Midnight Sun: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (A Grant & Daniels Trilogy Book 1)

by Raine, Charlotte

  “No,” I say, keeping my voice clipped. “I’m a special agent. Please take a step away from me.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He grins, jutting his hips forward. “I can role play, too. I bet you’d look good putting some handcuffs on me.”

  I’m already prepared, having gone through this charade twice before. I show him my badge.

  “Again,” I say, “please take a step away from me. I won’t ask a third time.”

  His face scrunches up, as his face turns red.

  “Fucking government workers.” He stomps away.

  I think about telling him he’s technically a government employee as well, but I can’t get into another bar fight. My supervisor got me out of being indicted last time and made it clear he wouldn’t do it again.

  “Another one, Jacob,” a man a few seats away from me says.

  “I don’t think so, Aaron,” the bartender says, drying a cup. “Your dad wouldn’t be too happy if he knew I was serving you at all, and you’re well on your way to spending the night with your head over the toilet.”

  “Forget my dad.” Aaron growls. “I’m an adult. I can make my own damn choices.”

  “What is it with policemen?” I ask him.

  He turns to look at me, his movements clumsy.

  “You always feel the need to be aggressive in order to get what you want.”

  “I don’t remember asking you.” He scowls at me. “So, unless you have some whiskey hidden behind that condescending attitude, you can mind your own business.”

  I shake my head. He barely even looks like an officer with his disheveled black hair, unruly beard, and his face red from alcohol. He appears to be in his late thirties, wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, and hiking boots. I would more likely assume he was a hiker or recently homeless, if it weren’t for the fact that his dark brown irises betray years of witnessing ugly crimes that could have been prevented if family, friends, neighbors, strangers, or himself had been a little bit more aware.

  “So, I take it you’re not a policewoman,” Aaron says as Jacob hands him another whiskey.

  I suppose when you’re a policeman, you get whatever you demand. “No,” I say, and sit up straighter, “I’m a special agent.”

  He snorts. “Special. Why do federal workers get that label? You don’t see detectives being called special detectives.”

  “It’s just a title.”

  “And this is just whiskey.” He raises his glass then takes a sip from it.

  I take out my phone. I don’t have time for this. I just closed a case on a group of bank robbers who had hit seven banks before we caught them. This guy doesn’t seem like he could get a cat out of a tree.

  My younger brother, Davy, sent me a text of his SAT scores. Davy is twenty-six years old, but he decided to try to go to college after getting his GED. I’m not quite sure how I feel about it since he has new aspirations every month and once there’s the slightest setback, he quits. The last thing I need is another sibling begging me for money, but Davy’s scores are in the sixtieth percentile, so I suppose I should give him the benefit of the doubt.

  I should do that, but I can’t change how I feel.

  “Where’s my keys?” Aaron grumbles, as I slid my phone back into my pocket. “Dammit all to hell.”

  Jacob waves the keys in his hand. “You gave them to me before you began drinking, remember?”

  “I remember,” Aaron snaps. He holds out his hand, but Jacob doesn’t drop the keys. “Jacob, for God’s sake, I’m not going to drink and drive. Do you really think I would endanger anyone else’s life? I just want my keys, and I’ll walk home.”

  “You said you were going to do that once and you ended up sleeping in your car,” Jacob says. “Just let me call your father.”

  “If you call my father, I swear to God, you’ll need that bucket of ice to stop your face from swelling after I hit you—”

  “Hey!” I stand up. “Why don’t you take a deep breath? There’s no need to threaten the bartender. He’s just doing his job.”

  Aaron glares at me. “I don’t even know you. You definitely don’t know me, so why don’t you go back to playing with your phone?” His face suddenly goes pale. He half-runs and half-stumbles over to the men’s room.

  I glance over at Jacob. “I’ll just take him home. Do you know where he lives?”

  Jacob nods. “Yeah, I can write it down for you.” He pulls some paper out of the receipt printer then jots an address down. “Just so you know…he wasn’t always a mess like this. He used to be an upstanding guy…the kind you would look up to.”

