Night Fall

by Nancy Mehl

  “Perfect.”

  As the fire blazed and warmed the room, Alex took two cups from the shelf next to the sink. She examined them carefully. They looked clean, but you never knew. She rinsed them both with hot water. Then she took a bottle of water from the refrigerator and filled each cup before putting them in the microwave. As she waited for the water to heat, she glanced around. The counter looked clean, but when Logan left, she’d sanitize it. You couldn’t be too careful.

  When the microwave dinged, she took the cups out and stirred in the chocolate mix. When the little clumps of powder had finally dissolved, she carried the cups back to where Logan waited on the couch. He stood when she neared.

  “I’m sorry. I should have offered to help,” he said. “Must be the fumes.”

  “Ha-ha.” As she handed him a cup, she could see the redness in his eyes. He was exhausted just like she was. They’d had no sleep the night before, and it showed.

  Alex sat down in a chair across from him, next to the fireplace. It had a matching ottoman. She stretched her legs out and leaned back into the overstuffed cushion. It was still a little damp, but that didn’t bother her. She was confident the germs were gone. The chair was so comfortable she was pretty sure she could spend the night there if she felt like it.

  “I’m concerned that we’re too late to save this last victim,” Logan said.

  “But the ME said victim number five had been dead for less than forty-eight hours. We’re getting faster.”

  “But wasn’t that because Walker sent us those clues for Union Station in his letter?”

  She frowned. “Maybe.”

  “I think he’s accelerating his plan, Alex. He was impatient for us to find his fifth victim so he gave us clues. And I think he’s going to speed up this next one too. He’s in a hurry to bring this judgment on the world.”

  “But Stephen said they couldn’t find any message with the guy at Union Station.”

  “That’s because he already gave it to us.”

  “He did?”

  “Yeah, in his last letter. He capitalized all the letters when he said, ‘LONG LIVE THE MASTER!’ That was the message.”

  Alex sighed, trying to release all the tension from her body. “You’re right. I should have seen it, and you could be right about his escalation. I don’t know how many churches are in the Kansas City area, but the KCPD can’t cover them all. Some of the victims were purposely chosen away from his base of operations. He didn’t want investigators to know where he lived.”

  “That makes sense.” Logan took a sip of his hot chocolate. “Hey, not bad,” he said with a smile.

  Alex nodded. “Could be worse.” She set her cup on the lamp table next to her chair. “You know, I think we need to consider whether Adam has changed his appearance. He must know we’ve discovered his identity. The stakes are high. He can’t take a chance that someone will pick him up and stop his destiny. I really don’t think he looks like the photo we have from his employee file and driver’s license.”

  Logan was quiet for a moment. “You’re right,” he said finally. “He has short, dark hair and is clean shaven in those photos. So his choices would be to dye his hair lighter, grow his hair longer, and grow a beard, which would also cover that scar on his chin. Maybe he hasn’t made all those changes, but at least he’s probably grown a beard.”

  “I think longer hair and a beard are a given. But he might also dye his hair. The police are looking for a dark-haired man. They might want to look for someone with blond hair. Or gray. Could he be trying to look older?”

  “That would take a lot of effort,” Logan said slowly. “Adding wrinkles, dying his hair gray . . . I’m gonna bet on blond hair. Not red, of course. Too easy to spot.”

  “So we’re betting now?”

  Logan chuckled. “No. I have a feeling I wouldn’t win against you.”

  “Maybe we should call Harrison,” Alex said. “I’m afraid the police might walk right past Walker because he doesn’t fit the photo they have.”

  Logan shrugged. “I have to believe Harrison has thought of that, but if you feel it’s important . . .”

  Alex picked up her phone and called. As she waited for Harrison to pick up, she wondered if he was home in bed. It was almost eleven at night. However, he picked up on the second ring and sounded awake. Alex shared their concerns.

  “Yeah, we thought of that,” Harrison said. “The chief has an artist working on possibilities. What’s your opinion? How will he have changed his looks?”

