The bullet tore through his knee, making him scream out in pain. As a knee-jerk reaction (or so to speak), the gun fell from his hand and he curled over to nurse his leg. He’d never known pain like it.
As one event led to another, an elderly lady reached for the dropped gun, pointing it at Anarchy with two shaking hands. “Somebody call the police,” she said, and the look in her eyes showed she was ready to shoot if she had to.
“I got a better idea.” The boy who stepped forward was barely a teen. His acne-covered face was red with anger as he lunged out and pushed Anarchy from the cable car.
Now on the receiving end of the fall, Anarchy understood how painful it was. It was a higher drop than he’d imagined, and the speed they’d been moving at caused him to roll. Had Mason endured this agony? Or was the gunshot wound making things worse?
Somehow, he found the strength to climb to his feet. He saw Mason in the distance, and their eyes met as they both froze. Now unarmed and injured, Anarchy knew he had little chance of fighting him off, so he did the only thing he could have done.
He fled.
The pain shooting through his leg was incredible. He could put no pressure on his knee, so he hopped desperately toward the nearby alleyway. Mason must have been closing in on him, but he dared not waste time to stop and look.
It’s all over, he confessed to himself. It’s done. I’m finished.
A part of him almost believed it, too.
Chapter Eighty-Four
Bill was behind him, yelling.
But whatever his words were, they fell on Mason’s deaf ears, the big man now darting into the alleyway in pursuit of the psychopath.
Even though the alley was dark, there were glimmers of light bouncing off the high glass windows. At the far end, Anarchy was limping his way out. As he turned the corner and disappeared out of sight, Mason caught his breath and followed.
Come on, Mason.
His own words of encouragement would have meant nothing if he hadn’t heard them in Evie’s voice. If his subconscious was trying to inspire him, it was working.
Out on the adjoining road, Anarchy was stumbling down to the bay, where a waist-high wall divided the sidewalk and the high tide. A car honked at him as he drew a trail of blood across the road. People gathered around the drama, but nobody offered to help him.
Mason seized this opportunity to catch up as he saw Anarchy stop by the wall. Exhausted, he struggled to raise the Beretta. “This is the end.”
Panting, and wincing at the gushing hole in his leg, Anarchy looked up.
Why is he still grinning?
“Is it?” Anarchy asked. “Or have you just passed one of many tests?”
The crowd was growing around them, a couple of people on the phone to the police.
Mason inched forward into the ring of people. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not going to stop, Mr. Black. You can pin whatever you want on me, but if I went to jail, I’d only get out and find you.”
Mason lowered the gun a little, thinking about Amy. Would she be hurt in due course? Would Diane? He couldn’t let that happen again. Too much had happened, and if this guy wouldn’t stop, there was only one thing to do.
But could he do it? After trying so hard not to be that man again?
Bill arrived on the scene, moving everyone away by explaining Mason was a private investigator and Anarchy was a known killer. He was just a little too late.
Anarchy grabbed a nearby woman, holding her in front of him like a human shield. His forearm was pressed against her throat, and her face reddened as she struggled to break free. When he pulled the knife from his pocket and put it to her neck, the crowd gasped.
“Stop,” Mason urged, raising the gun again.
“Too many people are dying, Mr. Black. Don’t you think?” He shifted his weight, his leg obviously causing massive discomfort. “It’s not that I don’t enjoy it, but you look like you’ve seen enough. How about you put the gun down, and I won’t pierce this poor lady’s jugular, hmm?”
It was tempting, if not just to see the woman freed. But Mason didn’t think for a second it would play out like that. Instead, he took one step closer, tightening his grip on the gun. “I’m giving you a chance. Put the knife down right now, and no more harm will come to you.”
“Ever the gentleman.” Anarchy was sweating profusely, glaring around at the crowd and pressing his ass to the wall. “I’m only giving you three more seconds and I—”
Mason seized control.
He took the shot.
The bullet pierced the air and hit Anarchy in the chest.
The woman, suddenly released, ran to the safety of her family in tears.
As Mason watched Anarchy—the terrorist, the killer—reach for his chest, he noted the look of surprise in his eyes. They were wide with shock, but he was still laughing.
Mason would never forget it. Nor would he forget that, despite promising himself he would never kill again, he’d done only what he had do.
In the back of his mind, he could hear Evie approve.
Chapter Eighty-Five
One in the leg, one in the chest.
Anarchy stumbled back, tumbling over the wall and hitting the water with a splash. Tough as it seemed, he fought to paddle, to stay afloat, but his wounds wouldn’t allow him the movement. Even the nearby rocks seemed miles away now.
Water filled his mouth. It was salty, putrid, and cold. He coughed and choked, barely able to breathe as the sea consumed him in one thirsty gulp, offering him his final resting place.
So much pain. So much cold. Those were his last thoughts as the water took him.
Chapter Eighty-Six
There had been too many uncertainties. Each time Mason encountered a new problem, it had always been left unresolved. This would not be one of them.
