Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection

by Adam Nicholls

  “Right? Officer Hartley’s body was found by the roadside, throat blown open. When the investigating detective—yours truly—came here to inform the family, the door was wide open. This is what I stumbled upon.”

  Mason looked around at the far wall, where the naked bodies of a woman and young girl were nailed to it. They each bore multiple cuts and puncture wounds, their arms spread out crucifixion-style. Around them, the word ANARCHY had been plastered across each wall, some of the furniture, and even the mirrors. It looked as though it’d been done with white paint. “Were they raped?”

  “No. Apparently neither of them were touched. Not sexually anyway.”

  “Then why the brutality?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Mason stayed silent. There wasn’t much he could say.

  “Problem is, there’s not a single damn clue. Nothing. Zilch. Even the dash cam audio was muffled. We’re up to our eyeballs in stress, pal, and there’s no light at the end of the tunnel.”

  “I’m going to—” The phone rang in his pocket. Mason’s instinct was to ignore it, but then it occurred to him that it wasn’t his phone ringing. “Excuse me,” he said, heading outside and digging into his pocket to answer Marion’s iPhone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  He paused, staring at the name on the phone.

  Lucy Healy.

  Somehow, he doubted this was the missing girl. Even if she was still alive, why would she have called this phone before reaching out for help from the police? There must be some kind of a mix-up, Mason thought, but he had to find out exactly who was calling. Even if just to let them know their friend had been murdered.

  He found a quiet spot in the backyard and took the call.

  “Hello?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  “Can I help you?” Mason pushed, tucking a hand into his armpit to protect it from the cold breeze.

  On the other end of the line, somebody cleared their throat. But it couldn’t have been Lucy—it was certainly not female. “Who is this?”

  American. Male. Too calm. “Mason Black, investigating the disappearance of Marion Healy. I’m afraid she’s busy at the moment, but if there’s something I can help you with—”

  He was interrupted by the man’s outrageous laughter, cackling down the phone like he’d just heard the funniest damn thing in his life. “That’s good,” he said, stabilizing himself. “Investigating the disappearance. Didn’t you know I hacked that bitch’s head clean off?”

  Mason’s legs began to shake. He glanced through the window, noting everyone inside, still going about their business while he dealt with this guy. “Who is this?”

  “I thought you were investigating me,” the man said. “You don’t even know my name.”

  “Anarchy?”

  The wind picked up, blasting into the speaker and coming back with a buzz. There was a metallic hissing sound on the other end of the phone, like a sharp knife being taken from a block. “Are you a cop?”

  “No.”

  “Private investigator?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who hired you?”

  Mason leaned against the wall. “What’s it to you?”

  “Just curious,” Anarchy said. It sounded like he was straining to stand up, or perhaps pushing something heavy. “It makes no difference to me.”

  “Of course not.”

  Again, there was that silence, though it felt as if they were both waiting for their chance to speak. Finally, Mason took the lead. “You have the other two. Are they still alive?”

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out. Goodbye, Mason Black.”

  “Wait.” Mason saw Bill through the window. As he spotted him, he made his way through the room, heading outside to get his attention. “I’m going to catch you. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “I admire your enthusiasm, but I pity your naivety.”

  The line went dead just as the back door opened. Bill poked his head through the gap in the door. “Who was that?”

  Mason felt numb, like somebody had taken a whisk to his insides, mashing everything around. There was something different about the man he’d just spoken to. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t come across as your everyday psycho. No, there was something more primitive about him—something that seemed like he was enjoying himself.

  “Nobody,” he lied, but once again, he didn’t know why.

  Bill nodded. “Okay. Well, the captain wants everyone out. Thought I’d let you know.”

  “Thanks.” Mason stashed the phone in his pocket and followed Bill through the house, knowing Anarchy’s voice would do everything it could to haunt him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was like he’d been taken over by some sort of spell.

  Amazing.

  Anarchy hung up the phone with a feeling of wonder and admiration. In truth, he hadn’t actually expected anyone to answer. When he’d returned from cutting up the cop’s family, he noticed something suspicious about Lucy. The cell phone she’d been trying to hide behind her back was all too obvious—it was lucky she couldn’t get a signal. As he’d taken it from her he’d thought about Marion’s phone and the fact he’d not seen her with one. When he used Lucy’s phone to call it, he’d been hoping to hear it ringing somewhere in the building.

  Instead, he’d spoken to Mason Black for the first time, and he was truly a remarkable creature.

  “Who knew?” Anarchy asked, but it was rhetorical.

  With the knife in his hand, he laid the phone to the side and raised the dead woman’s leg in front of him. With the carving knife, be began to saw away at the flesh, tearing it up like a Christmas turkey. “To think, I was going to punish you for hiding the phone.”

  Behind him, cowering against the wall with her knees to her chest, Lucy sobbed.

  “If that PI didn’t answer, you would have suffered like this woman did.” He continued until knife met bone, then began again on the neck. There was no purpose to cutting up this body. It just calmed him, he supposed, in the same way crossword puzzles soothed the minds of others. “Who was she to you?”

