grip and shook it before turning and walking towards the exit.
As he watched him leave the bar, Todd wondered if someone really was trying to kill him. He had certainly been terrified, and he suddenly had a feeling that he might not see Paul Wayans again. It was only a momentary thing; a shiver that went from head to foot, and he dismissed it as his own paranoia.
He decided he would have one more drink before going home, and then he would look at the things Paul had given to him.
He ordered the drink; another whisky, and stood pondering the situation for a moment as Gloria poured it into the same glass that he had returned to the bar.
‘So, what’s up with Paul then Todd?’ Gloria asked. Prying could be called an occupational hazard for a bartender.
‘Oh, nothing. He cut himself shaving with a machete.’ Todd managed a humorless laugh as he said this, and Gloria joined in as she handed him the glass, before turning and heading towards another customer who waited to be served.
Todd sat on a bar stool and decided to wait until morning to look at what Paul had given to him. He was tired (and just a little drunk). He didn’t feel that he would be able to concentrate tonight. Besides, if what Paul had told him really was true, then surely it would be a remarkable coincidence if tonight was the night it planned to kill him, after waiting so many years.
Right?
15
Wrong.
Wayans stepped out into the night, the alcohol in his bloodstream bolstering his bravery and allowing him to rush on his way. He still had to return home, and the thought of what could be waiting for him made his blood freeze. If it would have been one hundred degrees below zero, the chill he felt internally would match.
He walked hurriedly along the sidewalk, wondering why he hadn’t just packed some clothes and driven to Chee-Uz. He couldn’t think of a reason. The mind works in mysterious ways under severe stress. The fear and desperation of his situation meant that he was not thinking straight and had put himself in more danger by walking to the bar.
Despite realizing that returning to the house placed him in even further danger, he was determined to make it, get what he needed
, and get out in one piece. He must.
Further down the street the figure that had waited for him was relieved to see him leave the bar. He kept out of Paul Wayans’ wandering gaze and followed him at a distance.
Nothing was going to go wrong now; he would make sure of that.
The cold had begun to really affect him, however, and the gap between the two widened as hunted set the pace for hunter.
But he wanted Wayans to reach his home, and Wayans wanted to reach his home. Both were on the same wavelength. It was something on which they agreed.
Wayans continued at a steady pace, hands stuffed deep into his jeans pockets in an attempt to keep them warm. He was anxious to be off the street and on his way away from Stamford. As he walked, he began to get a dull pain in his neck from looking around constantly to make sure he was not being followed. Each time he looked, however, the only thing to be seen was the glare of the street lights on the sidewalk.
Not a soul in sight.
As he made progress, his feeling of being watched abated slightly and his confidence grew. There were still things that he had to do when he arrived home, but he was feeling more and more confident that he could get away alive and unharmed.
The huge figure hugged the shadows as he made his way in the same direction. It did not matter that Wayans had opened up a lead; he knew exactly where he was. Neither did it matter that Wayans thought he could escape. As long as the figure that walked in the shadows caught up with him before he left the house, he would be able to do what he wanted to do.
What he had to do.
It took Wayans ten minutes to reach the drive of his house. In the time it took for him to walk there from the bar, any warming effect of the alcohol had worn off. The figure that was two blocks away felt the cold almost as much.
He hesitated before entering the house, relieved to see nothing amiss.
He had half expected the door to be ajar as he approached it. That was how it always was in the movies, and this seemed like a movie to Paul. The victim always entered the house, despite it being glaringly obvious that he would never leave it again. Paul was determined to leave without meeting the maniac from a thousand movies. Determined to survive.
He entered the house, leaving the door ajar behind him to facilitate what he hoped would be a quick exit. A block away, the figure that made its way towards the house was happy to see this. The door being open meant that he would not have to make any noise when he entered the house. This would make things even easier.
Wayans went quickly through the dark and up the stairs. A shiver attacked his body as he reached half way, traveling from his head to his foot in half a second, and he paused for a moment before carrying on to the top and entering the bedroom situated on his left. He navigated his way around the bed in the dark, feeling with his hands over the edges of the bed covers, towards the closet that held his clothes in the corner of the room. He grabbed a carryall from the floor of the closet and pulled some clothes from the hangers inside the closet. He was unable to see what he was grabbing, as the meager light from the street outside did not penetrate into the bedroom closet, but for Paul this did not matter. Stopping to turn on a light would take up a couple more seconds, and in the situation he was in he knew that might be fatal. He unceremoniously shoved the clothes into the carryall and grabbed two towels from the shelf on the left hand side of the closet.
Outside, the huge figure paused at the entrance to the drive and looked into the upstairs window where he knew Wayans was hurriedly trying to sort himself out before attempting his getaway.
This is being made easy, the tall figure thought as he went into the garden and grabbed the bag he had deposited earlier, before turning and making his way back across the garden and through the front door of the house as it blew back and forth slightly in the breeze.