  “We think he’ll have blond hair. Not sure if he’s had time to grow it out much, though, so he could be wearing a wig. We also think he’ll have a beard. Maybe a mustache too.”

  “Glasses?”

  “A real possibility.”

  “This helps. Thanks, Alex. I’ll contact the chief.”

  “Great. See you in the morning.”

  “Okay. And thank you for all the great work you’ve done. It’s appreciated.”

  “Just doing my job, sir. Good night.”

  She clicked off and had barely opened her mouth to tell Logan what Harrison said when she realized her partner was asleep. She rose from her chair and went over to him.

  “Hey, Logan. Better get up and go to your own room,” she said. “I guarantee your bed will be more comfortable than this couch.”

  His eyes fluttered open, and he chuckled softly. “Wow. Sorry. Big, strong FBI agent brought down by a nice fire and a cup of hot chocolate. I suddenly feel a little vulnerable.”

  Alex laughed. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Thanks.” He got to his feet, then grabbed his bag and walked to the door.“Good night, Alex,” he said. “I’m just down the hall if you need me.”

  “Thanks. Same here.”

  He grinned at her and opened the door. She stepped into the hall to watch him go, curious to know where his room was. He was just about to unlock one of the doors when Alex noticed someone walking toward him. It was Mike.

  “Hey,” Logan said. “Did you get sent to this hotel too?”

  Mike smiled. “Yeah, but I’m surprised. I assumed all the nonessential personnel would end up at Cowboy Bob’s Motel and Gift Shop a few miles from the CP. I was prepared to battle mice and other little varmints.”

  Logan laughed. Alex forced a smile, but Mike’s words stirred the fear inside her. The thing she couldn’t face.

  “Are you going back to the CP in the morning?” Logan asked.

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Why don’t we all go to breakfast first?”

  “That would be great.” Mike shrugged. “I have to admit I feel a little out of place among all these experts. In particular, you guys really make me feel dumb. I’d love to hear more about what you’re thinking.”

  “You’re not dumb,” Alex said. “We’re just strong in different areas.” She pretended to stifle a yawn. “Sorry, boys. Hitting the sack. What time do we get together in the morning?”

  “Six a.m. in the lobby?” Logan said. “Let’s eat at the Waffle Palace across the street. I think we’ll get better food than what they offer here. The idea of dry bagels and soured cream cheese doesn’t thrill me.” He looked at his watch. “Wow. It is late, but I’ll call Monty on his cell and let him know.” He looked down the hall. “I assume his room is somewhere on this floor.”

  Alex nodded. “Sounds great. Good night.”

  She closed the door, then locked it, turned around, and leaned against it. She put her hands up to the sides of her head and slowly slid down until she sat on the floor. She couldn’t stop trembling, and she sat there until she brought the monster under control once again.

  Why was it getting harder to fight it?

  27

  After saying good night to Mike, Logan just wanted to fall into bed. But he needed to shower first. After he grabbed sweats and a T-shirt from his bag, he gazed around his room. Alex’s comments about germs made him a little uncomfortable. Should he buy some disinfectant spray too? Mayb
e she was right. Maybe the hotel provided some for guests to use.

  He went into the bathroom and looked under the sink. Sure enough, he found a can of disinfectant spray. He took off the cap and sprayed the faucet and the doorknob. Then he went out to the main room and sprayed anything he thought he might touch. As he lightly sprayed the bedclothes, he suddenly asked himself what in the world he was doing. This stuff didn’t smell like flowers. It smelled like . . . disinfectant. It reminded him of a hospital. He carried the can to the kitchen and opened one of the windows in the small living area. As the cold November air drifted in, the odor began to dissipate.

  Logan sat down on the chair as the stink lessened. In all the traveling he’d done for the BAU, he’d never worried about germs. Most people who feared germs were actually afraid of something else entirely, like losing control. Was that the case with Alex? After thinking about it for a minute, he realized lots of people probably worried about germs in hotel rooms. That didn’t mean anything was wrong with them.

