The Hunter Inside

by David McGowan

  Sandy quickly grabbed the letter that had fallen face down on the table in front of her. ‘Err, no… I’m just a little run down at the moment,’ she lied, and felt her own voice reverberating around her head.

  ‘Well, we can’t have you killing yourself on my account now, can we?’ Reynolds said cheerfully. He was a sucker for a pretty face. ‘Come on Sandy. I’m taking you home. You really gotta find some time in your life for resting too, you know?’

  ‘Thanks Mr. Reynolds,’ she replied, and again her shaky voice rang inside her reeling head.

  Reynolds smiled and turned in the direction of his other waitress. ‘Moira, I’m going to run Sandy home. Will you be okay alone for half an hour?’

  Moira had worked at the diner for ten years. She resented the special treatment that Sandy always seemed to be getting, and hated being left alone to deal with the end of the breakfast rush. She knew that it was youth and looks that made her Mr. Reynolds favorite, and she had no sympathy for Sandy Myers – even at this moment. She grunted a labored ‘yes’, and began to wipe down a table with her back turned to the two.

  Sandy was too emotionally disturbed to notice her reaction, and quietly said, ‘Thank you Moira’, as Reynolds put an arm around her waist to support her out of the door.

  Ten minutes later she was home, thanking Mr. Reynolds for driving her in her own car; an action which meant he now had a bus ride, or a twenty-five minute walk, back to the diner. She got rid of him as quickly as she was able. She knew she had a lot of thinking to do.

  The first thing she did was to ring the mother of a friend of Sean and David and ask if she would be able to pick up the kids, telling her she had an urgent item she must attend to. Her relief was palpable when told it was no problem.

  After replacing the telephone, Sandy sat and began trying to rationalize through the fog of fear that was tumbling around her and invading her mind. An hour passed as she thought everything through, forgetting the outside world except for her husband and children, and the thing that was now threatening not just hers, but all of their safety.

  Time passed and the fog began to clear as she formulated a plan in her mind. She would have to wait until Joe came home. Then she would tell him everything. She would tell him about the night her parents were murdered. She would tell him about the letters. She would tell him how she thought she had escaped the murderous lunatic.

  Sandy Myers was afraid for her life. She feared that she would be killed, like her parents had been, and like the man in the picture had been.

  7

  What Paul Wayans now recognized as his worst nightmare was coming true. He was driven for about twenty minutes, with the dire Pat Forsby in close attendance. Forsby sat next to him, trying to question him in a tone that mimicked conversation. It was obvious to Paul that he was being questioned, and he had a pain in the ass right then.

  ‘So, Paul, you must have a great job. Flash car, picturesque view and all.’ His nasally voice irritated Paul, and he was reluctant to speak to this loathsome man.

  ‘I don’t have a job.’ He said, knowing he was letting himself in for further probing and telling himself to keep his cool. Forsby’s inquisitiveness grew and he dropped the act. ‘So what do you do? Sell crack cocaine or something?’

  ‘Is that how I look? Like a crack dealer? Well, thanks very much, you’re really kind.’ Wayans could not be bothered with this man, preferring to deflect his questions while he wondered what the future held, both short-term and long-term. As he’d finished his sentence he had thrown Forsby a look that could have melted gold, and he was relieved when he quieted and switched his attention to the scenery whizzing past the window of the speeding car.

  Forsby had decided to leave the questioning to Sam O’Neill. He thought that was probably the wisest option. So he sat back, for the rest of the ride in silence, content in the knowledge that O’Neill always got what he wanted.

  They eventually came to a stop at a helicopter-landing pad about twenty miles away from Wayans’ house. Before he had a chance to argue, he was being bundled into the helicopter that waited with its huge propellers spinning around.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Paul shouted at Forsby, struggling to hear his own voice over the noise of the propellers as they lifted off into the sky.

  ‘You’re going to see the boss in Atlantic Beach,’ Forsby shouted back at him. Paul Wayans felt spittle from Forsby’s mouth hit his face as he screamed his reply.

  ‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ he mumbled, as his ears popped and the noise lessened.

