“I’m so… We are so sorry, Mrs. Chance.” Mason had difficulty finding his words. “We did everything we could, but there… there just wasn’t enough time.”
“You failed,” she spat, staring at Bill. “I trusted you to help him, but you failed.”
“Now, that’s not fair. We’ve not even known about him for a whole day yet, and—”
Susan stood and shoved past Mason. She wasn’t quite strong enough to move him, but he stepped aside in time to allow her room. She went to the desk and opened a drawer, and for a moment Mason thought she was going to show them a picture of the boy, use it as emotional blackmail to try to undo the damage.
But when she turned with the revolver in her hand, everything changed.
Bill drew his own sidearm with lightning speed, aiming directly at her. “Drop it.”
Mason suddenly regretted having left his gun at home. He also had a spare pistol in the glove compartment, but he hadn’t thought he’d need it. It was strictly for emergencies. “Calm down, Mrs. Chance. That won’t help.”
Susan turned the gun from Mason to Bill. She was grinding her teeth, overwrought with rage and heartache. Mason understood her; she wanted someone to blame. She only wanted a reason why this happened.
“You…” She shifted it back to Mason, her cheeks reddening and tears filling her eyes.
“Drop the weapon now!” Bill yelled, ruining Mason’s attempt to calm her down. “I don’t want to shoot you, Mrs. Chance, but I’ll have no choice unless you drop the gun.”
There was a whirlwind in Susan’s eyes as she paused to consider her options. And then there was recognition, as she seemed to understand the only true way of ending her pain.
In the blink of an eye, she put the barrel of the gun in her mouth.
“Don’t—” Mason screamed, but his words were interrupted by the blast of the revolver and the spray of scarlet on the wall behind Susan Chance.
Chapter Eighteen
Evie climbed out of the cab and asked the driver to wait. She was looking at a rundown cesspool of a house, clearly suffering from a lack of attention. The windows were boarded, and the paint was flaking off. The smell also didn’t go unnoticed—something stale.
Trying not to breathe in too much of the stench, she approached the door and gave it a knock. She peered through the glass, but it appeared empty inside. No movement, no light; everything to suggest she should exercise caution.
“Can I help you?” a man said in a strong British accent from behind. It wasn’t the posh, stereotypical accent normally associated with England—more like a rough cockney.
Evie turned to look at the man, a lean guy with a shaved head and glasses. His mouth hung open with distaste, and his dentistry met the perceived cliché. “Hi. My name’s Evie Black. I’m looking for Charlie Richards.”
The man studied her for a moment. “What’s this about?”
“I want to talk to you about the disappearance of a young boy. Thomas Chance. He was one of your students?”
“Oh, ’ere we bloody go. Every time anything goes wrong in this bloody country, everyone looks to the immigrant. I swear to God, I’m gonna complain to the EFT about this.” The man moved quickly to the front door and fumbled his keys into the lock.
“Sir, can I just have a moment?” Evie asked in desperation.
“No.”
“Fine, then I’ll print some nasty stuff about you anyway.”
Charlie stopped then, a contemplative look on his face as he turned. “Journalist?”
“Of sorts.” Evie shrugged. “Look, Thomas Chance was abducted yesterday afternoon. We spoke to your employer, who said you’d phoned in sick. Where were you?”
A resigned sigh escaped his lips, and he stepped back onto the porch, looking nervously up and down the street. “I’ll tell you what I was doing, but I want your word that you won’t let any of this get out. If it does, I’ll lose my job.”
Evie had that feeling you sometimes get when you’re hungry and you catch a tantalizing whiff of hot food. It was a tedious longing. “I swear, it’s between you and me.”
“All right.” Charlie looked down at his feet. “I was with a woman.”
“I don’t understand. Why would that cost you your job?”
“She was… you know…”
Evie’s mouth hung open, and she shook her head. Why so evasive?
“She was… a hooker.”
“Oh.”
“But you promised. You swore you wouldn’t repeat this.”
“And I won’t. But how can I credit this? Do you have any proof?”
“I’m his proof, darling.” A new voice from somewhere behind them.
Evie turned to the source of the voice and saw a slender Asian woman approaching the house, looking down her nose at Evie and heading inside. She wore denim shorts and a low-cut top under an open jacket that let almost everything hang out. Whatever this woman was paid to perform, it wasn’t discretion.
“Miss Black, I don’t want you coming ’raand here again. You got it?” Charlie let the hooker inside and didn’t wait for an answer before slamming the door in Evie’s face.
With nobody to speak to and no more leads to follow, Evie headed back down the path toward the cab, mumbling “Goddamnit” under her breath.
Chapter Nineteen
It was late afternoon, and school was finishing up. A perfect time to hunt.
The Lullaby Killer had considered waiting it out, giving it a few days before he struck again, but the thirst was more powerful than ever. Although debating it in his head, he’d managed to convince himself that it wouldn’t hurt to window-shop.
He took the RV down Waylard Road, watching all the kids returning from school. Before long, they would drop off their bags at home and announce they were heading over to their friends’ houses. It would then be normal not to hear from them for hours. That was when the killer would take what he needed and get out of there.
