by Chris Carter
‘One more time.’
Hunter yelled it again.
‘And again.’
Hunter complied.
‘You have a powerful voice, Detective.’
There was a short pause, as if the Werewolf was thinking about his answer.
‘No,’ he finally announced. ‘The bitch dies. But I’ll call you again to let you know where you can go pick up her body . . . or whatever is left of it.’
The Werewolf terminated the call.
Hunter got back to his feet, and his gaze went back to the few guests still hanging around outside the hotel.
The Werewolf’s words kept ringing in Hunter’s ears. He didn’t know who or where the killer was, but there was one thing that he knew for sure – the Werewolf was wrong. He would call Hunter before that.
Eighty
Back at the PAB, Hunter and Garcia were immediately summoned into Captain Blake’s office.
‘What a fantastic shit-show this was,’ she said from behind her desk, as soon as Hunter gave her a rundown of what had happened, including the final phone call.
‘He was much better prepared to deal with us,’ Garcia said, ‘than we were to deal with him.’
‘Oh, you think?’ Sarcasm oozed from Captain Blake’s every pore. ‘He ran laps around the two of you, the LAPD SWAT and the SIS.’
Hunter kept his mouth shut and kept his eyes down on the floor.
‘Goddamn it,’ the captain continued, getting to her feet. ‘We’re talking about a very prolific serial killer here . . . and he was going up against one of the most prolific serial killer hunters this country has ever seen, and said serial killer has played you like a fiddle.’
Hunter’s eyes moved from the floor to meet Captain Blake’s.
‘You’re making this sound as if this is about reputations, Captain,’ Hunter came back, his voice showing annoyance.
‘No, I’m not. I’m making this sound like disappointment. How could this have happened so easily?’
‘Because he was calling the shots,’ Hunter replied. ‘We had to play by his rules and follow his commands. He always had the advantage because he knew what was coming . . . he knew what the next step would be because he was the one who created each step.’
Captain Blake closed her eyes and used the tip of her index finger to gently massage between her eyebrows. ‘So that poor girl – Angela Wood – she’s as good as dead.’
Garcia looked down at the floor in anger, accepting Captain Blake’s statement, but Hunter didn’t look so convinced.
‘Maybe not,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ the captain asked.
‘We’ll have to wait for his call.’
‘Oh, you mean the one where he gives you the location of where we can find her body,’ the captain said. ‘That was what he told you he would do, was it not?’
‘Yes,’ Hunter agreed. ‘But I have a . . .’ He gave his captain an almost imperceptible shrug. ‘A . . .hunch that he’s not done with us yet.’
‘Great!’ Captain Blake replied, throwing her hands in the air. ‘You and your goddamn hunches will end up giving me an ulcer, Robert.’
Eighty-One
After leaving Captain Blake’s office, Hunter spent the next hour sieving through the CCTV footage they had obtained from the camera on sublevel one of the Westin Bonaventure Hotel. He checked the images from before and after the fire alarm went off and on both occasions – as he entered and then as he exited the laundry room – the camera had caught who they believed was the man they called the Werewolf. The problem was, the man had clearly done his homework. He knew exactly where the CCTV camera was located, because all that Hunter and Garcia could see was a tall figure wearing a hood that had been pulled well over his head. Not once did the man look up, or even in the direction of the camera.
*
As Hunter parked his old Buick in the designated spot for his apartment, he took a moment to appreciate the Christmas decorations that graced some of his neighbors’ windows. There were flickering lights, fake snow, colorful stars, reindeers, Santa Clauses, Baby Jesuses, the three kings and even a full-sized Homer Simpson in a Santa outfit hanging out of a window on the fifth floor. Hunter’s window, on the third floor, was completely bare. He never really celebrated Christmas. Not now. He had when he was a kid, but after his mother was taken by cancer near Christmas, his father couldn’t bring himself to celebrate it anymore. Hunter grew up without the splendor of Christmas – no trees, no decorations, no lights. But his father would always buy him a gift and tell him that it had come from his mother.