  ‘Start believing,’ came the reply from Special Agent Forsby. ‘When we arrive in Atlantic Beach, you will be taken to a police station where you will be met by Special Agent Sam O’Neill. He’s the boss. From there we’ll leave you. He’ll look after you.’ He smirked as he said this and Paul feared he knew exactly what this meant.

  ‘Yeah, I bet he will.’

  He was now feeling another kind of fear. The only comforting thought he had was that he was safe from whoever had killed the man in the picture while he was in the custody of the police. And that could only be a comforting thought for him, despite the new fear and dread that gnawed at his stomach.

  It took twenty minutes for the helicopter to travel the distance A to B. Most of the journey was spent in silence, Paul looking out of the window on one side, while Forsby looked out the other. Special Agent Ryan had left them before the chopper had taken off.

  The only conversation that ensued came from the irritating and irritated Pat Forsby, who repeatedly asked how much longer the journey would take. Paul thought maybe he had an aversion to flying. He was like a child that wanted candy, harassing its poor mother every two seconds. Well, now Pat Forsby was the sugar-hungry child and the pilot (whose name Paul had not and did not find out) was the mother who was constantly one second away from beating the irritating child. And boy was he irritating?!

  By the time they arrived at Atlantic Beach, Forsby looked like a glass of milk and Paul wanted to hit the bastard himself. He thought he’d better not, or they might think he was a violent madman, capable of a murder like the one he had received the photo of. What were they going to think when he told them about the other twenty-nine letters that he had discarded?

  He was bundled unceremoniously into the back of a large black van marked ‘FBI’. There were seats running down either side of the van, and the metal door that was slammed behind him looked impenetrable. He tried to brace himself for what he knew would be a long and difficult explanation.

  What would happen to him? Would they believe his story? He knew that he might be in more trouble than he first imagined, and tried to solace himself with the knowledge that he was at least safe from his demented stalker for now. He told himself this repeatedly in an effort to calm down, wondering how O’Neill would react when he told him about the correspondence. He was already well aware from the treatment of Forsby and the high-speed, high security transportation that he was considered the prime suspect, certainly in Forsby’s eyes – who had scrutinized him with a certain element of fear that was visible through his smug demeanor.

  He must be careful how he answered the questions that were put to him. He didn’t want to appear imbalanced or guilty in any way, as he wanted this ordeal to be over quickly, despite whatever was waiting for him in the future.

  But what evidence do they have? Okay, so he had the picture. But that wasn’t enough to pursue a case against him. There would be no forensic evidence at the scene linking him to the scene, because he had not been there. He could not be charged with anything on circumstantial evidence.

  It was 12:30 by the time they reached the police station in Atlantic Beach. Special Agent Forsby took Paul into a small room containing a table, three chairs and a door. It soon became clear to Paul that helicopter rides were not the only thing that Pat Forsby was afraid of. He was a little claustrophobic too. All he seemed able to do was pace up and down a room that only took three paces to cross.
/>   ‘What are we waiting for?’ Paul asked in a voice that reflected how much Forsby irritated him.

  ‘We’re waiting for Special Agent O’Neill. I told you - you will meet Special Agent O’Neill.’

  ‘Yeah, we ‘met’ on the phone earlier,’ the unenthusiastic Paul Wayans said in the most sarcastic tone he could muster. He was not relishing the moment when he was to come face to face with somebody else that he knew he was not going to like. He had worked out that much earlier in the day. Paul Wayans was not in the habit of liking people who implied that he was a murderer without even meeting him, and he was trying to shake off the niggling feeling that he was to have a lot of talking to do.

  Special Agent Forsby looked towards the door of the room. Paul listened closely and heard the distant sound of footsteps coming down the long hall that he himself had walked down ten minutes earlier. As the sound got louder he felt his heart rate quicken, and he wondered at the fear he was feeling despite his innocence.

  The door opened and in walked Special Agent Sam O’Neill. Out walked Pat Forsby. Paul Wayans just about managed to stop his lower jaw from hitting the floor of the room. O’Neill was huge; six feet five inches if he was one. Paul had been expecting a little slimy faggot of a man. Nothing could have prepared him for the actuality of the person whose accusatory voice had so offended him earlier in the day.

