The Caller

by Chris Carter

  As she approached her pearl-white Toyota Camry, one of the last few cars still left in the lot, she noticed that someone had left something on her windshield, which wasn’t at all surprising. Almost every day she would get at least one leaflet on her car, most of them advertising fast-food joints around the vicinity, or a happy-hour deal down at one of the many local bars and lounges.

  Dr. Barnes got to her car and grabbed the leaflet, ready to throw it away. Only this time it wasn’t a leaflet, it was an envelope. Across its front, large letters, which had all been cut out from some glossy magazine, had been glued together to spell her name.

  ‘What the hell?’ she whispered as she placed her briefcase on the floor and tore open the envelope.

  Her surprise heightened. Inside it she found a single piece of paper folded in half, with yet more cut-out letters and words stuck together to create a short message. She unfolded it and was about to read it when she heard some sort of noise coming from her left, or at least she thought she did. Her eyes immediately shot in that direction. In the dim parking-lot light she saw nothing. There was no one there. Dr. Barnes dragged her gaze around the nearly empty lot. Still she saw nothing. No one. Her attention returned to the piece of paper in her hand and she finally was able to read the note.

  ‘What?’ she asked, frowning, before impulsively looking up again. The parking lot was as still as a moment ago.

  Her eyes went back to the beginning of the note and she read it again. This time, as she got to the end of it, she let out a half-humorless laugh.

  ‘What a silly, stupid prank. Does someone expect me to believe this?’ she asked herself, ready to trash the whole thing; but that was when she noticed that there was something else right at the bottom of the envelope.

  She tipped it on to the palm of her right hand.

  A split second later, her heart froze.

  Thirty-Two

  Hunter had stayed behind in his office after Garcia had left. Even though he wasn’t very prolific with Facebook, Twitter, or any other social media network, he wanted to dig a little deeper into the personal profiles of Karen Ward, Tanya Kaitlin and Pete Harris. He began by carefully rereading all forty-six comments under Pete Harris’s Facebook post about ‘brainlaziness’. Still none stood out, with the exception of Tanya Kaitlin’s comment, explicitly admitting that she didn’t know a single phone number by heart. Sure, Karen Ward’s killer could’ve come across that same information through a number of different methods, making that whole post nothing more than just a coincidence, but Hunter had never really believed in coincidences, especially in this case, where Karen had asked Tanya a very direct question – Really? Not even mine? What a great best friend you are lol.

  Hunter spent the next hour and a half click-jumping from one profile to another, reading posts and looking at photos and uploaded images. The more he read, the more images he looked at, the more surprised he became. In short, people were laying their lives bare over the Internet for anyone who cared to read about it, and even though most social media sites tended to offer quite extensive security settings, a lot of people still chose to ignore them.

  By 9.30 p.m., Hunter’s eyes were watering from squinting at his computer screen. He needed to get out of that office.

  Hunter’s biggest passion was single malt Scotch whisky. Back in his apartment, tucked in a corner of his living room, an old-fashioned drinks cabinet held a small but impressive collection of single malts that would probably satisfy the palate of most connoisseurs. Hunter would never consider himself an expert on whisky but, unlike so many, he at least knew how to appreciate its flavor and quality, instead of simply getting drunk on it, though sometimes getting drunk worked just fine.

  He thought about going home, where he could indulge in as much single malt as he wished without breaking the bank, but he quickly debated if staying in tonight was such a good idea.

  Hunter lived alone. No wife. No girlfriends. He’d never been married, and the relationships he had rarely lasted longer than just a few months, sometimes a lot less. The pressures that came with being a detective with the LAPD’s UVC Unit, and the commitment the job demanded, always seemed too much for most to understand and cope with. He didn’t mind being by himself. Living alone didn’t bother him either, but he was still human and sometimes the loneliness of his small apartment was the last thing he needed. Tonight was one of those nights.

