“Nope. I’m dead serious.”
“That’s incredible!”
Morgan hugged him, although it was brief. They separated quickly enough, and he was left wondering about his own feelings on the matter since he’d now said it out loud. Could he handle being a father? He knew nothing about children, but Rachel’s knowledge would make up for that, he was sure. If anyone was born to be a great mother, it was her.
But what about his job?
It was the one thing that circled his mind like a kettle of vultures. At some point the long days and the intrusive nature of his job—not to mention the occasional raw danger—would make parenthood tough. On the flip side, he did get to choose his own hours, and when the clients were steady, so was the money. They already had a home, and even though it doubled up as an office for the foreseeable future, it was safe and spacious enough to raise a kid.
Or kids.
What would Rachel want next, after having one baby? Would she want another? Morgan dreaded to think what his life would be like with two kids running around. He could kiss goodbye to those quiet moments, and his career would become even more questionable.
Best not to think about it, he told himself, and jumped to change the subject.
“You didn’t come here to talk about babies,” he said.
Gary sucked in a breath through his teeth. “No.”
“Then why? We both know you don’t make social calls.”
“You got me pegged. Look outside.”
Morgan twitched the curtain that covered his front door, looking up and down the street until he saw Gary’s car. Right behind that, however, was something far more noticeable: two squad cars with officers sitting inside. Morgan felt his brow crease up.
“This is supposed to be a quick detour,” Gary said.
“Before what?”
“Detectives found a sheet of paper that’d gone through the shredder. They managed to piece it together overnight, and they found an invoice that linked St. John to a rented car garage across town. The captain’s given us the go-ahead, and we’re making our way down there now.”
Morgan caught himself reaching for his coat, as if his body had already decided where it was going. He slid it on and held open the front door. They rushed through and down the porch steps before heading to Gary’s car. “What’s the plan?”
“More than you could ever wish.”
“A search?”
“A raid. If Tom’s alive, then there’s every chance he could be there.”
“Then we have to hurry.”
“No kidding. You can tell me more about your pregnancy on the way.”
Morgan opened the door and slid into the car, swallowing a dry lump in his throat. Pregnant, he thought as Gary pulled the car out. It was exactly the distraction he didn’t need right now, as they sped down the street toward the man who’d killed Dusty Young.
Justice, he figured, came first.
Chapter Thirty
They skidded to a stop on a small industrial estate not far from Arthur St. John’s house. There were two parallel blocks of garages, each two doors wide and most of them open while mechanics operated on their vehicles. Some stopped to watch as the police officers exited their cars and hurried to the door of the only closed garage, which Arthur St. John had rented.
Morgan hung back and watched them work, leaning against the car door while Gary reached inside and then slid a black bulletproof vest across the hood. Morgan snatched it up before it could fall onto the ground, surprised at how heavy it was in contrast to how it looked. “You expect me to wear this thing?”
“Would you rather be shot?”
It didn’t take more convincing than that. In no hurry to be fatally wounded, Morgan pulled it over his head and reached around to tighten the straps. When it was firmly attached, he gave it a yank to test it out, and knowing it was safe, he proceeded to follow Gary toward the building, wretched fear threatening to paralyze him.
When they reached the outside wall, they stopped. All officers kept keen eyes on Gary, who led the team with the same proficiency he’d shown many times over the years Morgan had known him. He raised a closed fist—a signal to hold steady—and Morgan held his breath until his lungs were full to burst.
“Ready?” he whispered.
Morgan was as ready as he’d ever be. He nodded anyway. All he had to do was hang back and hope for the best. If St. John was really inside with Tom—dead or alive—all his troubles would come to an end, and he could go back to being the loving husband he’d always tried to be. It seemed too good to be true. Probably was.
Gary gave the signal, swiping two fingers toward the door. The officer acted at once, two working together to operate a battering ram on the side door. It went down with one deadly knock, crashing to the floor. It boomed like thunder. They filed in one after the other, guns raised until only the two of them remained.
“Stay here,” Gary said, and made a step to go in.
Morgan grabbed his arm. “You’re leaving me?”
“I have to do my job.”
“What should I do?”
“Just stay put and don’t die.”
It felt as if a large rock fell down Morgan’s throat when he swallowed. He watched his best friend head in, swooping through the door with his sidearm held out like some kind of action hero. Morgan felt immediate dread at the danger he was in. It made a sickly, crawling sensation in the pit of his stomach. He tried not to hurl.
The moments dragged by while the officers were inside. Morgan stood out in the cold, his fists clenched and his nails digging into his palms. It was deep enough to draw blood, but a distraction came in the form of more than ten mechanics, all standing by the doors of their shops and watching with fascination as professionals raided the garage.
“Go inside,” Morgan called. “It’s not safe.”
One by one they turned, going about their jobs like nothing had happened. Meanwhile, Morgan was left with an eerie silence that could’ve made a swamp creature uncomfortable. While his blood raced and his mind produced all sorts of vivid nightmares, all he could do was wait and hope. Hope and pray.
It wasn’t until he saw a figure emerge that he relaxed.