No, don’t. Be on your best behavior. Just for a little while.
Why though? The police are clueless.
But Mr. Black isn’t, he reminded himself.
That was the difference with the detective; he was the one sheep in the herd that refused to follow. This Mason Black person was far too involved for the killer’s liking, but what could he do? He’d almost caught him before, until he’d simply quit his job.
That’s dedication, huh?
The killer drove down the street, the rain stopping just long enough for a gust of wind to lift the matted leaves off the ground. They swirled through the air and came at the windshield of his RV in a flurry, distracting him.
Maybe the school is your best bet, the tormenting voice in his head teased.
No, you shouldn’t.
But please do.
The withdrawal was aching. It’d been less than a couple hours, and he already wanted to hear the desperate cries of some small child, some privileged little bastard who thought the world of himself while all the parents and teachers kissed his ass. It was a load of bullshit, of course—he would grow up and follow the system, settling for a crappy job in a bank or at a law firm, paying taxes and getting married like every other sheep in America.
This country is bullshit. These people are bullshit.
On the other hand, he could take a girl. Some pretty little thing who would only grow up to upset her father and break some poor guy’s heart. He knew they could be real sluts, those women. Never for him—they were too picky—but they were sluts to other men, and nothing made him angrier.
The killer drove on, still fighting his urges.
Do it.
Don’t.
Do it.
Chapter Twenty
Mason was discharged after leaving his statement and headed straight to Downadays Bar to meet Evie. It had been their favorite place to drink for years now, a quiet little spot in an even quieter location. The music was mediocre and the food ordinary, but the service was good and the drinks were cheap. What else matte
red?
Evie was waiting for him when he pulled up. Her hair was down, and her eyes had dark bags beneath them. She definitely needed sleep.
“Took your time,” she said.
“I had some things to do,” Mason retorted, stalking across the lot.
“Some things?”
“Yeah, some things.”
The moment he opened the door, they were assaulted by blaring youthful music. It was awful—some high-pitched guy singing about how a woman had let him down—but at least it had an upbeat rhythm. They took a seat at the bar, Mason dumping a file in front of him and Evie removing her purse from her shoulder.
“So, did you talk to the teacher?” Mason asked, signaling for two beers.
“Dead end. How’d things go at the crime scene?”
“Actually, we found a body.”
“Well, duh.”
“No, I mean we found another body. A hidden one.” Mason shoved the file her way.
Evie flipped it open and looked at the picture of a man. “You got an ID already?”
“Sure did. His wife is on her way back from New York right now. I’m collecting her from the airport tomorrow morning. I’ll weave in my interview during the journey.”
“That’s how I know you’re my brother,” Evie said, looking up with a grin.
Two bottles of beer appeared in front of them, and Mason handed over some cash. “You’re welcome to publish that. A gift, from me to you.”
Evie beamed. “You’re sure?”
Mason nodded.
“Mase…”
“Don’t call me that. You know I hate it.” He took a long slug of his beer.
“Well then, Mason, did you talk to Sandra yet?”
“No, and I have no intention to.”
Evie closed the file and twisted in her chair to look at him. “Listen, I won’t tell you what to do. But I will say that if I were you, I would make my feelings known. Nothing aggressive, just one adult to another. At least then I’d be able to see Amy.”
Mason drank the rest of his beer, trying not to think about his daughter. The last thing he needed right now was to be reminded of his family—or lack thereof.
“Hey, sweetness.” A man appeared to Evie’s right side. He was scruffy. Stocky, but not tall. He hadn’t shaved, and his hair was far too greasy to go unnoticed. “How ’bout I buy you a drink or two, and then you can come back to my place?”
Mason just stared at him.
“No, thank you,” Evie said.
“Aw, come on. You don’t gotta be like that,” the drunk said, looking her up and down.
Evie turned in her chair. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m here to discuss work with my brother. So, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to get back to it.”
Just as she was turning back, he grabbed her wrist.
Mason shot to his feet and stepped around Evie, grabbing at the man’s coat and pulling him forward. He was lighter than Mason had expected. “Keep your dirty little mitts to yourself.”
The drunk gawped at him, obviously intimidated. After being silenced for a few seconds, he cleared his throat. “Whatever. Bitch probably got crabs anyway.”
Mason shrugged him off and watched him leave.
“Some people, huh?” Evie laughed.
“It’s not funny. People like that don’t know what no means.”
“Relax. He’s not the first creep to try it on with me.”
Over the next hour or so, they discussed the case and caught up on the day’s events, and when done Mason tipped the bartender as they headed for the door. They were making their way to the Mustang when Mason heard footsteps behind him.
But he was a second too late.
“Yo, big guy.” It was the slurring drunk, and he was swinging an iron pole.
Mason turned and raised his wrist in time to block it, but it rattled his arm and he cried out in agony. There were more of them this time. Three, it seemed, in the haze of adrenaline. One of them grabbed at Evie, and she wriggled and squirmed.