  “What happened?” I expect a story about how he fell off the wagon or how his wife cheated on him.

  “His family died in a fire.”

  Oh.

  Jacob hands me the address. It’s only a few miles from here.

  “Just…don’t take anything he does or says personally,” he says.

  Aaron walks back toward the bar, his movements slightly more coordinated.

  Jacob forces a smile. “Hey, Aaron, this nice woman said she would drive you home.”

  Aaron raises an eyebrow at me. “Are you a masochist?”

  “Apparently,” I drawl.

  “Then we’ll get along fine.” He gives me his first, genuine smile. “Because I cause pain without even trying.” He takes out his wallet, hands some money to Jacob, and then turns back toward me. “So, what kind of car do you drive? And, please, for the sake of my sanity, don’t tell me it’s a nondescript, black SUV. All of you FBI agents can’t be the same, or else I’m going to assume you’re all clones.”

  * * *

  “I knew it. Clones.” Aaron runs his hand over the black leather seats of my SUV. “How do I even know you’re good to drive?” he grumbles, as we both put on our seat belts.

  “I hardly drank anything,” I say. “You kept interrupting with your drunken rampage.”

  “That wasn’t a rampage,” he mutters. “You have no idea what a rampage is. You should have seen the officers last month when the coffee machine broke. I’m surprised nobody was shot.”

  I start the car and begin to drive. “Just tell me if you’re going to feel sick again. I don’t need your vomit in my car.”

  “At least it would add some color.” He glances behind him. “There is literally zero dirt in this car. You need a kid or two to mess this thing up.”

  I shake my head. “Are you already offering life advice?”

  “Maybe. You need it.”

  “I need it?” I blurt. “You’re the one who has to be driven home by a stranger!”

  “Okay, let me guess about your life.” He presses two fingers against his temple as if he’s a psychic. “Let me use my non-special detective skills. You’re very driven. Your whole life is your job. You don’t have kids. You either never married or you’re divorced…and…you suck the life out of everyone around you as a hobby. How close am I?”

  “You got that from my car?” I ask, trying not to hit him in the face.

  “I got that because you’re an FBI agent. I’ve never met one that’s happily married and the ones who do have kids…their kids hate them. They also all suck the life out of everyone and consider themselves superior to all.”

  As I said, policemen and the FBI have never gotten along. “So, do I get to use my detective skills on you next?”

  “Shoot,” he says.

  I open my mouth, ready to tear him to pieces like he tried to do to me, but I realize I can’t say anything about him that won’t reflect on the fact that he lost his family in a tragedy. I close my mouth. “Never mind.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Jacob told you, didn’t he?”

  “Told me what?” I ask.

  He scowls. “Damn him. You know what? I don’t need your pity party. They’re gone. There’s nothing I can do about that. I had the chance to have a good, happy life and I failed. So what? Life goes on without me.”

  I frown. “You’re still part of life. Life is going on with you.”
>
  He snorts. “Like I said, you don’t know me. If you did, you would know that I wouldn’t be considered alive. I’m just taking up space until my life is over.”

  I let out a slow breath. This guy has issues. I glance through his window to watch the house numbers go by. He lives at 12457 and I’m at 12451.

  As I keep watching out the window, he glances over at me. His eyes are darker than the night.

  “I meant it though,” he says. “You need someone to mess up your perfect little life.”

  I smirk. “Trust me, my life isn’t perfect.”

  “Are all your loved ones alive?”

  “Are you offering to be the one who messes up my life?” I retort. I park in front of his house. It’s a traditional Craftsman-style house, with an attached garage and large, beautiful windows. “Here you go.”

  He opens the car door, stumbles out, and almost face-plants into his yard. I sigh, unbuckling my seat belt. I get out of the car and walk around to him. I loop my arm around his body and help him stand upright.

  “You know, you can’t park there,” he says.

  I glance at my car. “It’s fine. It’s a nondescript, black SUV.”

  I help him to his front door. He fumbles for his keys before he struggles to unlock his door. I watch him, my arms folded over my chest.