  Los Angeles nightlife was arguably one of the liveliest, craziest, and most exciting in the world. The spectrum of choice was almost interminable, going from luxurious and trendy nightclubs, where the rich and famous mingled with Hollywood stars, to themed bars and dingy, sleazy underground lounges and parties, where the freaks came out to play. Whatever mood, crazy or not, you found yourself in, you were sure to find a place in LA to suit it. Tonight, Hunter was in the ‘stiff but quiet drink’ mood.

  Thirty-Three

  ‘Are you listening to me, John? Because if you are, keep your eyes on the screen.’

  The unwavering determination in the digitally altered voice sent a sickening knot into Mr. J’s stomach. His eyes, full of doubt and anger, forever locked with Cassandra’s, full of fear. But in them, he also saw something else. Something he’d seen before many times, but never in his wife’s eyes. He’d seen it in the eyes of the people he dealt with, the people he terminated – desperation brought on by the total loss of hope.

  Cassandra still had no idea what was happening, and why it was happening to her, but she trusted her husband with the utmost devotion and until a second ago she had blindly believed his words.

  ‘Cassandra, honey, please listen to me. Everything will be fine, OK. I’ll get this figured out. I promise you, my love. I will die before I let anything happen to you.’

  But now she realized that that just wasn’t true. What could he really do? How could he stay true to his word? How could he stop harm from coming to her? How could he protect her when he was miles away?

  Cassandra’s confusion was immeasurable. She had never seen her husband look so emotionless. She had never heard him speak so coldly. That was not the Mr. J she knew. That was not the man she had married. The man she had married was a business consultant. He ran his own small firm, didn’t he?

  ‘I work for the most powerful syndicate in Los Angeles. The most powerful syndicate in the whole of California. A syndicate that doesn’t abide by any laws. It makes its own. My role within this syndicate is very specific. I am what you might call “the last enforcer” of their rules – the last instance in their problem-solving chain. In fact, I’m “the end of the chain”. If I come to see you, I will be the last person you will ever see.’

  What in the world was he talking about? Was any of it true? If he was bluffing to try to scare away the man in her house, it certainly didn’t seem to be working.

  ‘Keep your eyes on the screen,’ the demon said again.

  All of a sudden, almost as fast as the slap Cassandra had received earlier, Mr. J saw a gloved hand come from his wife’s right and stab her in the neck. Her entire body jerked heavily, first from the impact, then from the pain. Her mouth dropped open, ready for the inevitable scream, but all her petrified vocal cords were able to let out was a humble cry, barely loud enough for it to be picked up by her cellphone’s microphone.

  ‘NOOOOOOOOO!’

  Instead, the defining scream came from Mr. J.

  Still with his phone in hand, he jumped to his feet, lost his balance, but quickly regained it by grabbing hold of the bed. The knot in his stomach turned into a bottomless pit that threatened to swallow him whole.

  Cassandra’s eyes, still sealed with his, lost all their focus in a mere second. Life was fast giving way to numbness.

  As the gloved hand pulled away, Mr. J realized what had really happened. From the angle of the stabbing, blood should’ve spurted out from Cassandra’s jugular vein with enough pressure to project it across the room. He knew that well enough, but instead, all he saw was a tiny blob form where her sk
in was pricked by the syringe needle.

  ‘Relax, John,’ the demonic voice said in a calm and eerie tone. ‘Your wife isn’t dead. Not yet. I simply injected her with something that will numb most of her body, but it will not do the same to her brain, or her nervous system. Her hearing and visual cortex won’t be impaired either. You know what that means, don’t you?’ This time, the person with Cassandra was the one who paused for effect. ‘It means that though her body will be temporarily paralyzed, she will still be able to hear, see, and feel absolutely everything. Isn’t that precious?’

  On the small screen, Cassandra’s eyes wavered aimlessly for a couple of seconds before finally settling down again. The confusion in them first morphed into struggle then to desolation and ultimately into complete terror as she finally realized that she had no physical control over her body anymore.

  Mr. J read her eyes like a book and his heart sank for the second time.

