by Chris Carter
‘Who the hell is this?’ Captain Blake whispered in Hunter’s ear.
Hunter’s shrug was followed by a subtle shake of the head.
The camera panned out just enough to reveal that the young man was sitting on a heavy metal chair. His arms were bound together behind his body, securing him to the chair’s backrest. His bare feet were tied to the chair’s leg by his ankles. The white T-shirt he had on, just like his hair, was dirty and soaked with sweat.
‘Look up.’ They all heard the Werewolf command the young man. ‘Look into the camera.’
Slowly, the man did as he was told.
The Werewolf zoomed in to focus solely on his face. The man’s eyes were filled with absolute terror.
‘Don’t be shy,’ the Werewolf said. ‘Introduce yourself to the detective.’
Just like that, the young man’s eyes were completely over-taken by tears, but on hearing the word ‘detective’, Hunter also saw something else appear in them – hope.
‘Please, help me,’ the man said in a barely audible voice that was strangled by tears.
‘Stay calm,’ Hunter said in return, his voice steady. ‘We’ll get to you. Trust me.’
‘“Please help me” isn’t your name, is it?’ the Werewolf said.
The man’s terrified eyes wavered just a little, before refocusing on the camera.
‘Tell him your name,’ the Werewolf commanded again, this time with anger.
‘My name is Clay . . .’ the man said, amid more tears. ‘Clay Heath.’
Immediately, Garcia took down the name.
‘Tell them your address,’ the Werewolf ordered. ‘Where do you live?’
‘I . . . I live with my parents at . . .’ Clay paused for an instant, as if he had forgotten his own address. ‘Apartment 15, 2098 Butler Avenue, West LA.’
Garcia noted down the address.
‘Now tell them what you do.’
‘What I do?’ Clay looked confused.
‘Yes,’ the Werewolf confirmed. ‘What do you do for work?’
Clay shook his head at his captor. ‘I don’t have a job. I’m a . . . full-time student at UCLA.’
‘Tell the camera, not me.’
Clay looked at the camera and repeated what he’d just said.
‘Clay,’ Hunter said. ‘Try to stay cal—’
‘Shut the fuck up, Detective.’ The Werewolf cut Hunter short. ‘This isn’t a dialogue. This isn’t a conversation. This is a lesson.’
‘A lesson?’ Hunter asked.
The frown on everyone’s faces intensified.
‘Yes, a lesson, so do pay attention.’ The Werewolf addressed Clay again. ‘Tell them what you study at UCLA.’
‘Umm . . .’ Clay looked lost again. ‘My major is . . .’ It took him a couple of seconds to remember. ‘Chemistry.’ Tears returned to his eyes and his voice sounded suffocated. ‘Help me . . . please . . . help me.’
Right then, the picture shook for an instant, followed by a clicking sound, then the picture stabilized again.
The Werewolf had placed the phone on a holder.
On Hunter’s small screen, they all saw Clay’s eyes look up before his head began slowly moving left. Hunter immediately read the movement as Clay’s gaze following the Werewolf as he moved from behind the phone.
In a flash, Hunter swung away from everyone else in the office, once again trying to keep the other room occupants from being spotted by the Werewolf.
Hunter was right. All of a sudden, the Werewolf appeared behind Clay’s chair. Since the phone camera was focusing on Clay’s face, all Hunter could see of the Werewolf was part of his torso. Whoever he really was, he was, without a doubt, a very fit and strong individual.
‘All right,’ the Werewolf said. ‘Let’s get back to our lesson, shall we?’ Three silent seconds went by. ‘I’m sure that you’ve understood the rules that I’ve put to you. I’m also sure that you understand the consequences, should you break any of them or fail to accomplish them in time.’
‘I have, yes,’ Hunter replied, as he checked his watch. He now had less than four minutes to get to the Downtown Independent Theater.
‘So the lesson right here is . . . don’t fuck with me, Detective Hunter. If you do, this will happen to the thieving bitch.’