Without paying it any thought, he dropped the Beretta and dove in after Anarchy. The harsh chill of the water hit him like a vicious jab to every muscle.
Mason felt around with his eyes closed. It would’ve been hard enough to see through the murky water even in daylight, but the dark of the night blinded him completely.
Where the hell are you?
Kicking his legs, Mason dog-paddled beneath the surface. To his left were the jagged rocks of the bay, and to the right, an entire ocean into which the madman could be drifting. But dead or alive, he wanted to find him—he had to, if only for the peace of mind.
Mason nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a firm grasp around his arms. He was being pulled upward, the strong hands hauling his bulk by his armpits. He squirmed, losing his breath. Everything was out of his control.
As if to pull him from a haunted dream, he broke the surface.
Bill—whose hands were still on him as he lay with his belly on the rocks—gave him a tip of the head. “It’s over, pal.”
Mason pulled away and clung to the rocks, sucking in deep breaths of air. “Did you see him? Did Anarchy come back up?”
Bill shook his head, disappointed. “No.”
“Then he could be—” Out there, he wanted to add. Only, as he tried to pull away, Bill latched on to him once more, a stern and cold stare arrowing from his eyes.
“It’s over. Just let it go.”
“But I—”
“Let. It. Go. You could barely move down there, by the looks of it. Imagine if you had two bullet wounds.” He pulled Mason to his feet, a large torrent of water splashing onto the rocks. “The coast guard will keep an eye out. All you can do is wait.”
Mason hated to think this was the end. He knew his luck, and it wasn’t likely he would be let off that easy. On the other hand, maybe it was his turn for things to go uphill. It would be about time, wouldn’t it?
“Come on,” Bill said, lowering his tone as he offered an outstretched hand. “Let’s get you a towel.”
Chapter Eighty-Seven
When Mason arrived at the police station, he was greeted at the front desk by Diane
and Amy. They enveloped him in hugs, having been filled in on the night’s events. It was great to see them, too, after having essentially used them as bait.
“Is it over?” Diane asked, whispering into his ear.
“Anarchy’s body was found in the river. He’s dead.” It felt good to say, but at some point he’d have to give in to Bill’s suggestion of putting it in the past. After all, it wasn’t like he could spend the rest of his life clinging to tonight’s events.
Bill was there to escort them through the station, where they could all give official statements and finally put this case to rest. As they passed through, Mason received a round of applause (although he didn’t feel as though it were deserved). Some patted him on the back, others offered a handshake. He politely accepted all, while Amy looked up at him with a smile of adoration. She looked proud, but she shouldn’t have.
Mason pulled out chairs for his ladies and sat between the two. He leaned over the desk, handing back the wet towel. “Thanks, Bill.”
“No problem. How you feeling about all of this?”
“Tired,” Mason said, still uneasy about being that side of the desk. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get on with the statements and go home.”
Amy nodded her agreement.
“Actually, that’s not up to me,” Bill said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I can take statements from these two, but the FBI want to speak to you. And to be honest, they don’t seem happy with you.”
Mason grunted. “Because we did the job they couldn’t.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
It was as if his ears had been burning. A suited man—relatively young to have a job at the bureau—approached the desk. His blond hair was slicked back, and he was putting an awful lot of effort into looking serious. “Mr. Black, we’d like you to come with us, sir.”
Amy shot up from her chair. “He’s not going anywhere. He did nothing wrong!”
“It’s okay.” Mason stood, placing his hand on her shoulder. “This won’t take too long, will it?”
The agent shook his head, showed Mason toward the interrogation room (as if he had no idea that he’d once been a detective in this very building), and closed the door.
Mason stared at the empty chair. This time, he would be the one interviewed, and not a single thing about it felt right.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
The man introduced himself as Agent Thomas Kane, and after ushering Mason into the one empty seat, began his relentless assault of questions.
Mason remained calm, explaining the situation in full. There were a couple of misplaced details—some of which were deliberate—and a couple of lies where they’d needed to be told. Evie, for instance, was left out of the equation; the last thing Mason wanted was the Feds at her door.
“Mr. Black, you can see why this might pose something of a problem for us.” Agent Kane leaned forward, interlacing his fingers and resting his chin upon them. It was purely for show, Mason suspected. “We were tracking him, following his movements until we had the perfect opportunity to strike. Instead, we had a team fishing for his body.”
Mason gritted his teeth. “When he was in my home, with my family, was that not the perfect opportunity? Did you even know he was headed there?”
“We would have if you’d have told us.”
“No. We acted how we had to act. If you’d have been involved, he would have seen you coming from a mile off and chosen some other way to get to us.”
“We told you all to stay away from this because—”
Mason slammed his fist on the table, turning it into a pointed finger. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what you told us. There was a killer—a terrorist—in my home, due to your incompetence. I handled it, and then you found one body rather than three.” He had to get out of there before his emotions turned physical. Spinning out of his chair, he went for the door. But he only made it two feet before he heard something else—something that rattled his nerves to their core.