But it was the wrong time to relax.
The figure wasn’t one of the officers—the clothing was too dark—and it sure as hell wasn’t Gary. Whoever it was, he was tall and bearded, dressed all in black and hunched over with sweat dripping off his red face. The man kept his head turned to peer over his shoulder, stopping only when he bumped right into Morgan, knocking him off balance.
It took longer than it should have. Deep down, Morgan knew who he was, but in the heat of the moment it took time to register. By then the man had reacted, turning on the spot and sprinting far into the distance, leaping over a short fence.
Morgan acted on instinct. He recovered his balance, and his legs moved as if by themselves. He was no track runner, but as his breath grew short, he saw himself closing the distance. Exhilaration filled him, mixing with cold fear and forcing him to run harder, faster than he’d ever run in his life. Somehow, Arthur St. John had slipped by the police, but he hadn’t counted on running into a lowly private eye who’d waited outside.
Bad luck, Morgan thought, no longer feeling like himself. His target rounded the corner, and Morgan wasn’t far behind. He picked up the pace, sweat drenching him already. Before long he was only a few feet away. That distance grew shorter, shorter. Morgan felt the thrill of pursuit as the freezing wind rushed at his cheeks on the empty road.
This was it. He was close enough. All he had to do was leap.
It took everything he had—Morgan threw his last ounce of energy into a pounce. He missed. His fingers barely scratched the fleeing man before he fell on his face, the hard tarmac smashing his chin. All he could think of was the battering ram the cops had used, drawing back and then driving into his face. He closed his eyes, lying on the ground paralyzed while adrenaline left him.
What had
he been thinking?
He was no hero. Morgan knew this and cursed himself as he pushed up slowly from the ground, watching Arthur St. John vanish into the trees while footsteps rushed behind him. A second later, a hand was on his shoulder. Morgan craned his neck up toward the blinding sun and saw the familiar silhouette of Gary, waving officers to continue running after the man.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Morgan wasn’t sure. He felt like a fool—not just for failing to capture the target, but for thinking he had a shot to begin with. Stuff like that was better left to the MPD, and even they were having trouble keeping up.
“Hey, buddy, are you okay?” Gary pressed.
“I’m fine.” Morgan took the outstretched hand and used it to hoist himself to his feet. He dusted off his knees and caught his breath, daring not to look at anyone in case his humiliation looked as obvious as it felt. “What about Tom? Did you find him?”
“Sure did. Alive and kicking.”
Morgan turned to catch his grin. His own smile grew to match it. This hadn’t been a total loss after all. They may have lost their killer, but one man had survived his wrath long enough to provide a little more information. And if they were lucky—really lucky—they might just learn enough to find St. John and put him away for good.
Chapter Thirty-One
Panting and wheezing, Arthur made it through the clearing. Just when he thought he was exhausted, he gained a second wind, and it thrust him farther into the trees, where his legs finally gave in and he collapsed to the ground. Immobilized, he lay in the soft mud, waiting for his pursuers to catch up to him.
But they weren’t coming.
With each passing moment, he told himself he was free—that he’d escaped the police who’d dared to come to his home away from home. He’d gotten lucky too, and he’d never forget how close a shave that really was. It was only dumb luck that he’d used the bathroom closest to the front door. That one had been concealed for so long that even he’d forgotten it was there until he’d desperately needed to empty his bladder and couldn’t make it back up the stairs. Even then he hadn’t had much time to finish before the door burst open, and a handful of cops stormed through the building. He’d then made it out of there with his life, which would’ve been the perfect getaway had that black guy not chased him down.
Who was he, anyway?
Arthur had seen him at Teresa’s crime scene, and something about the way he held himself didn’t exactly scream “cop.” Was he a private investigator, perhaps? He imagined the guy as a killer, working his way onto the scene while posing as somebody else. Wouldn’t that have been an amazing twist—to know he wasn’t the only one screwing with people?
But he wasn’t here to screw around.
He was here to kill and then to call it a day.
And how close had he come to murdering Tom Walker? Way too close by any measure. It was only an hour before the raid that he’d learned the truth about his latest victim, and his hesitation to believe it was the only reason he hadn’t killed him yet. Not that it stopped him from hovering that car over the bastard’s face. It was the least he deserved.
Only now he was in a new predicament. If what he’d learned that morning was true, he had a whole new project to set about working on. The steps he needed to take would set him back at least a couple of days, and that was if he found everything immediately when he started looking for it. Killing was tricky business, and Arthur was coming to learn that pretty fast.
As he lay there covered in mud, his breath easing into a steady rhythm, Arthur decided to give himself one more minute before he made a break for it. Carefully, making no sudden gestures for fear of being seen, he dragged his watch arm in front of him and kept his eye on the second hand. It felt like an eternity to rotate around the face of his Rolex—a gift given to him by his wife on their tenth wedding anniversary. To see it now, speckled in mud with a surface scratch etched deep into the front, broke his heart into tiny pieces. Everything that’d come from her was something he treasured: every gift, memory, and lesson. She’d been everything to him, as had his daughter, whom he’d planned on passing those same lessons down to in due course, thus maintaining the circle of life.
