by Meg Gardiner
The Midnight Man seeped through cracks like black oil, and she couldn’t get a grip on him. She felt utterly defeated.
She put a hand on the Suburban and staggered around to the far side. In the dark, she pressed her back to the side the SUV and slid to the ground.
The wave was gathering itself again. It was a darker dark than water, colder, heavier, malevolent. It was a rising wall of rage and fear, inexorable, inescapable. She scraped at the scabs on her forearms. A row of cuts now ran between her wrists and her elbows. She wrestled off her peacoat and shoved up the sleeves of her sweater and scratched everywhere the cuts could be torn open.
The pain was insufficient.
She wanted a razor blade. Needed it. The blade was clean. The blade executed her intent. The blade drew straight and shockingly true. The desire was overpowering.
She took out her drop-point knife.
Just one cut, she thought. One cleansing, flashbulb burst of pain. Then she’d be in control.
Under the glow of a nearby streetlight, she saw her reflection in the gleaming surface of the knife. She looked indistinct. Distorted. Beaten.
The knife trembled in her hand. Just once.
She turned her left wrist up, toward the night sky. Her skin was winter pale, except where it was scored with half a dozen stripes. The knife hovered over her arm.
She hesitated. Just once was a lie. There was no once. Just as there was no such thing as being in complete control.
But there was something else. She knew there was. Trying to reach her.
Creating the pain would be so easy. All it would require was gravity. Let the knife fall toward her arm, let it punish, bring forth blood, flood her system with adrenaline. Resisting was harder. Why defy the urge, when she wanted, lusted for, the pain? Why hold back, when the night, the earth, the seething angels that bit at her conscience, said, Do it? Why fight the monstrous beautiful pull of the wave?
The knife gleamed, light licking it. Yet she didn’t cut.
Sean’s words came back to her. I need you to remember that you’re not alone.
The blade waited.
Her voice came as a harsh exhalation. “What am I doing?”
Sean hadn’t just been mouthing platitudes. He’d been serious. As serious as blood. And here she was, curled on a curb, leaning against the wheel well of an SUV, thinking of calming herself with a knife.
She needed to get her ass off the ground and get inside the crime scene.
Forcing herself to breathe, she sheathed the knife. For a second she stared into the night.
The cold centered her. She closed her eyes and breathed in, breathed out. More of Sean’s words came back to her. The eyes. Who are they watching? Who’s supposed to see?
She thought. The eyes painted on the billboard near the Guillorys’ house—they seemed to be peering down. Not, as at the other crime scenes, directly ahead.
Why?
As she thought, she opened her eyes and refocused. Her gaze lengthened to take in the spread of Whitehorse Drive. And the street sign at the corner, where the emailed video had shown the killer walking less than an hour earlier.
She stood. Shoving down her sleeves and grabbing her coat, she headed for the street sign. Her pulse pounded.
Whitehorse Drive ended in a T-junction at the corner. Beyond it, across from the street sign, there was nothing but a vacant lot. No homes, no buildings.
No surveillance cameras.
“The hell,” she said.
She ran across the street to the vacant lot, pulling out her phone. When she rewatched the video, her blood turned colder than the air.
The camera in the video hovered, not always steadily, several feet above eye level—approximately at the height of the street sign. Hell no. She looked at the night sky. The stars sparkled, breaking through the haze of light pollution. She heard muffled conversation and police radios up the street, and the distant rush of traffic on the 110 freeway a few blocks away. Directly overhead, there was no sound. No planes, no helicopters, no birds.
It was quiet, but how many times recently had she heard a buzzing noise?
She ran across the intersection and up Whitehorse Drive, back to the crime scene. At the front door she stopped.
“Emmerich,” she shouted. “Somebody’s been watching everything with a drone.”
36
Inside the ranch house, Emmerich turned, alarmed. He left the detective he was speaking to and came out to the porch.
“Drone,” Caitlin said.
She explained in a brusque burst, playing the video as she walked with him along the sidewalk toward the street sign.
“Who sent the video to you?” Emmerich said.
“It came to the LAPD. I’m on the distribution list.” She forwarded it to him.
He continued walking as he phoned Keyes. “Need you to trace the incoming path of an email.”
At the dark corner of Whitehorse Drive, Emmerich played the video of the Midnight Man. His breath wreathed his face in the cold air.
“It’s almost steady, but at the start of the video, the camera seems to be in motion,” he said.
“The drone getting into position?”
“It had to have been following him for at least a few seconds before this. The video’s been edited to appear that it was a stationary camera and he simply walked into frame.”
His phone rang. He answered, “Keyes. Talk.” He listened, said, “Thanks,” and hung up. “The email address has been spoofed.”
“So who sent the video to the LAPD?”
“And why camouflage the original address?”
“Today’s version of an anonymous tip to the cops?” Caitlin said. “Was it a journalist? A random voyeur? A vigilante?”
Emmerich glanced skyward and peered around the street. “Possibly it was a lucky break. Somebody could have surreptitiously launched their drone earlier when the LAPD was called to investigate the billboard vandalism.”