The Werewolf’s gloved left hand grabbed hold of Clay’s hair, pulling his head back and exposing his naked neck. A fraction of a second later, the Werewolf’s right hand appeared in the picture. Firm in its grasp was a shining, stainless-steel hunter’s knife. Its razor-sharp blade connected with the flesh on Clay’s throat so fast, Hunter almost missed it.
‘No,’ he yelled, but it was all too late. In the blink of an eye, the blade sliced Clay’s throat from left to right as if it were going through nothing but thin air. A river of blood spurted out of the gaping wound and began running down the young man’s body.
Hunter saw Clay’s eyes roll up in surprise and horror, as all hope vanished from them in a split second.
No one was coming to help him.
No one was coming to save him.
Clay knew that now.
His mouth dropped open as his body began to instinctively fight for survival. He gasped for air, emitting a gurgling shriek that sent goosebumps up and down everyone’s spine, but his fight – his desperation – made no difference. Oxygen would not reach his lungs anymore, as his windpipe had been severed by the shining blade.
The Werewolf held Clay’s head back, displaying the large open wound on the young man’s throat. Blood continued to cascade down his torso like a slow-running, red and viscous waterfall.
Clay’s eyes blinked slowly – once . . . twice . . . three times . . . and then no more.
His body gave up fighting.
His throat stopped gasping.
Life left the young man forever.
‘You sonofabitch,’ Agent Silva yelled. At that moment, he couldn’t care less if the Werewolf knew he was there or not. But the Werewolf also didn’t seem bothered by the fact that there were others listening in.
‘Lesson concluded,’ the Werewolf said, letting go of Clay’s head, his voice arctic.
Clay’s lifeless body slumped forward on the chair. Blood still poured down his torso like a live crimson shroud.
‘You have . . . two minutes and forty-eight seconds to accomplish the first task.’ The Werewolf added, ‘If I were you, I’d get going.’
The killer disconnected.
Seventy-One
Despite Hunter’s rage and total dismay at what he’d just witnessed, he knew that he needed to run to make it to the Independent Theater in time. There was no time to be angry or disgusted.
Hunter grabbed the diary, jammed the smartphone that the Werewolf had sent him into his pocket and rushed out of his office.
It took him thirty-nine seconds to cross the detectives’ floor and fly down six flights of stairs to the PAB ground floor.
Two minutes and nine seconds left.
Instead of running out the main entrance door, which would drop him on West First Street, Hunter ran past the large reception desk and up a new set of stairs on the east side of the building. Those stairs took him to an outside garden that overlooked South Main Street.
One minute and forty-four seconds left.
Hunter shot through the garden, disregarding the ‘please stay off the grass’ sign, and made his way to the outside stair-case that would take him to the street below. Seventeen seconds later, he had landed on South Main Street, just past a Mexican restaurant called Señor Fish.
One minute and twenty-seven seconds left.
From where Hunter had landed, it was a straight line to the Downtown Independent Theater, 170 yards ahead of him. Without even catching his breath, he took off like an Olympic sprinter. As he crossed West Second Street on a red pedestrian light, Hunter forced a motorbike to swerve hard left, almost causing an accident.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ he heard the bike rider yell, as he got to the sidewalk o
n the other side.
One hundred yards to go.
One minute and sixteen seconds left.
The sidewalk wasn’t at all crowded, which made things easier. Hunter covered the remaining one hundred yards in sixteen seconds, leaving him exactly one minute to purchase a ticket, get into the theater and find seat K16.
Hunter was lucky. As he got to the ticket office there were only two people in front of him, a young couple who looked to be in their early twenties. The film showing was Send Me to the Clouds.
The young couple purchased their tickets and went inside.
‘One please,’ Hunter said in an urgent voice, as he got to the ticket office. ‘Are there assigned seats to the show?’
The cashier, a slim gentleman in his mid-sixties, looked back at Hunter with tired eyes.