  O’Neill loomed over him, and in the same tone that had left Paul Wayans wanting blood that morning, said ‘So. You’re our man, Paul Wayans?’ His voice was not angry, not mocking, not anything in fact. It was neutral, calm. To Paul, he sounded almost resigned, and he was definitely unnerved by this man. He could see by looking at him why he was in a position of such power, he emanated success and strength.

  ‘What do you mean, I’m your man?’ Paul’s question deflected back at him from the cold, stone walls of the room, confirming to him that the bewilderment and fear he felt were plain for anyone to hear.

  ‘I think you know what I mean, Mr. Wayans.’ The power conveyed in the man’s countenance was backed up by his tone of voice. He sounded like a man who knew how to get what he wanted, and his confident, forceful tone was a far cry from the feeling that Paul Wayans had building up in his own stomach. Now that his earlier thought - that the police would suspect him of being involved in the murder shown in the photograph - had been explicitly backed up by the big Special Agent’s opening remark, the full extent of the fear he felt seemed to ooze through his skin. His head spun.

  ‘Let’s talk, Paul. Shall we talk? Are you ready to talk to me, Paul?’ The repetitive nature of the Special Agent made him sound like a parrot. Oddly enough, Wayans wasn’t amused by it. Even if he had been he would not have allowed it to show. He raised his eyes to the fixed, hard stare of Special Agent O’Neill. It felt hot, like it would burn through the corneas of his eyes, and he dropped them to focus on the scarred formica table.

  ‘Listen O’Neill, you’re making a big mistake here.’ His voice was shaky and O’Neill countered,

  ‘If I’m making a mistake, then why don’t you tell me how you came to be in possession of this photograph?’ He held the photograph under Paul Wayans’ eyes and Paul quickly shut them. He didn’t want to look at it again.

  ‘It came in the mail.’ There was a moment’s silence, and Paul looked up to see the Special Agent’s response. O’Neill did the thing Paul Wayans least expected him to do; he burst into laughter. It took him two minutes to regain his composure, and when he eventually did he said, ‘Cut the bullshit Paul.’

  ‘I swear to you, it’s not bullshit. It came in the mail. Well, not literally in the mail. It just had my name on the envelope, so it must have been hand delivered. I’ve had dozens of letters from someone who says they’re going to kill me. They sent me that photograph to show me that they mean business.’ The words came out all at once and his shoulders slumped outwards and backwards as he inhaled deeply, his face reddening.

  ‘If this is true then I suppose you’ll be able to produce these items of mail?’

  ‘No,’ he whispered.

  ‘No? Then where are they Mr. Wayans?’ He was mocking him now, sensing his vulnerability.

  ‘I threw them away.’ Okay, here we go, Wayans thought to himself. What comes next?

  ‘Right, let me get this straight in my mind.’ He paused. ‘Okay, someone hand delivers you a ton of mail to tell you that they’re going to kill you. Then you, in all your wisdom, throw this mail away and don’t tell anyone. Is that right, Mr. Wayans? Jeez, that’s some survival sense you got there.’

  ‘I figured if I came to you you’d only tell me it was somebody playing a prank on me. And that’s what I half thought myself, until today. Or you’d think I was mad.’

  ‘Me? Think you were mad? Why would I possibly think that, Mr. Wayans?’ He loathed the relish with which O’Neill exerted this pressure on him. He imagined he’d extracted a few confessions from innocent men in the past – he was ruthless.

  ‘So, why did you kill him Paul?’ The question shocked Wayans. He felt for a moment that he’d fall off the chair he was sitting on. It was obviously the next step of questioning. He’d seen it in all the best movies, but it still shocked him nonetheless. He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything at all. This didn’t deter the big Special Agent, who simply moved on to his next question.

  ‘Okay, so where have you been for the last seven days?’ This was the question he dreaded the most. He hadn’t left the house in seven days. It was getting near his and Marcie’s wedding anniversary, and the depression that he felt meant that he hadn’t faced the outside world for a whole week. Things were going from bad to worse in the life of Paul Wayans, and he wished he could change it now. Rewind the hands of time and try it all over again. Would it turn out the same?

  ‘I’ve been at home, alone.’