Hunter breathed the memories away and checked his cellphone – no messages, no missed calls. He checked his watch – 8:55 p.m.
He felt exhausted. His feet hurt and his body ached from all the physical effort from earlier on. He closed his eyes, leaned back against the headrest and did the best he could to fight the awful feeling that was threatening to suffocate him, because he simply couldn’t stop thinking of Angela and the probable consequences of what he had done.
Was she really already dead?
Would the Werewolf have acted on impulse instead of checking his diary first?
Hunter had refused to believe that, but as the clock ticked away, certainty had turned to doubt, and doubt was now beginning to give way to fear.
He had been so lost in his thoughts, so concerned in fighting away the fear, that Hunter barely heard the back door on the passenger’s side being pulled open.
By the time he twisted his body to check what was happening, it was too late.
Eighty-Two
One minute earlier
From across the road, the man had been waiting patiently behind the wheel of his van. When he finally saw Hunter’s Buick turn left onto Seville Avenue, he smiled, pulled his beanie a little lower down on his forehead, readjusted the leather gloves on his hands and stepped out of his vehicle.
Using the night as cover, the man moved quickly and stealthily, crossing the road and keeping himself in the shadows. By the time Hunter had parked and shut off his engine, the man was already crouching down behind a blue SUV, two spaces to Hunter’s right. From the small of his back, he pulled out a 9mm semi-automatic pistol and got ready to make his move.
The man had expected Hunter to get out of the car straight away, but instead, the LAPD detective sat at the wheel with his eyes fixed on the building in front of him.
Stooping down, the man inched closer to hide behind Hunter’s car. He waited another couple of seconds, but still there was no movement from Hunter.
‘C’mon, c’mon. Get out of the car, Detective,’ he urged Hunter under his breath.
The man was absolutely sure that Hunter hadn’t spotted him. He was too good, too experienced, too professional to have made a mistake.
Quick change of plans.
If he’s not coming out, I’m going in.
The man moved right toward the passenger’s side, got his pistol ready and reached for the handle on the back door. He gave himself a count of one.
In a movement that was almost too fast to comprehend, the man pulled the door open and slipped into the backseat like a spider.
Hunter never saw him coming.
Game over.
Eighty-Three
Pure reflex kicked in and Hunter twisted his body right, in the direction of the noise.
Too late.
Before he could blink, Hunter found himself staring down the barrel of a 9mm semi-automatic pistol equipped with a sound suppressor.
‘Detective Hunter,’ the man said in his usual monotone voice. ‘So nice to finally make your acquaintance.’
Hunter’s gaze left the man’s weapon and settled on his face.
So this is the man behind the werewolf mask, Hunter thought. The man who sells his murders over the Dark Web.
The man Hunter was looking at was in his early forties, wearing a black beanie that had been pulled down low on his forehead. His eyes, as dark as a starless night, were so cold
that they could’ve belonged to a cadaver. He had a jagged scar traveling right across the bridge of his nose – a nose that had certainly been broken before – but that wasn’t the only scar that graced the man’s face. On his chin, a half-moon shape started at the left edge of his bottom lip and curved right, ending at the tip of his mandible. That particular scar hadn’t healed nicely, the skin was thick and leathery. The man’s face was square, his lips fleshy, his eyebrows thick and his jaw strong. His frame was muscular, but not the kind of muscle one got from working out at the gym. No, this was the kind of lean muscle you got from hard physical work. He wore midnight-black combat fatigues and black army boots.
Right then, Hunter thought that the man sitting on his backseat looked like an action hero. All that was missing was the five-day stubble.
‘OK,’ the man continued. ‘This is what I need you to do, Detective – I need you to turn around and face front. Then I need you to put both of your hands behind your seat, one on each side, as if you were giving your seat a backwards hug. Do it now.’
Hunter held the man’s eyes for a second.
The man chambered a round.
‘Now, Detective.’
Hunter turned around to face his apartment building once again before doing exactly as he was told.
In a breath and with incredible dexterity, the man zip-tied Hunter’s hands together.