‘There are indeed,’ he replied, swerving his computer monitor around so Hunter could see the seating plan. ‘The seats in blue are free,’ the old man said. His voice sounded like he’d been smoking and singing the blues for most of his life. ‘The ones in red are taken.’
‘Seat K16 is taken?’ Hunter asked, blinking at the seating plan.
‘Is it red?’ the old man asked.
‘Yes,’ Hunter replied.
‘So it’s taken.’
The next available seat on row K was seat number fourteen.
‘OK, I’ll take K14 then,’ Hunter said, checking his watch – thirty-eight seconds left.
‘That will be sixteen thirty-five, please.’
Hunter gave the old man a twenty-dollar bill. ‘Keep the change.’
Twenty-nine seconds left.
Hunter practically threw his ticket at the attendant as he passed him.
‘Sir,’ the young boy called ‘You need the stub for the seat.’
But Hunter wasn’t listening anymore. He had already turned the corner into a short corridor. Two seconds later, he pushed open the doors to the theater where Send Me to the Clouds was showing.
Twenty-four seconds left.
The film hadn’t started yet.
Hunter ran up the stairs to the last row of seats – row K. From the door, it took him four seconds to reach his assigned seat – K14. He didn’t take the seat. Instead he addressed the lady sitting on K16.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, displaying his credentials. ‘LAPD, I need that seat.’
‘Excuse me?’ the man who was sitting in seat K15 said, frowning at Hunter.
‘I’m so sorry, but I need seat K16,’ Hunter explained. ‘This is official business.’
Seventeen seconds left.
‘You need my girlfriend’s seat on official business?’ the man said, getting to his feet. Some odd quirkiness found its way into his tone.
Fourteen seconds left.
‘That’s correct,’ Hunter replied.
‘Oh, OK,’ the man continued. ‘And what official business might that be?’
Eleven seconds left.
Hunter didn’t have time for any of that. Instead of giving the man an answer, he pulled open the left side of his jacket to show him his weapon holster.
‘I really do need that seat, sir.’
Eight seconds left.
The man lifted his hands in surrender. His girlfriend, on the other hand, let out a loud yelp as she catapulted from her seat.
Every head inside the theater turned to look at the commotion happening on the last row of seats.
‘It’s OK,’ Hunter reassured them.
Two seconds left.
‘I’m not staying here,’ the woman puffed at her boyfriend, as she squeezed past Hunter.
The boyfriend tried to look Hunter in the eye.
‘I need your name,’ he said. ‘I’m going to make an . . .’
Time was up.
All of a sudden, they all heard a cellphone ring, which prompted everyone to stop and look around, trying to identify where the sound was coming from.
It rang again.
They all looked down.
Hunter pushed past the boyfriend and bent down to have a look at seat K16.
It rang again.
Hunter reached under the seat. Taped against the underside of it was a new cellphone. Hunter ripped the phone from the tape and looked at its screen – video call request.
Hunter accepted it and the Werewolf’s image materialized on the small screen once again.
‘Hello, Detective,’ the Werewolf said. ‘I’m glad you man-aged to get to the movie theater in time.’
‘What the fuck?’ the boyfriend said, pulling a face at Hunter.
With one finger, Hunter motioned him to be quiet. The gesture was so firm and authoritative that the man shut up immediately.
‘If you still have the cellphone I had delivered to you a few minutes ago,’ the Werewolf continued, ‘you can get rid of it now.’
Hunter retrieved the phone from his jacket pocket and dropped it on the seat.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Now what?’
‘Do you still have the diary?’
‘Of course,’ Hunter replied, lifting the leather-bound book so that the Werewolf could see it.
‘Excellent.’ A very quick pause. ‘Ready for task number two, Detective?’ There was no need for a reply. ‘I want you to use the emergency exit at the front of the room to leave the theater.’
Instinctively, Hunter looked up to check where exactly the emergency exit was – to the left of the screen.
