“Where is Amy now?” Diane asked.
“She’s at the table in my dining room, going over the contract.” Morgan glanced at her through the glass doors that separated the room from the hallway. He made his way back to the living room, where he absentmindedly went to the window and peered out through the gap in the curtain. “You’ll find my fee quite reasonable, Mrs. Black, but I can send you a copy before she signs. Don’t worry, you’re in safe hands.”
“Call me Diane,” she breathed, and he could’ve sworn it sounded like a laugh. “I was in safe hands with my husband, Mr. Young, but you wouldn’t believe the trouble we’ve gotten into.”
He could though. Morgan had done his reading: first there was the Lullaby Killer, then his psychotic sister who’d posed as a prostitute to get close to her victims. If that wasn’t already enough, the Anarchy killer had soon made it into Mason’s life, and that was before he brought down the Malice killer. If Mason Black attracted anything, it was trouble.
“To be honest with you,” Diane continued, “the fee doesn’t bother me. We’re not rich, but we have money. More than anything I just want my husband back. I feel so helpless here. Are you married, Mr. Young?”
“I am,” Morgan said, turning to look at a picture of him and Rachel. It sat on the mantel above the fireplace, and it showed them both in their younger years, back when they’d first gotten married. Rachel’s dress was stunning, and she’d gotten it for a steal.
“Then you can imagine how this feels.”
“Like you’d never believe. Hey, can you tell me something?”
“Sure.”
“Amy says Mason had some correspondence with an outside contact. Some old friend?”
“That’s right.”
“Did he say specifically where he was meeting this friend?”
Diane paused, as if he’d asked something rude. “Didn’t Amy tell you?”
“No, she didn’t say.”
“Oh. According to the text messages, they were planning to meet in a Heidi’s parking lot.”
Morgan hurried across the room, grabbed a pen, and jotted it down. “Heidi’s? The supermarket? That’s a strange choice. Do you know which branch?”
“It’s not that strange. They were planning to grab beer there and then go somewhere quiet. Mason has always been like that—if he can drink cheap, he will. Anyway, I think the one they were heading to is near you.”
“Langley?”
“That’s the one.”
Morgan set down the pen and paced the room. “I’ll get on it right away. In the meantime, if there’s anything I can do—”
“Actually, there is.”
Morgan gripped the phone. “What is it?”
“First, I’d like to give you permission to start the case. If Amy doesn’t sign the contract, I will. You can tell her as much. I’ll pay the whole fee, plus a bonus if you get him back without a scratch on him. Although I don’t think that’s in your control.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“As soon as it’s signed, can you send Amy home?”
Morgan opened his mouth to reply, but then he heard the dining room door click open. A shadow elongated across the hallway floor and then Amy appeared in the doorway with the contract in her hand. Giving a thin, kind smile, she handed it over.
“Is that Diane?” she asked. “Can I speak to her?”
Morgan nodded and held up his finger, instructing her to wait. “I’ll send her home, Mrs. Black. And please, rest assured I’ll find your husband.”
He handed over the phone and took the contract. While Amy went to the window, Morgan perused the sheets, saw they were signed, and knew he could get straight to work. With that out of the way, he went to the bureau in the corner of the room and filed it away, listening in on the conversation as discreetly as he could.
“Honestly, I’m fine,” Amy said, tucking her blonde hair over her ear. “No, they’re good people. He called a cop over, and I think he’s going to help. He reminds me of Bill.”
Morgan closed the bureau and wondered who Bill was. He knew from the file that there was somebody by that name who’d worked alongside Mason on the police force all those years ago. He wondered if that was him.
“Sure. I signed it,” Amy went on, slumping onto the couch and leaning forward. She looped one arm around her legs as if to cradle her knees. “No need to get her involved. It’d probably end up in the magazine anyway. I know that’s not a bad idea, but I don’t want her to worry. That’s just—Okay, fine. See you soon.”
When she hung up, Amy crossed the room and handed over the phone, smiling.
“Everything okay?” Morgan asked, trying his best not to make it obvious he’d been listening.
“Yep. Listen, I have to go. Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Young.” Amy extended a hand.
“It’s Morgan to you. And put that away.” He gently nudged her hand as if to hide it from sight, like it was a great secret she’d be in trouble for spilling. “Save it for when I get your father back, okay? Until then, I’ll give you a ride to the airport.”
Amy nodded, her trusting eyes glowing. “You really think you can find him?”
“I know I can,” Morgan said.
But that was only half-true.
Chapter Four
The Taker had spent a great deal of money on The Pit—a sort of safe room she’d had built in the garage attached to her house. After inheriting a large sum of money from her parents, she’d bought a home and started hiring multiple people to make renovations. Since its completion, she’d had a number of people inhabit The Pit, only finishing them off when the time came to find new occupants. Then, she would kill them and dispose of the body before moving on to the next. As long as she stuck to that rule—only one person at a time—she was safe.