But he hadn’t been given the chance.
Arthur scrunched up his face at the reminder of what he’d lost. Glancing once more at the time, he gave it a few extra seconds, then pushed himself up to his feet and turned back in the direction he’d been running. Now that he had no home and no garage, there was nowhere left to go. But that was okay—he didn’t need a residence. That was a material thing that would soon be gone. All he needed was the tools to complete his next job and claim his next victim.
After all, what he’d learned today was shocking, but it wasn’t enough to steer him off course; there was still one victim left, and it wasn’t Tom. The true driver of that car had been someone else entirely, and that meant someone else had to die.
Chapter Thirty-Two
In the days that followed Tom Walker’s rescue, there had been no sign of the killer. His home, constantly under surveillance, remained silent and unoccupied. He made no appearance at the garage, and there was definitely no form of contact. Thankfully for Morgan Young and the MPD, there hadn’t even been another murder.
So far, they’d gotten lucky.
By the time Tom was ready to talk about what happened—which took three nights and a lot of persuasion, some from Gary and some by the less patient detectives on the case—everyone was ready to put their fists through a wall. As if the case hadn’t been stressful enough up until this point, holding back information didn’t make things any easier. And the worst part, at least for them, was that he refused to speak to anyone other than both “that Morgan Young guy and Detective Gary Lee”—his words, not theirs.
Morgan tried not to look smug as he passed through the halls of the police precinct. He could feel the eyes of angry officers and detectives who felt threatened by his relationship with the survivor, but Morgan didn’t see it as a threat. It put a lot of pressure on him, making him feel as though he had to solve this case, or else it would hurt his reputation. But given his last run-in with Arthur St. John, he now doubted his physical capabilities as well as his investigative ones. It did a lot of damage to his ego.
Farther down the hall, Gary met him with a big chain full of keys. He heaved a sigh, smiled thinly, and unlocked the door before holding it open. “After you, buddy-roo. Just don’t say anything until I okay the recording.”
Morgan nodded, walking into the interview room. It was exactly like they were in the movies: a camera in the corner, a two-way mirror along one wall and a table in the middle where Tom Walker sat nursing a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee. His bloodshot eyes were squinted under the harsh lights above him, but he smiled anyway. Morgan made an effort to smile back as he slid out a chair and took a seat, only just catching sight of Gary giving a thumbs-up to the mirror.
“And we’re rolling,” he said, sitting down beside Morgan.
“Thanks for coming in,” Tom said.
“It’s my job. How you feeling?”
“Tired. Bored.”
“Not scared?” Morgan asked. “That the killer will come back for you, I mean.”
Tom splayed out his hands for a second before returning them to the cup. “A little, I guess, but I’m safe as long as I’m in here. Truth is, I don’t think he’ll do that. Not yet anyway. That’s kind of what I wanted to talk with you about.”
“Oh?” from Gary.
Across the table, Tom looked from one man to the other before finally settling on Gary—the official authority. “I have something to share, but I wanted to make sure you guys were the first to hear it. I also hope I won’t be punished for what I’m about to tell you.”
Morgan sat up straight, licking his lips. Whatever this was, it sounded juicy.
“I can’t promise anything until I’ve heard it,” Gary said, “but I can do my best.”
Resigning in
to a slump, Tom took a sip of his coffee and then rubbed his eyes, which only became redder after doing so. It looked like he was ready to pass out, the stress from his ordeal combined with the harsh padding of a jail bed wearing him down. “All right, look. Ten years ago I gave my statement about a car accident I was in.”
“The one that killed Arthur St. John’s family,” Gary offered.
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
Morgan waited with bated breath. He’d read about the accident in depth—Tom had been driving with Dusty and Teresa both in the back. It was raining that night: difficult to see and the roads were slippery. According to the statement, which Gary had kindly provided, St. John had come out of nowhere and they’d collided. It was noted that the wreck was “nobody’s fault” and that “these things happen,” but try telling that to a man who’s lost his whole family—his whole world.
“I’m just going to lay it out there.” Tom breathed deep. “I wasn’t driving.”
They all fell silent. Tension filled the room. Morgan shot a sideways glance at Gary, who sat perfectly still without saying a single word. He’d seen this before. It was what he called “The Long Game,” and it was designed to encourage people to elaborate.
Tom did.
“The real driver didn’t have a license. After we spun out of control, nothing seemed to happen. Everyone just kind of sat there trying to figure out what’d happened. But not the driver. He got out of the car and ran away before anyone knew what’d happened. I really liked the guy, so I did what I thought was right… I slid across to the driver’s seat and took the heat.”
Morgan leaned forward, lacing his hands together and cracking his knuckles. The truth of this reveal opened up a whole new kettle of fish that made his heart wild with both excitement and concern. This meant they had a new lead to follow. It also meant his job was about to get a whole lot tougher, if the captain had anything to do with it.
“That’s quite a confession,” Gary said, sitting back and folding his arms. “Are you prepared to write that as an official statement and testify to it in a court of law?”
Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection Page 72