‘OK,’ Hunter said. ‘So now what?’
Instead of replying, the man got out of the car through the driver’s side and opened Hunter’s door.
Hunter looked up at him, intrigued.
Still taking aim at Hunter’s face, the man reached into Hunter’s jacket to retrieve his weapon, his cellphone, his badge and his handcuffs.
‘Wow,’ he commented as he eyed Hunter’s piece. ‘A Heckler and Koch Mark 23 pistol? I can see you know your stuff, Detective.’ The man nodded at Hunter. ‘I like it. Old school and the preferred offensive weapon of the US Special Operations Command.’ The man secured Hunter’s gun against the small of his back. ‘Back-up weapons?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Hunter replied. ‘None.’
‘Well,’ the man shrugged. ‘I’ll check anyway.’
The man patted-down Hunter’s torso, legs and ankles. He found nothing.
‘Happy?’ Hunter asked.
The man smiled a cold smile. ‘I don’t even know what that word means anymore.’
Those words made the psychologist in Hunter stand to attention.
The man dropped Hunter’s handcuffs onto Hunter’s lap before reaching into one of his pockets to retrieve a large combat knife.
‘You and I are going for a little ride, Detective,’ the man said, as he used the knife to slice off the zip-tie and free Hunter’s hands. His pistol was once again aimed at Hunter’s head.
Hunter locked eyes with the man while massaging his wrists.
‘Now,’ the man continued, as he took a step back. ‘Grab those handcuffs and handcuff your hands behind your back. No need to get out of the car. Just lean forward a little. Do it now and do it slowly.’
Hunter followed the man’s instructions.
‘A ride?’ he questioned. ‘Where are we going?’
‘We’re going to go see your little friend, the thieving bitch,’ the man replied, now motioning Hunter to get out of the car.
Hunter did so.
‘Walk in front of me,’ the man commanded, jerking his chin in the direction of the road. ‘See that dark van just across the road there? That’s where we’re going. You make one wrong move and it will be the last thing you’ll ever do in this life. Are we clear?’
‘Crystal.’
They walked slowly and in silence until they reached the van. Once they did, the man slid the side door open.
‘Now face the van,’ the man ordered.
Hunter did.
The man noisily sucked his teeth as he shook his head. ‘You shouldn’t have done what you did, Detective. Now, because of your stupid little trick, I’ll have to show you what I’m capable of. I don’t only want you to see what I’m going to do to that little bitch. I want you to be there. I want you to smell her fear. I want you to hear her screams. I want you to taste her blood. But most of all, I want you to pick up her pieces.’
The man slammed his pistol’s grip onto the back of Hunter’s head.
Lights out.
Eighty-Four
As Angela Wood woke up with a start from a dreamless sleep, confusion set in almost immediately. She looked around the room frantically, her head moving jerkily, like a chicken searching for food, but darkness was all around her – dense and solid, enough to make her think that her eyes were closed when she knew that they were wide open. All of a sudden her body began shivering – a combination of fear and cold. She hugged herself to try to produce some heat, rubbing the goose-bumpy skin on her arms as vigorously as she could. She wasn’t naked, but she could feel that her clothes were a little damp. She grabbed the collar of her T-shirt and brought it to her nose. It didn’t smell like sweat.
‘Where the fuck am I?’
As soon as she uttered those words, Angela’s throat exploded in agonizing pain, making her cringe. Reflexively, her hand shot to her neck. That was when she finally remembered – the safe house, the knock on her bedroom door, the man, the painful prick in her neck.
Angela sat still for a long while, her breathing labored, her shivering intensifying. She pulled her legs towards her chest and made herself small, hoping for more heat. It was then that it finally occurred to her that she wasn’t restrained. She was cold and her clothes were damp, but other than the pain in her throat, she felt fine. She didn’t even feel dizzy. She extended her legs and then brought them back against her body again. Definitely no pain. She did the same with her arms – they felt fine.
Angela forced herself up into a sitting position and waited. No wooziness. No headache. She took a deep breath and tried to think.