“Undoubtedly illegal.”
“FAA rules would preclude flying at night, or near a police operation. Not to mention invasion of privacy if the drone filmed someone’s family or personal activity without permission.”
It made sense. But from the way Emmerich was examining the night—like an owl, eyes alert—he had the same doubts Caitlin did. Luck seemed too fortuitous. And as a detective, she’d become cynical enough to think coincidence rarely existed.
“This isn’t the first time somebody has intruded in the investigation,” she said.
His head swiveled.
“When Hannah came downtown to the war room. Somebody lured her out of the canteen at LAPD headquarters. He claimed to be a detective.”
Emmerich spun and walked briskly back toward the crime scene, with Caitlin hurrying alongside.
“Get downtown,” he said. “Check it out.”
The war room still felt brightly dismal, but the tinsel had been restored to the top of the big-screen TV. When Caitlin swept in, the room was busy. Detective Weisbach was at her desk. Eyes gritty but energized—possibly with equal doses of apprehension and purpose. As Caitlin approached, she stood and shook her head.
“I checked—the man who claimed to be a detective when Hannah was here hasn’t been identified.”
“Even with video covering the main entrance to the building? Have you narrowed it down?” Caitlin said.
Weisbach spread her arms, gesturing around. “Multiple buildings in the complex, multiple points of entry. He could be one of many people who signed in before the incident.”
“How many is many?”
“Over a hundred.”
“Let me see the videos.”
“It’s hours’ worth.”
“All I have right now is time.”
Weisbach sent Caitlin a link and she opened her laptop.
“We presume he isn’t actually an LAPD detective, patrol officer, or employee,” Weisbach said. “And that he may have presented a fake ID when he signed in at the desk.”
Caitlin cued up the surveillance videos. She found herself holding her breath.
The videos unspooled, silent, jerky, minute after minute running by in accelerated time. She felt a queasy itch beneath her skin. After a few minutes, she realized why.
She feared that she might recognize the fake detective as the Ghost.
But she could identify no one. Not a single person who entered the lobby on the videos looked familiar. She felt no spooky sense of déjà vu. She was simultaneously relieved, baffled, and disappointed.
She sat down at the conference table and scraped her fingers through her hair.
Did the man who spoke to Hannah also send the drone video? If so, why the subterfuge?
She realized how twisted she had become about the Ghost. He had wormed his way deep into her head. There was zero—less than zero—evidence that he was in Los Angeles, or somehow involved in the Midnight Man case.
She wondered if she and Sean had spun an equally baseless conspiracy theory that he was involved with the bombings. That they’d tangled themselves in emotional barbed wire.
She texted Emmerich.
No luck identifying the man
who tricked Hannah into
talking. No link I can find
to the drone video. Will
continue digging.
A cold finger seemed to run up her spine. Damn. She had spirited the Guillory family away from the news cameras. But if a drone had been hovering, it could have followed her. She would never have heard it above the Suburban’s engine.
She phoned Mina Guillory.
“Agent Hendrix. Is something going on?”
“Just checking in to make sure everything’s okay.”
“Yeah. We’re fine. Wanted to get the kids home and put them to bed, and our friends didn’t need so much commotion at their place. We only got home a minute ago. All the cops and news vans are gone from our street, but …”
Caitlin pinched the bridge of her nose. She didn’t want to have to break it to the Guillorys.
“… but we caught sight of police cars in the neighborhood. I heard what happened.”
“Yes.”
“He was back in Bay Rise. I’m sorry I got snippy with you earlier at the house. You were watching out for us. And I’m extremely grateful you got us far away while”—Mina’s voice dropped to a near whisper—“what happened on Whitehorse Drive was going on.”
“It’s my job.”
Caitlin heard the relief in Mina’s voice, and appreciated it, but felt unsettled as well. “Are there any patrol units on your street?”
“Yeah—absolutely. We let the detectives know we were coming home. Police officers met us here and searched the house to make sure it was safe before we came back in. There’s a squad car stationed at the curb outside for our protection.”
“Good.” That, at least, reassured her. Caitlin said, “Tell Hannah good night,” and ended the call.
She set her phone on the conference table. She should get coffee and calories. Outside, headlights and taillights rivered through the streets, a solid glow. As full night descended, the city had grown ever busier. She stood up.
The Guillorys were all right. The cops were there. But a feeling nagged at her—that she was overlooking something.
“Weisbach,” she said. “Where are we with the thirty-seven cops’ kids with behavioral issues?”
The detective pressed her fists into the small of her back. “Working through the list. Eight have alibis, most still need to be contacted.”
Caitlin nodded. The nagging feeling endured. Did it relate to the Midnight Man? To the bombing case?
She didn’t know.
As the evening lengthened, the Guillorys’ house fell quiet. The Christ-mas tree lights sparkled in the living room. Tucked in bed, little Charlie plunged into depthless sleep. Mina and Dave stretched out on the sofa, exhausted, watching television.
The police car sat at the curb with its windows rolled up against the wintry cold. The cop behind the wheel blew on his hands and periodically fired up the engine to run the heater.