  He laughed to himself. “You’re getting suspicious in your old age, Logan,” he said quietly as he stood. Yet a small voice inside told him he was missing something.

  He ignored the warning and got ready for his shower.

  Alex knew Mike hadn’t meant to upset her with his comment about rodents and bugs, but she wished he’d kept it to himself. And she should have waited for Logan to leave before spraying down everything that worried her. But she couldn’t. Things were starting to spiral. She had to keep her PTSD under control. If she couldn’t, she might lose everything she’d worked for.

  “God, Logan thinks you’re real,” she whispered. “I don’t. I prayed once when I was younger, but you didn’t answer, so I don’t think you’re really up there. But . . . I don’t know what to do. If you are real, I could use some help. If you’re everything Logan says you are, I’d like to know you better.”

  She wiped her face with the back of her hand and sighed. What was she doing? Why in the world was she talking to some invisible being that didn’t exist? If God was real, He would have helped her years ago when she prayed.

  Suddenly she heard You survived, Alex. And you’re where you wanted to be. Are you certain I didn’t answer you?

  She looked around the room. Was someone in here? Was she hearing voices? She stared at the TV, but it was off. Was she in trouble? What should she do?

  Then the words she thought she’d heard whispered in her mind. And as she thought about it, she realized she had made it through. She had survived. And she was living the dream she’d prayed for. She’d forgotten that part of her prayer.

  She got to her feet and walked to the chair where she’d sat earlier. Was she hallucinating? God didn’t really talk to people. That was nuts. She wasn’t going to turn into Willow. The Master didn’t exist, and neither did God. She was alone. She had to trust in herself. No one else would rescue her. She’d been on assignments where she’d spotted a bug or had to talk to someone who wore red lipstick or red fingernail polish. She’d managed to fight the panic that tried to push her back into her nightmares. She’d made herself strong—without any help from a therapist.

  So why was she unraveling now? It had to be returning to Wichita and seeing Willow. And now that awful house was hers? She’d hire someone to clean it out and sell it. She had no intention of stepping back inside its walls.

  And Mike was here. Even though she was glad to see him, he reminded her of things she didn’t want to remember.

  After a quick shower, she dressed in sweatpants and a sweatshirt before checking to make sure the door to her room was locked. Then, leaving on the kitchen and bathroom lights, she approached the bed. Although she fought the urge, she couldn’t stop herself from pulling the sheets and bedspread down just to make sure bugs weren’t hiding under them. She hadn’t done that in years. She’d taught herself not to. But tonight she couldn’t help it. How far would her fear push her? Could she keep her condition from Logan? From Jeff? If they realized the truth and revealed it, the FBI would probably force her into counseling . . . or even dismiss her. She couldn’t let that happen.

  Alex had talked to a therapist once when she worked in Kansas City. “Alex, PTSD isn’t anything to be ashamed of,” he’d said. “You went through an extremely traumatic experience.”

  “That’s true,” Alex had shot back. “But a law enforcement officer who goes bonkers if she sees a bug won’t be looked upon as reliable.”

  “To be fair, it isn’t just a bug,” the doctor had said. “You have a problem with roaches, germs, the dark—red lipstick and nail polish. These are all triggers. They take you back to when your mother died as well as to the first few days you lived with your aunt. You were still reeling from finding your mother. You spent several nights in a dark bedroom with roaches crawling everywhere. And your germ phobia comes from trying to clean your aunt’s filthy house. You became obsessed with cleaning.”

  He had paused before adding, “But it wasn’t really about the germs. You were trying to control your environment. Your father’s abandonment, your mother’s suicide, and those first days at your aunt’s are where your emotions are bunched up. Tightly woven into your psyche. Basically, your mind is at war with itself.”

  “So what am I supposed to do, Doc?” she’d asked. She was tired of hearing what was wrong with her. How about prescribing the pill that would fix it?

  “It will take some time, Alex. But if you hang in there, we’ll face your hidden pain together.”

  “How much time are we talking?”