The first thing she needed to do was figure out where she was. Her body felt a little stiff from lying on the hard, uncomfortable surface. She inspected it with her hands, feeling every inch around her – a metal-framed single bed fitted with a thin mattress.
Angela swung her legs over and sat at the edge of the bed, her bare toes touching the cold cement floor.
For a moment she hesitated – her fear battling with her desire to get the hell out of there.
Desire won.
She got to her feet but stood still for a second.
No dizziness.
Her legs didn’t feel weak.
Like a blind woman on a bad acid trip, her arms shot out in all directions, searching for something. She touched nothing but empty space. She turned to her right and took small steps, walking in a straight line. She counted her steps as she took them. Eight paces later, she came to a bare wall.
Angela extended her arms right, until she found a corner. That done, she faced left. She kept her right arm on the wall and with her left one she carried on feeling the way in front of her. Eight more paces and she hit a second wall. She faced left again and moved forward. This time she took only three steps. The wall went from bare cinderblock to solid metal – a door – but as soon as her hand touched it, for a fraction of a second, the whole room was lit by a blinding sparkle of light, as if a camera flash had gone off right in front of her. The sparkle was coupled with a loud popping noise. The electricity discharge was so surprising that Angela’s reflexes catapulted her back onto the bed. Pain exploded through her, making her whole arm feel as if it were on fire and her brain finally realize that escaping that room was downright impossible.
Eighty-Five
Hunter was brought back into consciousness by a bucket of icy water to the face. In a fright, he lifted his head from his chest and immediately began coughing, gasping for air. The sudden head movement made Hunter focus on a headache that could’ve raised the dead. It started at the back of his skull and traveled forward, enveloping his entire head, his eyes, nose and mouth
.
‘Wakey, wakey.’
Hunter was sitting down on some sort of sturdy metal chair – thick and heavy. His hands had been zip-tied together by the wrists behind the chair’s backrest. Each hand had then been zip-tied again to the backrest itself. His ankles had been zip-tied together in an ‘X’ shape, then each ankle had been individually zip-tied to the chair’s legs. No matter how much strength Hunter had left in him, he knew that he would never be able to free himself without a sharp instrument to cut them off.
The room he was in was wide and square, and the walls were made out of solid cinderblock.
Hunter lifted his chin up just a little to check the ceiling. Eight halogen-bulbs bathed the room in bright light. Across the room from the chair he had been zip-tied to, he could see a control desk with a large monitor mounted on the wall directly above it. To the right of the desk there was a tall metal cabinet filled with electronics and computer equipment. There was a second cabinet, to the right of that, which looked to be locked. To the left of the control desk there was a metal door. Leaning against it was the man who Hunter knew as the Werewolf. By his feet Hunter could see an empty metal bucket.
Hunter coughed again before shaking his head to try to get rid of some of the water that kept dripping from his wet hair into his eyes. The movement gave his headache a new surge of power.
The Werewolf lifted his right hand to show Hunter his diary. The back cover was missing.
‘I need the information that you’ve crossed out,’ he said. His voice was still monotone, but his anger was clear.
He flipped open the diary to reveal that the thin leather sheet that lined the inside of the front cover had been removed. All four lines of handwritten text that Vince Keller had discovered that same morning back in the Electronics Unit lab had been crossed out with a thick black marker. The information was impossible to read.
This was Hunter’s contingency plan.
That afternoon, once he’d heard the news that the Werewolf had murdered both SIS Agents at the safe house just to get to Angela, Hunter had called Keller and asked him to go back to the cover, note down all the information and then cross everything out. Keller had been skeptical about it. It was indeed a risky plan, but Hunter knew that the information on the flipside of the diary’s front cover was the only reason why Angela was still alive, and he had a hunch that the Werewolf would throw some sort of surprise at him at the exchange, if there was to be one at all. Hiding a tracker in the diary’s cover had been a good idea, but Hunter couldn’t risk going into the exchange without some sort of backup plan, no matter how desperate that plan might be.