The Pit wasn’t exactly that by definition. It was a metal container built into the ground, with a sealing hatch and a ventilation system to provide oxygen. Unlike other safe rooms, the only way out from the inside was to enter a passcode into a panel by the hatch, and the numbers had been selected at random so as not to be deciphered by a smartass. Not that anyone knew of the hatch; it was her biggest secret, which was why she’d also had the garage door removed and bricked up, as well as having it soundproofed.
Tonight, days after having taken her latest victim, The Taker thought it was finally time to greet her guest. She entered the garage and set down the bag of food, spinning the wheel on the hatch door. It already stank of fast food in here, but it was all she could provide until she had the time and patience to go shopping.
When the door was open, the light automatically blinked on. Before she knew it, she was staring down into the eyes of Mason Black, who blinked in perfect synchronization with the bright bulbs. He was a mess; his facial hair was growing fast, his skin dirty and pale. His eyes were hollows that looked like black holes. The Taker guessed that was bound to happen after only leaving him with two bottles of water to last as long as they had. Looking at them now, empty and squeezed in the middle, she guessed that hadn’t been long.
“Who are you?” Mason asked, squinting to look up at her. The room below wasn’t big. It was less than fifteen feet across each wall, and the height matched. It was just tall enough so nobody could jump for their escape. Not after she’d removed the ladder, anyway.
“Who I am is of no concern to you,” The Taker said. She took a length of rope with a hook on the end and used it to pierce the McDonald’s bag. She then carefully placed the cup of Sprite into the bag and proceeded to lower it into The Pit, feeding the rope through her hands. “All you need to know is that you belong to me now. Every breath you take is a gift from me, and I want you to consider that before you get any wild thoughts of seeing daylight again. There’s no way out of here unless I let you out, so I’d rather you didn’t try. Is that understood?”
Mason scrunched up his face, crawling to study the bag. His jaw ground from side to side as he peered inside. He must’ve been starving, b
ut he wasn’t showing it. “This is some kind of joke, right?”
“Does it look like a joke to you?”
“This… Is there a camera in here? Is this some sick—”
“For God’s sake, it’s not a joke,” The Taker said, pulling the rope back up and realizing just how prominent her English accent was. “Now eat your food and listen. Can you do that?”
Mason hesitated and took a French fry from the bag. He looked at it, sniffed it, then looked at it again before popping it in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed audibly. After waiting for seconds—as if that was all it would take for poison to start coursing through his bloodstream—he held the bag close and retreated to the far wall, stuffing his face like a greedy kid at a birthday party. There was the hunger she’d expected.
“I’m going to treat you well,” The Taker said. “As I’ve already explained, you belong to me, and I take good care of my things. I’m going to feed you, give you water, and we can even find a way for you to clean yourself. As for your… business… well, it looks like you found the bucket. It does flush, you know. Just pour it into that grill.”
Mason ignored every word, putting as much food in his mouth as possible. Neither of them said anything until he was finished, his stomach and the crisp paper bag the only noises other than the ventilation system churning behind the steel walls. When the bag was empty, he threw it across the room and sat up, glaring up at her with bloodshot eyes. “I’ll find a way out of here. You know that, don’t you?”
The Taker smiled. “Nobody else did.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re not the first, and if you don’t learn to respect me, then you’ll be gone.” She let the last words hang, hoping they would settle and he would know exactly what she meant. Of course, she didn’t really want to let him go—he was her specimen, looking all handsome and gruff, even on the fringe of death. Still, if she could take away his hope, then he’d become more flexible—more bendable to her will.
“Where exactly would I go?”
“Away.”
“Somewhere dark and dangerous, I guess?”
“You know the drill.”
“Well, lady, you’re not the first psychopath I’ve come across.”
“Oh, I know.” The Taker laughed. “I’ve done my research, and I know all about the Lullaby Killer. The thing you need to remember is that he and I are very different.”
Mason scoffed. “How’s that?”
“For one, he was a lunatic with no self-control.”
“How is that any different?”
The Taker narrowed her eyes and met his gaze. She dropped her wry smile, letting him know she was serious—that if he messed with her, he wouldn’t live to regret it. “Because,” she said, “I wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet through your skull and bury you in the backyard. As I said before, you’re mine.”
Mason shot to his feet, scrambling across the floor and leaping up toward the gap. The Taker recoiled on instinct, but he couldn’t reach. He was helpless. “I’m going to get out of here, you bitch. You hear me? I’m going to get out and wring your damn neck!”
“Not likely,” The Taker said. Had she not explained herself clearly enough? She thought she had, so why didn’t he understand? After one short conversation, he was already acting out.
She had to teach him a lesson.
With no further comment, she shut the hatch, drowning out his screams of anger and rage. While she twisted the wheel, she reveled in the newfound silence of the room, grinning to herself. She was in control of this situation, and as she’d just explained, she wasn’t going to be spoken to like that. This was just one of her many forms of punishment; Mason would stay there until she saw fit, and until she decided to open that door again, he could damn well starve.