  “W-Who?” Lucy asked.

  “This woman.” He grabbed the head by the hair and continued to saw through the neck.

  “My…”

  “What?”

  Lucy cried into her arms.

  “I can’t hear you. You’re gonna have to speak up.”

  “My mom!” the girl cried, red in the face and ready to burst.

  “Right.” Anarchy snapped at the neck and cut deeper, until the head came off with one forceful crunch. Blood sprayed across the floor, like somebody had spilled a mixed-berry smoothie. “So this must make you feel a touch uncomfortable, eh?”

  Lucy glanced at her mother’s decapitated head before making a noise that didn’t seem human. She threw herself onto her side and buried her face farther into the comfort of her arms. “Why are you doing this?” she screamed without looking up.

  “I think it’s interesting. You know—to see people react to what they’re not accustomed to. If you think about it, it’s no different to cutting the head off a chicken. Here.” He tossed the head into her lap and laughed at the sound she made. It was like a squealing pig.

  “You’re a monster!”

  “And you’re not wrong,” Anarchy said, heading back to the table and dabbing a towel on the naked body of Bianca Healy. “But you can’t deny I know how to cause a stir.” With that, he wiped the blade clean and placed it on the cart beside his other rusty tools. “Anyway, the real question is, what should I do with you?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You’re too quiet,” Diane said from the en suite bathroom.

  “Hmm?” Mason, who was sprawled spread-eagled across the bed in underwear and a shirt, looked up from his research.

  “I said you’re too quiet.” Diane leaned her head into the bedroom, giving her toothbrush a rest. “Is everything okay?”

 
; “Oh, I’m fine. Just… I don’t know. Everything about this seems familiar.”

  “You mean this Anarchy guy?”

  “No. Actually…” Mason dumped all the papers to the floor and shuffled to lay his head on the pillow. “Working on cases, belonging to somebody. The last time I was this stable I was with Sandra. I had a home with her, a family, and I was always working too hard.”

  Diane spat into the sink, turned off the light, and came in to sit beside him. “So?”

  “I guess I’m just not used to things being this secure.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “Definitely.” Mason kissed her on the lips and took her into his arms. “It’s just that Anarchy reminds me of when I was with the SFPD, always trying so hard to catch the Lullaby Killer. I mean, it’s the same, but it isn’t. Does that make any sense?”

  “Not in the slightest.” Diane giggled. “But I think I know what you’re trying to say. Circumstances are the same, but the details are different?”

  “Right. Except we’re not married. And I don’t live here.”

  Silence, and then, “What if you did?”

  “What?” Mason snapped his head back and looked her in the eye. “You want me to live here?”

  “Do you want to live here?”

  It was a life-changing decision that meant risking it all. What if things turned out how they had with Sandra? What if he got too wrapped up in his work once again, in a desperate attempt to stop Anarchy? Even with this in mind, he knew it would be foolish to let such fears affect his future. “It would make sense, right? I mean, I spend so little time at my own place.”

  “Consider it,” Diane said, leaning to pull on the light cord. “We don’t need to rush into a decision. All I know is that I love you, and I think moving in together would signify progress in our relationship.”

  Mason let her nuzzle into his neck. “I’ll give it some thought.”

  While Diane began to drift off in his arms, Mason spent the next few hours stirring. It was a bad idea for him to be thinking so heavily about the case anyway, but he couldn’t let the trail go stale, as he had done in the past. It was always nights like this, while struggling to fall asleep, that he realized how tough it was to balance a healthy career with a loving relationship.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Even vivid dreams had their uses.

  Somewhere in his deep sleep, Mason was back on that cliff. He couldn’t see them, but he knew Evie and their parents were watching him with disappointment. At his feet, Marvin Wendell, the Lullaby Killer who’d hurt so many, lay bloody and lifeless.

  “Nice work,” said the man who stood in front of him.

  A cold gust of wind angled the rain into their faces. Mason felt the icy blast of the water, but somehow it wasn’t making him wet. A common expression occurred to him: water off a duck’s back. It stayed there, repeating itself over and over, until the man before him spoke again.

  “You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

  Mason raised a hand over his eye, fighting to see the man through the torrents. “Who are you?” he asked, but he already knew. The man before him was Anarchy—a blurred image of the monster. His clothes were dry, too—he wore a black suit with no tie, and his face was a mere patch of flesh. A disguise? “I didn’t enjoy it.”

  “Oh, but you did.”

  “I didn’t even do it,” Mason said, denying it.

  “Yes, you did.” It was a woman’s voice now, carried on the wind to his left.

  Mason turned to see Alison Wendell—Lady Luck, as she’d once called herself. She stood among the trees with a bullet hole in her chest. Blood was still seeping from the wound. “You did it. You killed my brother!”

  The voices echoed around him, increasing in volume and intensity. Mason covered his ears and turned. Only then did he realize the Lullaby Killer’s corpse was no longer at his feet. Anarchy—if that was who it really was—stood right in front of him.

  “It’s all right,” he said, his head still a faceless blur. “I approve.”