  “Are you going to be okay?” I ask.

  “No,” he spits out, “but why do you care?”

  “Because if you’re found dead tomorrow from alcohol poisoning, I don’t want to have to talk to the police, explaining my innocence.”

  “Well, trust me, I won’t die,” he says. “Because that would be a kind gesture from whatever higher power exists or doesn’t exist in this world. And even if I did die, I’d assure you…it’s what I’ve been waiting for.”

  I decide to ignore his comments. Some people you simply cannot help—I know from experience. “Will you need a ride to your car tomorrow?”

  “Nah, I have a lawn mower I can ride.” He steps into his house and closes the door behind him.

  Policemen. I had my chance to punch one in the face—he likely wouldn’t remember it—and I let it pass me by.

  As I walk back to my car, it occurs to me that I am the walking stereotype of an FBI agent.

  I might not need someone to mess up my life, but it would be nice to have someone ignite something inside me, because I don’t think I could be considered alive either.

  5

  Pete, 2015 (Friday night)

  KENNY FUNNELS A SMALL amount of meth into the pipe. He places the pipe to his lips, holds the flame from his lighter to the pipe bowl, and slowly inhales as the drug begins to vaporize.

  “Come on, Kenny,” I say. “We have to think. You know Mason has a way of getting people in trouble with the law. I can’t go to prison. Have you seen me? Someone would make me their bitch within minutes of me being there. I could never face my mother again.”

  “Fuck Mason.” Kenny pulls the pipe from his lips, letting the flame from his lighter go out. He sets both items on the table.

  Kenny’s cabin is far enough into the woods that it’s unlikely anyone would accidentally find it, especially when we routinely make black bear prints around the area.

  “He doesn’t understand the real world while he’s living in his daddy’s pockets. He gets to live in his daddy’s house, wearing those name-brand clothes, and driving that fancy Mustang. He doesn’t even need the money. So, fuck him.”

  “Yeah, I would agree except that he can still send us to prison.”

  “Which makes us his bitches.” Kenny sighs, staring up at the cabin ceiling. “What do you think it’s like having a dad for a judge? I bet the police could arrest Mason for murder and his daddy would still get him off without any prison time. What kind of bullshit is that?”

  “Money is power,” I tell him.

  “Maybe we could pretend to be Mason and get the money from his daddy,” Kenny jokes. “I just have to lose thirty pounds and you have to get a better looking face.”

  I glance up at the same area he’s staring at. The meth I inhaled minutes before he did is racing through my veins and my heart feels like it’s made of butterfly wings that are all fluttering at different intervals.

  “We could rob him,” I say. “Judge Latham.”

  “Have you seen that house? They definitely have a security system James Bond couldn’t even get into,” Kenny says. “Judge Latham is a hard-ass. I bet Mason even has trouble getting money from him. I’ve seen that family out together and all the judge cares about is Sarah. I’m guessin’ Mason was a major disappointment.”

  “Weren’t we all?” I ask. “Maybe we could get Sarah to beg him for money.”

  He snorts. “Perfect, saintly Sarah? No way. The only bad bone they would find inside her is mine…mmm…”

  “Concentrate, Kenny,” I say, but I’m laughing anyway.

  “I am,” he says. “I’m concentrating on her curves and the way her ass moves when she walks. If I could get on top of her for a night, it would be worth prison.”

  “What are you going to do?” I ask. “Kidnap her?”

  Kenny looks over at me…and at the same time, my mind becomes eerily clear.

  “We could,” Kenny whispers. “We could kidnap Sarah.”

  “And serve more prison time?” I ask, but the idea is already forming in my head. “Do you think the judge would pay a ransom for her?”

  “Of course. It’s his daughter. And we would never need to be caught. We just keep her unaware and make sure when we make the ransom call that we’re unrecognizable.”

  Our eyes lock again. “This idea is crazy,” I say.

  “This idea is perfect.”