  “Don’t think about the time it will take. Just accept that there’s no other way.”

  “But could it take . . . years?”

  “Yes. Some patients take that long to find coping mechanisms for their trauma.”

  “I don’t have years,” she’d said, rising to her feet. “Thanks for your time. I know you’re trying to help, but I think I can handle this myself.”

  She’d walked out and never returned. And as the therapist had suggested it would, it did take years to control her fears, to teach herself to ignore the triggers that took her back to those days. It was harder than anything she’d ever done, but she’d done it. And now this case had caused her PTSD to roar back into her life.

  She got into bed and stared up at the ceiling. Did I look all the way down to the bottom of the bed? The thought kept running through her mind. “Stop it!” she said out loud. “I will not look under the sheets again. I will not!” But as she lay there, she felt her body tense. Finally, she gave up and pulled the sheets back again. Nothing. She felt ashamed of herself.

  As she got into bed again, she glanced at the window. The night, the darkness, always made everything worse. Evil things loved to hide in the dark. She turned on the lamp next to the bed.

  Somewhere in the night, a train whistle blew, and Alex covered her ears.

  28

  Alex was silent while Logan, Mike, and Monty ate breakfast and discussed the case. She’d ordered a waffle and coffee, and she was trying to choke down the waffle. But she couldn’t drink the coffee. The waitress had touched the side of her cup with the carafe’s spout. Didn’t she realize this was how germs were spread from one person to another? Alex had used hand sanitizer after handling the menu, but what if the silverware wasn’t really clean? All she could do was wipe her fork with her napkin. She kept her hands under the table so no one would see her do it.

  “Don’t like the coffee?” Logan asked her.

  She shook her head. “I’m sure it’s fine, but I had coffee in the room. Too much caffeine makes me nervous. Decided I didn’t need it after I ordered.”

  Logan nodded, but she caught the odd way he looked at her. Did he know? She took another bite of her waffle. Thankfully, the syrup came in small plastic packets. She wiped them off with hand sanitizer, then tore them open. And she forced herself to stop wondering if the plate was clean or if the person who made the waffle touched it with unwashed hands.

  She was aware t
hat she was getting worse. She’d been able to control her germ phobia for years, although the COVID-19 pandemic had made her really paranoid. But she’d fought her way through that. At least she thought she had. She’d finally convinced herself her fears weren’t real and ignored them . . . for the most part. She still sanitized hotel rooms and used hand sanitizer in restaurants. But that was it. Lots of people did that, right?

  Last night the nightmare she’d had over and over since she was a kid had made a reappearance. It had been a while since she’d had it. In the dream, she walked up to her mother’s open casket. Even though they’d applied a lot of makeup, it didn’t completely hide the rope burn around her neck or the blueness of her skin. In contrast, her dark red lips and matching nails seemed to stand out as if a small spotlight were aimed on them. Her mother had never worn red lipstick or nail polish when she was alive. Why did they put it on her now? It looked like blood against her pale skin.

  Suddenly, from beneath her mother’s still body, roaches wrestled their way up from inside the casket. They poured out, running over the coffin’s sides like water. They came for Alex, so she turned to run although her legs felt heavy, and she could barely move. As they got closer she screamed. And then she woke up gasping for breath. The nightmare terrified her every time. She’d spend the rest of the night sleeping fitfully, forcing herself awake. She’d never told anyone about it. It was disgusting. What kind of person has a dream like that?

  Finally, the men finished their meals and left, driving to the CP in their separate cars. Styrofoam cups sat next to the coffee maker in the back room. She could take one from the middle of the stack and then pour her own coffee, never touching the spout to her cup. She used a napkin to pick up the handle of the pot. She’d lied when she said she’d had coffee in her room, and she really needed a shot of caffeine now. She was still tired. Before she met the men in the hotel lobby, she’d found the ice and vending machines and purchased an energy drink, which she guzzled down. That had given her what she needed to get going, but she was beginning to crash. Coffee would have to get her through the rest of the day.