Bundled under her covers, Hannah lay dressed in her clothes, holding a hammer, trying to stay awake and keep watch.
In the attic, the Midnight Man hunkered, listening.
37
Mina Guillory squinted an eye open. Her shoulders felt stiff, her fingers chilly. She had dozed off with the TV droning. At her side, Dave was snoring.
The room seemed cold. She fumbled for the remote but before she turned the television off, she felt a draft. She stilled. Cold night air was unquestionably seeping through the house.
The draft was wafting down the hallway. She flipped on a lamp. Beside her on the sofa, her husband stirred.
“What?” he mumbled. Then he was instantly alert. “Mina?”
She stood, her stomach queasy, and walked to the top of the hallway. The draft felt stronger. She flicked the switch for the hall light.
The hatch in the ceiling that led to the attic was open, a yawning black square. Directly beneath it on the carpet were dusty footprints.
“Get the cop.”
The baseball bat was leaning against the living room wall. She grabbed it and ran for Charlie’s room. Dave tore out the front door toward the police car, yelling like a banshee. Mina raised the bat, threw open Charlie’s door, and charged in.
The door smacked the wall. Mina cocked the bat, like Big Papi winding up to swing, teeth gritted.
In his bed, sheets rumpled around his feet, Charlie lay with his butt in the air, sound asleep.
Relief poured through her, then more fear, like a rain of needles. She threw open the closet. Nothing. Outside she heard voices and a slamming car door and feet pounding across the lawn. Charlie stirred. She spun and ducked back into the hall.
The draft wasn’t coming from the attic. It was coming from Hannah’s room.
She ran toward it, heart racing, fears flailing, as Dave came charging around the hallway corner with the officer.
He pointed. “There.”
The door to Hannah’s room was open a few inches. The officer said, “Step back, ma’am,” but Mina poked the end of the bat against the door and shoved it all the way open. She flipped on the light.
“Jesus lord.”
Hannah’s bed was empty.
The curtains shivered. The window gaped wide. The screen had been kicked out. Mina and Dave ran to the windowsill. Footprints marked the grass outside. Two sets.
Hannah was gone.
38
Caitlin muscled the Suburban around a corner onto the Guillorys’ street. Ahead, Solis and Weisbach braked in front of the house. Everyone jumped out into a night soaked with cold. The home, the road, and nearby intersections were swarming with patrol cars and uniformed officers. LAPD cruisers were parked crossways at corners. Flashlights swung through the bushes in nearby yards. Searching. Overhead, above the dazzle and darkness of the city, the stars raged down.
They were in overdrive, juiced on sick adrenaline. Caitlin caught up with the LAPD detectives as they hurried toward the house. The strain on Weisbach’s thin face spoke for them all. If they couldn’t locate Hannah in the next few hours, the girl was dead.
Every window at the house blazed with light. The Guillorys were chasing away the night the only way they could and lighting the home like a beacon. We’re here, Hannah.
Uniformed officers were already inside. In the living room Dave Guillory was digging through papers at a desk near the Christmas tree. Charlie slumped on the sofa in his pajamas, feet dangling, thumb in his mouth. Mina sat beside him, stroking the little boy’s hair. When Caitlin and the detectives walked i
n, she jumped up. Her eyes were as hot as a blowtorch.
“How’d he get in? The police searched the house. We locked up. How?”
“We’re going to figure that out,” Weisbach said. “But first we need to find your daughter.”
Dave pulled out the drawer and dumped it on the desktop. “This has got to be where I put the login password for Hannah’s phone. I’m sure.”
He continued digging through papers. In the kitchen, several other drawers had been pulled out and rummaged through.
Caitlin spoke evenly, hoping to cool Mina down a few degrees. “I’m playing catch-up. I take it you’ve searched the house for the phone.”
“Every inch. Called it. Not here.”
She glanced at Solis. “Cell tower triangulation?”
“The phone company’s on it,” Solis said.
Dave rifled papers. “But if I can access the account, I’ll activate ‘find my phone.’ Locating it with GPS will be quicker and more accurate. Right?”
“Right,” Solis said.
“I should have set that up already. Should have posted the login someplace obvious. But Hannah’s so responsible, I didn’t think she’d lose the phone. Or that we’d lose …”
His voice cracked. He clenched his jaw, pressed his fists against the desktop, and breathed.
“Keep looking,” Solis said. He turned to Mina. “And you can help us best by telling us everything that happened tonight, down to the last detail. And everything about Hannah.”
Mina forcibly calmed herself. “We gave a description of what she’s wearing to the patrol officers. We gave them photos of her. We’ll give you anything.”
Behind them on the sofa, Charlie softly began to cry.
Mina turned sharply, as though to hush him, then went to the couch, sat, and pulled him against her side. Her eyes remained fiery.
A uniform approached. He was young and pale, and from the way he avoided looking at Mina, Caitlin guessed he was the officer who’d been stationed outside the house when Hannah was taken.
“She was apparently wearing street clothes,” the officer said. “Her pj’s were folded on her desk chair and her Chuck Taylors aren’t in the closet.”