  I lie on my back. I can already see the whole plan working: we take Sarah as she leaves The Charcoal Grill. We blindfold her. We keep her hidden in the cabin. We call or leave a message in the Lathams’ mailbox. We demand a ransom and tell them to leave it in the park or somewhere public. Once we get it, we let Sarah go. Maybe we show Sarah how good meth is while we have her and she understands our addiction. She would come back to us just to get high again.

  It’s a perfect plan.

  Kenny and I are geniuses.

  6

  Pete, 2015 (Late Friday night)

  KENNY AND I SIT in a booth at The Charcoal Grill again, sans Mason. The meth makes food unappealing, but we both nibble on some fries to blend in.

  “There she is,” Kenny says and nods over my shoulder.

  I glance behind me. Sarah, sporting a high ponytail and cleavage that could make the Pope commit at least six sins, is taking the order from an elderly couple. I chew on my thumbnail.

  “How are we going to do this?” I ask. “We can’t just take her from the restaurant. I mean, we could, but there would be all these witnesses—”

  “Shut up,” Kenny snaps as Sarah walks over. She smiles at us, but the happiness doesn’t reach her eyes.

  “Hey, guys, back already?” she asks. “Did Kenny finally get hungry?”

  “Oh, I’m always hungry, baby,” he says.

  I roll my eyes at him. She grimaces for a second, but quickly hides it with a smile.

  “Well, did you order something more than fries?” she asks. “We have the Blue Collar Burger, which has two burger patties on one bun.”

  “Two meats on one bun? Sounds like a good time,” Kenny drawls. “You know what else sounds like a good time? Me and Pete are having a little party. There will be some music, some party favors…you should join us.”

  “I’m working until ten,” she says, her voice firm. “So, no, but thank you for the offer.”

  Sarah the saint, always polite and always a good girl.

  Kenny smiles or he thinks he’s smiling. It’s more like he’s baring his teeth and his lips are drooping upward. “I’m just joking with you, Sarah. I know you would never hang out with some losers like us. We’re just being stupid.”

  She nods. “I have to get these orders in. I’ll se
e you guys later.”

  As she walks away, I take note of her hourglass figure and the way her black pants show the perfect curve of her ass.

  “We will certainly see you later,” Kenny mutters.

  “Kenny! Pete!” A Wyatt High senior shoves his way next to me in the booth.

  He’s platinum blond, but it’s clearly dyed because his mud-brown roots are showing. Scabs cover his face. I suppose Kenny and I don’t look much better.

  “Hey, man, do you have any product on you? I could use some. Like, right now. I need some. Do you have any? I could just use a tiny bit, just for a little high. I need—”

  “We get it, Frank,” I say. “We don’t have any on us right now, and we certainly wouldn’t give you any when you don’t have the money. We’ve talked about this before.”

  “Come on, man, aren’t we all friends here? Can’t we all be buddies? I just need a teeny, tiny bit. And I’ll pay you when I have the cash. I’ll find some—”

  “No, Frank,” I say. “Go away.”

  He scratches at his skin, his fingernails yellow and his eyes wide. His fingers tremble as he reaches down toward his waist and I think, for a moment, he might have a gun. But he only scratches his thigh.

  “Fine, fine. I’ll get some money. I’ll get it.” He jumps to his feet and scrambles over to a different table where a few of his tweaker friends are hanging out.

  I look over at Kenny. “We aren’t paid enough to deal with this shit.”

  Kenny, looking over where Sarah is telling some customers what the Blue Collar Burger is, glances over at me. “Maybe we’re in the wrong line of business.”

  I watch Sarah, too. “Maybe.”

  7

  Pete, 2015 (Late Friday night)

  AFTER WE LEAVE THE Charcoal Grill, Kenny and I wander to the parking lot. We find Sarah’s parked car—one of the perks of living in a small town is that you know who drives what—a 2015 Cadillac Escalade. The silver car looks so smooth that I want to run my hand over it, but I know more than likely it has an alarm. Wyatt may be regarded as a safe town, but when your father is a judge, I’m sure he knows the seedy underbelly of the most innocent places.