The noise of the door banging incessantly made Paul nervous. He was almost ready to leave. It surprised him that he was sorry to be leaving. He had not thought he held much affection for the house, but now he fought back tears as he made his final preparations before leaving on a long journey away from Stamford.
Maybe it’s just that I want what I can’t have, he thought to himself, as he absent mindedly wiped an escaped tear from his cheek, cutting it off in mid flow. Whatever the reason for his reluctance to leave, he knew that dwelling on it was doing him no good whatsoever. The more time he wasted, the more danger he felt he was in.
In the lounge the huge figure made itself at home; crouching behind the sofa totally unbeknown to the doomed Paul Wayans. He placed his large hand inside the cloth bag and located the hunting knife with which he would take the life of his victim, withdrawing it smoothly and revealing, in a glint of light that came through the window from outside, a twelve-inch length of razor-sharp metal.
This was going to be the easiest kill yet. He hungered for, and enjoyed, the process of hunting down and killing his victims. Each time he killed, the sense of pleasure was stronger. His mind spiraled outwards, growing in strength as his body was made more complete. Soon the time for killing would give way to a stronger impulse.
Wayans came down the stairs quickly, almost tripping over his feet as he struggled with the zip on the carryall. He reached the bottom of the stairs and felt in the darkness for the small table that held his car keys. They were not there. He cursed his luck, remembering that he had left them upstairs on the bedside table and turned, racing up the stairs two at a time, propelling himself by grabbing the handrail forcefully to maintain his balance.
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he mumbled with each step until he reached the top, grabbed the keys from the table and ran back the way he had come; again two steps at a time. He had already taken too long to sort himself out, and he knew that he should have already been well away, putting distance between his stalker and himself.
Wayans ran across the lounge. A million thoughts raced through his mind as he made his way towards the door. The darkness was punctured by dull light that shone through the window.
A split second before it happened he knew. But it was too late. If he had lived long enough to think back to the event that followed, he would have wondered how he knew a split second before he saw the huge figure pop up from behind the sofa and lunge towards him. It was revealed to him just in time to be too late as the huge outline lunged forwards, missing Wayans with the first swipe as he struggled to get out of the way. He managed to avoid the knife before falling onto the white carpet that would shortly be unrecognizable as ever being white.
The time was here and the figure lunged forwards for a second time. The glint of the light on the knife looked to Paul Wayans like a bolt of lightning that was coming from the sky to kill him.
Then pain.
He struggled to turn away from the figure that had by now fallen on top of him, growling as it drove the thick blade into his body repeatedly with huge strength that the dying Paul Wayans could not match.
Paul forgot all about the knife. He saw his mother before his eyes and it was he who she held in her arms. He was once again a small baby, free from the bad things of the world and innocent of the trouble and fear and murder and hunger that characterized human existence.
Everything to him was love as the almost supernatural bond between mother and child reinforced his sense of safety and he saw himself growing quickly. Family holidays and school trips, good times and bad times all whirled before his eyes as the blood dripped from his body and his life was extinguished. He was once again with Emmy Bradley; the girl to whom he lost his virginity when he was sixteen, having a ball of a time at the funfair.
But only for a split second.
Before he knew it he was standing at the altar with Marcie, saying ‘I do’ and kissing her while everyone applauded behind them, far away.
As he whirled around and around he saw himself opening the envelopes that his stalker had sent to him and now he knew that it was Shimasou and not just a stalker with a grudge.
But it was too late.
His time was up.
The blood flowed from around fifty stab wounds that had been inflicted violently upon his body, and with it went the life as his heart struggled to cope and his blood pressure dropped. There was not enough blood left to pump.
He opened his eyes for one last time, to see that he was not a child or a teenager with his first girlfriend.
Today was not his wedding day; it was his death day.
He closed his eyes for the final time and his heart stopped beating. His time was up.
The huge figure grew half a foot as the attack was played out. By the time Wayans died he was visibly taller and already considerably stronger as a result of his actions. He had prepared well, and now he could reap the rewards. He would feast upon Wayans and take with him what he needed.
Adrenalin flowed through the veins of the blood soaked figure, and immediately he felt the strength of Wayans becoming his own strength.
Later he would go back to Atlantic Beach where he would be able to take Arnold and Carson. Then he would be almost ready to take on the world.
The shadowy figure dragged the corpse through the lounge towards the kitchen, leaving a trail of blood across the carpet as he went. The weight of the body was no trouble to him. He moved the body to the kitchen to make the next part of his mission slightly less risky. In the kitchen there was no chance of anybody spotting his huge shadow through the window, and he threw down the body with a crunch, the skull hitting the wooden floor and splitting wide open to reveal to him his feast. He left the body in the kitchen and retrieved the bag that he had left near to the sofa. He went back to the kitchen, picking up the knife as he went, and depositing it inside the bag once more.
Then he feasted.
Wayans gave him the strength and knowledge that he required. There was only one thing left for him to do, before he could leave and go back to his resting place. Out of the bag he took the Polaroid instant camera that his instinct had told him to take from the apartment of John Riley, and photographed the body twice.
The Hunter Inside Page 12