Chapter Five
While Gary worked the night shift, Morgan spent hours working through the file to get a clear sense of what Mason Black was like. From the outside looking in, he was an effective cop who loved his family, even if he did have a bit of a temper. There were articles claiming that he’d bullied people aside to enter crime scenes and one even speculating that he’d killed Marvin Wendell—the infamous Lullaby Killer.
Morgan found himself fascinated by this guy’s life, and he read until the sun rose, only putting his head down for a couple hours of rest before the alarm on his phone began to chime. Immediately, he got up off the couch, washed the drowsiness away in the shower and then he drove over to Gary’s to pick him up.
When he arrived, Gary climbed into the passenger seat and buckled up. Morgan couldn’t help but notice his eyes were bloodshot, and the faint shadow of a beard covered his thin cheeks. “Christ,” he said. “You look like death warmed up.”
“You don’t look so great either.” Gary pointed at the road. “Drive.”
Morgan obeyed the command, taking a quick glance at himself in the mirror. It turned out Gary was right—the long night of research proved to have a huge impact on his appearance, giving him the same redness as his friend. Not that he had a choice though; he was working, and time was of the essence.
They reached the Heidi’s parking lot within minutes, stepping out into the cold winter air and glancing around. The first thing Morgan noticed was that there were a lot of cars here—far too many to pick out Mason’s black Mustang. The second thing was that there was a vendor in a burger trailer on the exterior of the lot. Instead of wheels, the trailer rested on cinder blocks, indicating this was its permanent position.
Morgan figured it couldn’t hurt to try. “Let’s check it out,” he said to Gary.
They approached side by side, standing at the empty counter while a tall black man hunched inside. He wore a pink shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a stained, white apron that covered most of his body. He smiled, but it wasn’t authentic.
“What can I get you?”
“Some information,” Gary said.
“You cops?”
Morgan always opted to avoid that question. Sure, Gary was a cop, but he didn’t want to lie and say he was with the MPD too. His go-to response was to ask another question, throwing the receiver off balance. “We’re looking for a man who was here over five nights ago. White, over six foot, built like a warrior, and drove a Mustang. You see him?”
Behind the man, a young woman—maybe around twenty years old—entered the trailer with a big bag of buns. She slipped them onto the side and smiled at Morgan, then disappeared behind the chef.
“Nah, I don’t see many white folk around here,” the man said.
“You’re sure?” Morgan dug into his pocket and pulled out a copy of Mason’s photo. He held it out, forcing it into the man’s view. “This is him. Please take a good look. Are you certain?”
The young woman peered over the counter, staring down at the photograph with all the curiosity of a hungry kitten. When she got a good view, her eyes widened, and she tapped the man on the arm. “Hey, there’s that guy you were talking about.”
Morgan shot a sideways glance at Gary. “So you did see him?”
The chef rolled his eyes and pulled his arm away from the woman, telling her to go and buy some more condiments. He pulled a thin roll of dollars from his pocket and shoved it into her open palm. “Look,” he said, turning back to them and leaning on his hands, “this isn’t the kind of neighborhood where white folk do so well. There are rules here, you understand? That means if you see something strange, you keep it to yourself. If a white man goes missing and cops come asking for him, you just go about your business.”
“That’s a coincidence,” Gary said. “Because we never told you he was missing.”
“Didn’t I just—”
“I know you saw something,” Morgan intervened, putting the photo back in his pocket. “And I respect that you’re trying to keep yourself under the radar, but this man’s wife and daughter are waiting for him to come home. We have no idea where he is, but it’s important that we find him. If someone you k
new went missing, wouldn’t you want them back?”
“Depends if it’s my wife or not.”
Morgan laughed under his breath, but he maintained his pleading stare.
The man stared back. He finally sighed. “Fine. All right. I was packing up a few nights ago, and I saw someone creeping around the outside of the parking lot. It looked suspicious, so I followed them. Eventually I lost them, but in the corner of the lot was the man in the photograph. He was next to his Mustang. A black one, right? Nice body kit?”
Morgan nodded.
“Anyhow, I returned to my work. A few minutes went by, and that Mustang rolled out of the gates. Only it wasn’t the man driving. Now, don’t ask me who it was—I only got a brief glimpse—but I know the driver had longer hair than him.”
“Longer hair?” Gary said. “Was it a woman?”
“Like I said, I don’t know.”
Morgan thanked the witness for his time. His heart was heavy with grief for Amy and Diane Black as he stepped back into the parking lot and stood looking at the corner where Mason Black had vanished. That area of the lot was now busy with people coming and going, so any evidence was probably corrupted. There was, however, a security camera on the corner, and although it didn’t cover the right spot, maybe it could help.
“Come on,” he said to Gary, storming toward the Heidi’s entrance.
“Where are we going?”
Morgan only pointed to the camera, and behind him he heard one word.
“Right.”
Chapter Six
If one thing went in their favor, it was the head of security letting them into the back office to view the tapes. Morgan should’ve known then and there that nothing after would come easy. After all, he’d been in this situation one too many times, and it never got easier.
Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection Page 79