  Mason had had enough. He reached for the man, clawing at his face, eager to remove the fleshy mask. To his surprise, it came off in his hand, but only to reveal another mask that was very much the same. Mason reached for this one, too, and found himself pulling off layer after layer, while Anarchy laughed at his uselessness.

  “You’ll never know what I look like,” Anarchy said and delivered a winding blow.

  Mason, struck by both the fist and the ever-increasing wind from the cliff, clutched at his stomach. “I’m going to…” he said, wheezing. “I’m going to get you.” The life drained from him, and he sagged to the floor like a broken mannequin. His face sunk into the foul mud, which oozed into his mouth.

  “Pathetic,” Anarchy said, as he turned and walked away. But he’d only taken five steps before his body dissipated like a ghost.

  Then a sound emanated from the mud. A ringtone? Mason rolled over and clawed at the gooey dirt. He could see the light underneath and knew it would only last a few seconds. With only his left arm working, he scooped at the mud, seeing the screen flash deep below, as if the ground were transparent.

  “You’ll never get it,” Anarchy’s voice whispered on the breeze.

  “Come back,” Mason yelled, giving up on his excavation and rolling onto his back. “Come back, come back.” Only now, he could hear himself mumbling. It was like another version of himself had said the words, and he’d only intercepted them.

  The rain stopped and Mason felt something push against his shoulder. He craned his neck but saw nothing. He could feel Diane though, and he knew it was her by her scent: Chanel and buttermilk.

  “He’s gone,” Mason said, closing his eyes.

  “Hmm?”

  Mason strained to open his eyes again and found himself in the safety of Diane’s bed. She lay beside him in a half-awake state, and he sent her back to sleep. “Sorry. Just relax.”

  Diane sniffed and rolled over, docile and taken by dreams of her own.

  He was awake now and in a perfect state of mind to evaluate what he’d just experienced. It occurred to him the dream had been nothing but a crowd of guest appearances—ghosts from his past.

  But it still gave him an idea.

  Mason climbed out of bed, dressed in some sweatpants and a T-shirt, grabbed his car keys, and headed for the front door. If the dream was anything to go by, he may have just stumbled onto a clue.

  After all, even vivid dreams had their uses.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It’d been a couple of years since Mason had spoken to Miller, so while he waited in the lobby of the police station he couldn’t help but wonder if the man had changed at all.

  At best, their relationship was rocky. As chief tech specialist in the SFPD, John Miller had found the room to grow an ego. His most common response for Mason’s requests was grumpy, miserable, and hostile. Nevertheless, nine times out of ten he’d perform the given task. Mason just hoped this was one of those times. Damn martyr, he thought.

  The security door buzzed open and Miller stepped through. As soon as he spotted Mason, he rolled his eyes. “So, you’re my early guest. What do you want?”

  Mason held up Marion’s phone. “A trace.”

  Miller looked to the desk officer and nodded his approval, then held the door.

  As Mason followed him through the station toward the lab, he was riddled with nostalgia. It was possible the early morning was disorienting his senses, making memories seem stronger and more vital than they really were. But the point was, he could feel them, and that was enough to make him miss this place.

  “In here,” Miller said, pointing to a swivel chair. “Sit.”

  Mason sat without arguing and put the phone on the desk.

  “Whatever happens, this can’t go on the file. Captain Cox is all over the place, Internal Affairs are kicking up a storm, and you really have no place here. So, consider this my last favor to you. Is that clear?”

  �
��Crystal.” Mason wanted to wring the guy’s neck most of the time, but he couldn’t for as long as he needed him. He was just one of those people who really knew how to grate on you and had no remorse for doing so.

  John Miller took the phone and plugged something into it.

  “Will this be difficult?” Mason asked.

  “Not nearly as much as it used to be.” Miller fidgeted with the settings and handed the phone over. “But you’ll still need to make the call. I can triangulate the signal and get an approximate location within a few seconds. Another minute or so, and I can be more accurate.”

  Mason held the phone as if it was made of paper. When he was ready, he found Lucy Healy’s number and hit the Dial button. “It’s ringing.”

  “Just make sure you’re not screwing with people’s lives.”

  Mason chose to ignore that comment, though he was sure he’d later regret it. But what other choice did he have? He needed to find Anarchy, and if this was the only way to do it, he wouldn’t sit around feeling guilty.

  “There’s no answer,” Mason said, hanging up. “Shit.”

  “Whatever. We done here?”

  Mason stared at his feet, thinking through his options. Something inside him told him he couldn’t just head back to Diane’s. Not now. Not after he’d become so fixated on this one ridiculous idea. He looked up at Miller, a sudden thought occurring to him. “No.”

  “Well, hurry up.”

  Figuring it out as he went, Mason typed out the message: Gotcha.

  “Provocation was always your strong suit,” Miller said.

  Mason stayed silent, hoping that if anything was likely to draw a reaction from Anarchy, it would be that one short word, which could mean a thousand things or hold a thousand other meanings. He sat with his hands clasped, rocking his heel, and hoping to God Anarchy would return his call.