Mason’s arm was on fire with pain as he saw a lazy haymaker coming his way. He ducked, dropped to a knee, and punched as hard as he could into the guy’s balls. Mason knew it was a temporary stun at best, so he shot back to his feet, grabbed the man’s head, and drove his knee upward into the man’s nose.
The drunk was too stunned to react and fell onto his back with a crippled moan. One of the other thugs stepped forward. Mason glanced right to ensure Evie hadn’t been hurt.
But she was doing better than he was.
She was holding her knife in a steady fist and even stood in the stance Mason had taught her. She and the assailant were both poised, one ready to attack, the other preparing to defend, and both were figuring out which was which.
The second guy went for Mason, landing a sucker punch on his eye. It rocked him, but not enough to bring him down. After all, Mason had more than a few inches on him. Assessing the guy’s weight, Mason stomped forward and shot a left jab at the man’s rib cage, then quickly lifted him by his throat with his right hand. He came off the ground with ease, and Mason brought him down even easier.
There was an audible crunch when his spine hit the ground.
Evie.
Mason turned to his sister, who was being closed in on. Unprepared to let his sister get hurt, he dashed forward and grabbed the guy, pinning him against the Mustang. He hadn’t realized his friends had been taken down, because when he saw them he stopped resisting and let go of Mason’s arms.
“You picked the wrong day to fuck with us,” Mason hissed through gritted teeth. “You give me one goddamn reason why I shouldn’t rip your head off right now.”
“Mason,” Evie said, lowering the knife.
“Please,” the guy begged, choking.
“One fucking reason!” Mason couldn’t control himself, the red mist rising.
Joshua taking his wife; the Lullaby Killer returning to wreak havoc; now these assholes trying to hurt his sister.
He was a man on the brink.
“Mason!” Evie yelled, snapping him back into the moment.
Mason swung the guy around and kicked him up the ass to encourage a swift departure, his blood still boiling as he tried to recover his breath. “Get the hell out of here, and call an ambulance for your little buddies.”
“It’s all right,” Evie said when they were alone. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Mason said, wincing at the pain in his arm. “It’s you I’m worried about. I told you there’re people like this out there.”
Evie put a hand on her hip. “And you just thought you’d be a hero, huh?”
There was silence before the clouds rolled into each other, making the sky grumble its own anger.
“I know what this is about,” she went on.
“You do?”
“Of course. After the way mom and dad died, you feel as if you have to protect your sister. But I’m doing just fine. I really am. Look, you need to get some rest. It’s a big day tomorrow, right?”
Mason was too pissed off to argue. “Right. Let’s go.”
They climbed into the car and drove off, leaving the thug whimpering to the 911 dispatch, standing over his friends’ unconscious, battered bodies.
Chapter Twenty-One
Mrs. Sampson was a tall woman, and much younger than expected. She walked out of the arrival gate with a suitcase in tow and a lost expression on her face. That was, until she read the card with her name on it.
“Mrs. Sampson? I’m Mason Black, your escort.”
She offered a smile, no matter how forced. “The detective I spoke to on the phone?”
"Well, no,” he said. “That was my contact, Bill Harvey.” Mason wanted to tell her that he was only a PI; that helpful dose of honesty was always nice to get out of the way. But when it wasn’t necessary, like right now, he didn’t see much point. Besides, the longer she thought he was a cop, the more information she’d be willing to give. “I’m so sorry about what’s h
appened. If there’s anything I can do—”
“Just the ride home,” she said. “And please, call me Mandy.”
Mason showed her to his Mustang, addressing her worried look by telling her he was a slow driver. Most people reacted the same when they got into his car, climbing in with a look of curious anticipation, but leaving with a pale face and shaky legs.
“So, Mandy, I want to ask some questions about your husband, if that’s okay? Anything you don’t want to tell me, you’re not obligated to answer. And if you’d like a break, don’t be too shy to stop me.”
Mandy adjusted her position as they drove away from the airport, and turned her face away, probably to hide her sadness. “Anything I can do to help. We have to pass the time somehow, right?”
Mason smiled at her charm and admired her courage. Most people would have been in pieces by now. “When did you last hear from your husband? Did you know he was going up the trail?”
“Sure I knew,” she said. “He called me beforehand.”
“From home?”
“From the parking lot at the base of the trail.”
Mason knew the spot from when he’d parked there yesterday. But that means… “He called you from a cell phone?” He had difficulty focusing on the road with his heart beating so fast.
“Yeah. He said he saw somebody suspicious… a man with a crying child. He called me for advice, seeing if he had a right to intervene. I told him to stay away, but…” Mandy’s voice cracked, and she wafted air at her eyes.
Mason glanced over at her, watching her dry her eyes. Could that have been the killer? He said nothing, letting her decide for herself whether to carry on talking. He turned back to the road.
“He followed anyway,” Mandy continued.
“Mrs. Sampson, no cell phone was recovered from the crime scene.”
She looked right at him, and a quick glance told him that her makeup was a runny mess. He opened the glove compartment, rifled through the paperwork and spare gun, and plucked out a pack of tissues and handed them to her.
“Thank you.” She blew her nose. “But there must be some mistake. He definitely had his cell on him.”
Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection Page 5