  ‘So, as I was trying to explain to you before you interrupted me, John, these are the rules.’

  Mr. J’s body shook with a combination of rage and something he hadn’t felt in a very long time – fear. He had meant what he’d said. Given half a chance, he would give his life for his wife’s any day and without any hesitation.

  ‘Take me,’ he said, holding all his anger inside and keeping his voice as steady as he could muster. ‘I will come to you, hands tied, blindfolded . . . whichever way you want. Just tell me where and I’ll be there. We can swop. You let my wife go, and you can have me. Then you can do whatever you like. If that’s what pleases you, you can hurt me to your heart’s content before killing me. I will not put up a fight. I promise you. Just let her go.’

  Total silence.

  Only then, a whole new theory slapped Mr. J straight across the face.

  ‘Is this about money?’ he asked, doubting his own words. ‘Is that what you’re after?’

  Still silence.

  ‘I have close to four million dollars in an international bank account. If I pull some resources, I can probably gather together another million. That’s five million dollars. All yours. I can transfer every last penny to you. All you need to—’

  ‘You’re not listening to me, John.’ The demon cut him short again. ‘There’s only one way in which you can help your wife right now, and that’s by answering both of my questions correctly. If you interrupt me again, I will take that as a wrong answer. Every time you give me a wrong answer, your wife gets punished. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’

  Cassandra begged her husband with her eyes.

  ‘Yes or no, John? No other answer will do. You give me any other answer other than “yes” or “no” and I’ll start punishing her.’

  Away from the camera’s eye, Mr. J’s fingers closed into a tight fist and his core shook with indescribable anger. He had never felt so helpless in his entire life. He finally gave the answer the voice wanted to hear.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now, we’re finally on the right track.’ It took the daemonic voice just a minute to explain the rules. ‘Simple, isn’t it? And don’t even think about calling the police. I can assure you that they’ll never make it here in time.’

  Mr. J’s mouth went desert-dry.

  ‘So listen up, John, because your wife’s life depends on it.’

  An overly tense pause followed.

  ‘Where was Cassandra born?’

  Mr. J squinted at the small screen. Had he heard it right? Was this psycho for real? What sort of life-depending, dumbass question was that?

  ‘Is this a fucking joke?’ he asked, his blood boiling in his veins.

  ‘You have five seconds.’ There was no play in the digitally altered voice.

  Though Cassandra wasn’t able to move at all, including her facial expressions, the look in her eyes mutated just as much as the one in her husband’s. First, from terror to confusion.

  ‘What? Is that the question? This can’t be real. What the hell is going on? This has to be some sort of sick joke.’

  Then from confusion to hope. Mr. J had been to the city where she was born so many times its name was probably etched in his brain. There was no way he could get this wrong.

  ‘. . . four . . . three . . .’

  ‘Cassandra was born in Santa Ana,’ Mr. J replied. ‘Orange County, California . . . what the fuck is this?’

  The look in Cassandra’s eyes softened as new tears welled up in them. This time, they were tears of joy.

  ‘That is correct, John. Congratulations. See? Not that hard after all, was it? Now, all you need to do is give me just one more correct answer and you and your wife can go back to being a couple again, though I have a feeling that you’ll have quite a lot of explaining to do.’ A new short pause. ‘But let’s not jump to conclusions just yet. One more correct answer.’

  All the while, Mr. J’s eyes never broke away from Cassandra’s. The hope in hers now joined by apprehension. The anger in his by disbelief.

  ‘Your wedding anniversary, John,’ the voice said. ‘When is it?’

  On hearing the question, the look in Cassandra’s eyes mutated yet again. This time from apprehension to total panic.

  Despite how much he adored her, for the last seven years, Mr. J had completely forgotten about their wedding anniversary. Cassandra had reminded him three times, but when he didn’t remember it for the fourth year running, she didn’t see the point in reminding him anymore. She never really blamed him, though. She knew that his memory lapse only began once she’d entered her depression phase, a phase he knew nothing about, as she had always gone to great lengths to keep it all from him and everyone else. As Cassandra, guided by her condition, distanced herself from Mr. J, he did the same, but in his own way. Forgetting their wedding anniversary had been a simple consequence of it.