“Of course, it’s not the first time you’ve taken matters into your own hands, is it?”
Mason stopped and turned. Does he mean…
“Yeah.” Agent Kane nodded, a sly grin creeping onto his lips. “You never did find Marvin Wendell, did you? It seems funny to me that you—a man of such determination—would give up so easily.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m onto you, Mr. Black, and I’ll be keeping a close eye on you.”
Mason couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Did the FBI agent really have something on him, or was it merely a suspicion? Regardless, there was nothing he could do. “Sorry,” he said, opening the door, “but your threats don’t mean shit to me. There’s nothing you can do that I haven’t already survived.” With that, he slammed the door and stood in the hallway.
How much does he know? Mason never had found out if he was in the clear or not. But there was one thing he was certain of: he would have to tread lightly or risk being brought down for his past sins.
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Captain Cox swept by him almost instantly, taking his arm and leading him into her office. “Come. Sit,” she said, and he obeyed. “Fill me in.”
Mason told her about his statement and the threats made toward him. As uncomfortable as it felt to discuss the Lullaby Killer with her, he at least knew there were no more secrets between them.
“I wouldn’t worry about the FBI,” Cox said, reclining in her chair and accommodating the gunshot wound in her leg. “There’s nothing we can do about it now. The Anarchy case is in their hands.”
“It still bugs me,” Mason said.
“I bet.” Cox sighed, stood, and walked around the desk. When she shoved some paperwork aside and perched in its place, she lowered her voice. “Keep your distance from the case, don’t mention Wendell—either of them—and just keep your head down.”
It felt wrong somehow. It felt dirty. Like there was something he was supposed to attend, but he’d sent a replacement instead. Anarchy had been his own problem, and he’d wanted to see it through to the end. “What about Shaun Chambers?”
“His story checks out. He had a girlfriend and stepson in the Bay Area. They were just found in a nearby warehouse.”
“Alive?”
Captain Cox’s eyes narrowed, and her lips curved downward. She shook her head. “All the same, he confessed to planting the chemicals at your daughter’s school. He’ll be tried and jailed, just like anyone else would.”
“That seems unfair.”
“Yes. But you can’t win ’em all. All you can do is your best.”
Mason knew it, too. After all his years as a homicide detective—and later a private investigator—he was more than aware of the concept of effort. He also knew everything there was to know about karma, and how much of an ugly bitch it really was.
“Don’t worry,” Cox said, returning to her chair. “We’ll handle everything.”
“We?”
“The SFPD.”
Mason shifted in his seat, picking at his nails. “And about your offer…”
“It still stands.”
It was probably the hardest part of his day, but it was time he gave an answer. For better or worse, the decision had been made. All he wanted was to know that whatever he said wouldn’t be final, and that he still had at least a little control over his life. “I’ll take the job.”
It was as if Cox had known what he’d say. She leaned into the desk cupboard by her feet and produced a cheap bottle of champagne and two flutes. She popped the cork and poured the bubbles to the brims of the glasses.
“Lanson?” Mason asked, taking one of the flutes and studying the bottle.
“I’m not made of money.” Cox smiled and raised her glass. “Welcome back to the San Francisco Police Department… Detective Black.”
Chapter Ninety
Two years later
As evening drifted around, M
ason filed the last piece of paperwork for the day.
The weekend was just a few hours out of reach, and then he wouldn’t have to deal with police business for a few days. It was a change of lifestyle he was adjusting to, but the job was steady. The pay wasn’t perfect, but he’d have enough to put Amy through college. He sighed, grateful he’d taken the right change of direction.
He arrived home within a half hour, hoping Diane wouldn’t be pissed. Stopping the car and rushing up the front steps, Mason was inches away from sliding the key into the hole, when the door opened and Diane stood holding Mason Jr.
“Welcome home, Daddy,” she said, comforting their crying two-year-old.
Mason kissed her and took the toddler from her arms. The crying stopped in an instant, replaced with smiles and toothless giggles. “How you doing, birthday boy?”
“He’s been okay,” Diane said. “A little grumpy, but you’re here now.”
“Great. Am I late?”
“Nope, right on time. Everyone’s out back.”
Carrying their son in his arms, Mason followed her through to the back patio, where everyone he knew and loved had gathered for Mason Jr.’s birthday. Bill and Christine were there, smiling at the far end of the table. Amy and Evie were giggling at something, the best of friends again. Captain Leanne Cox was dressed in a crisp pantsuit and avoided eye contact with everyone, as if social situations didn’t quite suit her.
The smell of the food only increased Mason’s happiness—grilled chicken and spicy beef. Vegetables covered the table, and bottles of wine and sweet treats spread all the way across the two picnic benches, which had been pushed together.
“Let me take him,” Amy said, standing to carry Mason Jr. in her arms. She was getting older now, becoming a woman, and heading off to college in the fall.
Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection Page 47