  ‘For seven days? Why would you stay at home, alone, for seven days? Who was the last person to see you?’

  ‘Erm… It was Todd Mayhew, last Wednesday afternoon outside the Shop2Drop.’

  ‘Well, that’s no good to me, Mr. Wayans. You see, if your account of your whereabouts can’t be backed up by an alibi, then we have a problem. Let me tell you something, Paul. I’ve been in this business for a real long time and it’s always pretty clear when someone has something to hide. Kapeesh? How long ago did your wife die? Five years wasn’t it?’

  His methods were designed to unsettle Wayans. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, your wife is killed; you’re a broken man. You quit your job, move your home and become a loner. But that doesn’t help, because now you have all this extra time on your hands. And what does a man do with time on his hands? I’ll tell you what he does, Paul, he thinks. He does nothing but think, and that’s when it all starts getting garbled. I’ve seen it. When it gets garbled you get angry. Angry that the lamp she bought – the lamp you never liked – is still there but she isn’t. You begin to think ‘Damn that lamp’, and now you’re getting really angry. I really am surprised just how small that step into killing is to make. You know what I mean, don’t you Paul? I mean, why not hey?’ O’Neill went on relentlessly, ‘I mean, if someone can turn your world upside down, then why can’t you do it to them? Makes sense doesn’t it?’

  ‘I never killed anybody.’ He looked up at the man who towered over him, tears in his eyes, and pinched himself under the table. Maybe if he pinched hard enough he’d wake up and none of this would ever have happened. But he wasn’t waking up. He was already awake.

  O’Neill’s gaze was impassive, and he stared at Wayans, never once blinking in all the time Paul looked at him. O’Neill stood and picked up the photograph. He held it five inches away from his face, scanning it slowly from top to bottom. Not even this brought any change in his countenance.

  His expression did not change because he had a feeling about this set of circumstances that wasn’t going to go away. He was absolutely positive that Paul Wayans was involved more closely than he was letting on in this murder.
He was sure that if he was wrong about Wayans committing the murder - and it would be a while yet before he would consider this - then he at very least knew the man who had committed the crime. But there were still other avenues of persuasion that he hadn’t tried.

  Taking a step towards the table O’Neill paused. He was now looming over Wayans once more, who lifted his head and received a back handed slap from O’Neill that nearly knocked him onto the floor of the room.

  ‘Mother fuck…’ came the muffled and predictable response, as Paul threw his hands up to his face, as much to inspect the damage as to ward off any further blows that might be coming his way.

  ‘Now tell me, you bastard! WHY DID YOU KILL JOHN RILEY?’

  Removing his hands from his face, Paul was not surprised to see blood smeared across his palm. He figured it came from his lip, which he had felt snag on his tooth and which began to swell instantly. This was a strong man. All he had done was slap Paul, and boy had it hurt. He did not relish taking a serious punch off this guy; he was a man mountain.

  ‘I didn’t even know the sonofabitch,’ Paul yelped defiantly, his speech affected slightly by the swelling to his bottom lip.

  ‘I’m only going to ask you one more time…’

  ‘You’ve got to believe me here. I didn’t know this man, I never met this man, and I sure as hell never killed him. The letters were real. I can see the problems you have with this but it’s the truth, and that’s all that I can tell you.’ He was pleading with the Special Agent. It was all he could think of to do.

  ‘This is a crock of shit, Paul. I know you aren’t that keen on talking yourself into life without parole, but you don’t expect me to believe that out of these ‘letters’ you never kept one?’ He walked around the edge of the table. This made Wayans nervous.

  ‘I never thought that this guy was serious. Anyway, I don’t have to talk to you. I know my rights. Attorney and a phone call, right? Well, I’d like to take up those two options right away. And before I also take up my right to silence I’ll tell you this: You haven’t got anything but that photograph as evidence against me. You won’t find anything else to link me to that murder and do you want to know why? Because I didn’t commit that murder is why. When my attorney gets here you’ll have to let me go.’ With that Paul Wayans shut his mouth. He wasn’t keen on talking himself into life without parole, as Special Agent O’Neill would have put it. Defiance had replaced desperation.