‘OK, and where do I go?’
‘Do you know where the Grand Central Market is?’
‘Yes. South Broadway Street. Two blocks from here.’
‘That’s right,’ the Werewolf confirmed. ‘The male bathroom at the far end of the market. The last cubicle on the left. You have two and a half minutes to get there.’ The Werewolf pressed a button on his wristwatch. ‘Go.’
The line went dead.
Seventy-Two
As Hunter rushed down in the direction of the emergency exit, he heard Agent Shaffer’s voice come loud and clear into his left ear.
‘Roger those instructions, Detective Hunter. Teams are already on their way.’
‘Tell them to keep their distance,’ Hunter replied. ‘And not to approach the bathroom at the far end of the market.’
‘Of course.’
Under the watchful eyes of everyone inside the theater, Hunter flew down the stairs like a rocket. From row K, it took him nine seconds to reach the emergency exit by the screen.
Two minutes and twenty-one seconds left.
The theater’s emergency exit opened to a back alleyway that led to the building’s parking lot. Hunter had to zigzag between several cars to reach its west end, where he encountered his first problem – the iron-mesh gate that connected the parking lot to South Spring Street was chain-locked.
‘Shit!’ Hunter gasped, tugging at the chain as hard as he could.
‘What?’ Agent Shaffer’s voice exploded in Hunter’s left ear once again. ‘What’s shit? What’s going on, Detective?’
‘The gate at the back of the parking lot is chained. That’s why he wanted me to use the emergency exit. He knew that from there, this would be the fastest way to get to the Grand Central Market.’
Two minutes and seven seconds left.
‘Can you climb it?’ Agent Shaffer asked.
‘I could,’ Hunter replied. ‘But this is easier and faster.’
He reached inside his jacket for his Mark 23 pistol, took a step back from the gate, aimed at the padlock and pulled the trigger. The shot thundered down the alleyway and through the neighboring streets as if a bomb had gone off, but the .45-caliber bullet that exited the barrel of Hunter’s semi-automatic weapon practically disintegrated the padlock. The impact was so destructive that it also shattered a couple of loops from the chain, making the whole thing fall to the ground with a clatter. Hunter used the heel of his right boot to kick the gate open.
‘What the hell was that?’ Agent Shaffer asked in Hunter’s ear. ‘Did you just shoot the gate
open?’
‘Yep,’ Hunter replied, already sprinting down South Spring Street in the direction of West Third Street. ‘Pretty much.’
Hunter heard Agent Shaffer yell a ‘stand down’ order to his SWAT teams.
One minute and fifty seconds left.
Hunter got to the corner of South Spring Street and West Third and swung right, still sprinting west. He was a block and a half away from the Grand Central Market.
One minute and thirty-nine seconds left.
Hunter covered the next fifty yards with enough ease, but his heart was starting to thunder inside his chest. He could feel his nostrils beginning to struggle to suck in enough oxygen to feed his lungs. He could feel sweat running down his neck and back, the build-up of lactic acid in his muscles.
I’m definitely getting too old for this kind of shit, he thought, as he looked over his shoulder to check traffic conditions. At that time – end of office hours – traffic was chaotic.
Hunter needed to get across West Third Street and fast. He paused at the edge of the sidewalk and waited – one second . . . two . . . three . . .
Too long, he thought.
Four seconds . . . five . . .
One minute and twenty-one seconds left.
‘Fuck it,’ Hunter said out loud, and went for it.
His right foot touched the road and if the driver of the blue Mazda 6 that was coming toward him hadn’t been alert and slammed on the brakes as hard as he could, Hunter would probably have ended up with two broken legs.
The loud screeching of tires against the asphalt made every passer-by turn and look in Hunter’s direction. The fright made Hunter’s heart skip a couple of beats and his stomach perform an Olympic somersault. His hand intuitively came up to protect his body from the impact, making him almost drop the diary. The Mazda 6 managed to come to a full stop two inches from Hunter.