  The despair in Cassandra’s stare was mirrored in Mr. J’s entire demeanor. For the first time since his wife’s face had filled the small screen on his cellphone, he broke eye contact with her. As if searching the air around him, he first looked left, then right.

  ‘You have five seconds . . . four . . .’

  Mr. J looked up at the ceiling. He knew the date. Of course he knew the date of his own wedding. He just had to search his memory.

  ‘Three . . .’

  He breathed in a lot more anxiously than he thought he had.

  ‘Two . . .’

  His eyes returned to the screen just in time to see that tears were once again cascading down his wife’s face. There was no joy in them.

  ‘One . . .’

  ‘Seventh of March,’ Mr. J finally blurted out. ‘We got married on the seventh of March. The year was nineteen ninety-six.’

  Thirty-Four

  Sitting inside interview room number two at Rampart Police Station on West Sixth Street, Dr. Gwen Barnes had the last of her stale coffee. As she swallowed the bitter liquid down, it made her stomach churn inside her.

  ‘This is it,’ she whispered, placing the now empty paper cup back on the large metal table in front of her and readily pushing it away. Even if it had been the most amazing gourmet coffee in the world, after five cups, there was no way she could stomach another one. What she really needed was a large glass of wine. No, scrap that. A whole bottle was a lot more like it.

  ‘C’mon, this is way past ridiculous now,’ she said, turning to look at the large, window-like mirror to her right. This wasn’t the first time Dr. Barnes had been inside a police interrogation room. She knew very well that what she was looking at was in fact a two-way mirror, but this wasn’t an interrogation. No one would be at the other side of it, observing her, though she wished someone were. Maybe someone was listening in.

  ‘This has got to be a joke,’ she said, loud enough for her voice to be picked up by the multidirectional microphone at the center of the table. ‘A detective must’ve come back by now. C’mon.’

  As she finished her sentence, she turned, looked at the heavy door a few feet behind her and waited, urging i
t to be pushed open.

  Ten.

  Twenty.

  Thirty seconds went by.

  No luck.

  Dr. Barnes took a deep breath and sat back in the uncomfortable metal chair.

  Laid out on the table in front of her she had her cellphone, her car keys, the envelope that had been left stuck to the windshield of her Toyota Camry, and the note she had found inside it. Every time she looked at it, her heart skipped a beat inside her chest.

  After reading the note down at the underground parking lot of the building where she had her psychotherapy practice, Dr. Barnes had laughed out loud, quickly discarding it as a ‘ridiculous, humorless joke’. But then she found what had been left inside the envelope for her, something that gave everything a lot more meaning, and the laughter immediately turned into desperate panic. Twenty-five minutes later, she had stormed into the police station on Venice Boulevard.

  An officer had spoken to her and taken down all her details, but Dr. Barnes had demanded to speak with a detective. She didn’t want this brushed under a carpet.

  The officer had explained that no detectives were available at that time and that she had two options. One: She was more than welcome to wait for one if she really felt the need to. Two: She could go home and a detective would either call her or drop by at a more convenient time.

  The last thing Dr. Barnes wanted at that particular moment was to go home alone, so wait she did, for a very long time, but still, no detective came to meet her. After almost two hours, four horrible cups of coffee, and five increasingly angry trips to the reception window, the officer finally told her that he had managed to talk to one of their detectives over the phone, and he was on his way back. The officer, who could clearly understand Dr. Barnes’ frustration, had asked her if she wouldn’t prefer to wait in one of their interrogation rooms, away from the noise and the mess of the station’s reception lobby. Dr. Barnes happily accepted it. She was getting a little freaked out by the looks she was getting from the tattoo-covered, burly man, sitting across the hall from her.