The Hunter Inside

by David McGowan

  One of the photographs would bring Sandy Carson to him, while the other would ensure that Arnold did not leave Atlantic Beach. He knew that Arnold had had enough of the fear that he woke up with every day. This photograph, he knew, would make Arnold determined to stand and fight his foe once and for all to decide his fate. Carson was so stupid she would run straight to him. She would not escape. He would have both of them as and when he wanted them.

  Then victory would be a formality.

  Once he had killed them he would be almost complete and ready. Ready for anything.

  16

  The bark of the tree is cold and wet against the small of Sandy Myers’ back. Drips of water fall from the leaves of the tall trees, landing heavily on her face and running down the back of her neck, meeting and running down the length of her spine, bringing shivers tumbling throughout her body. She looks around frantically, sensing that a threat is imminent, and her chest heaves as she sucks in the air around her before spewing it out in gasps that make her feel her chest will explode at any minute.

  She is running away. Running away from something and trying to hide. She is being stalked, and despite taking refuge behind the tall tree she feels she is being watched by something, something inhuman. The chill and goose flesh that she feels is added to by a breeze that whistles around her exposed ankles as the branches above her sway to and fro, moving leisurely in the breeze.

  She had seen it. She had watched it stalking the man from a distance where the man being watched could not know it was there. Her desire to run to him and warn him of its presence was outweighed by the fear she had of being killed herself. She did not want to leave her boys without a mother, so she had kept her distance and stayed quiet.

  Maybe she would be able to run. Maybe it would forget her and she could get away. But wherever she went it was always there. Wherever she ran to was always where the thing was.

  Now, she slowly straightens from the bent position that has allowed her to regain her breath, and looks around.

  It’s not here.

  Maybe now her chance of escape has come.

  She steps out of the trees and into the garden of a house she does not recognize. As she wonders where she is a man half walks, half runs past her and enters the house without pausing to look behind him to where she stands motionless, shocked by his sudden arrival.

  It is the same man who was being stalked by the thing earlier and now, as she turns and looks down the road she sees the large, lumbering figure approaching.

  What should she do? If it was the other way around, what would she want the man to do for her? She knows that she would want to be warned that she was in danger, and so she follows the man through the door of the house as it swings backwards and forwards with the wind.

  In front of her, the man runs up the stairs and enters a room on the left. She follows him to the room and sees that it is a bedroom. He turns to face her and, despite her thinking it is impossible for him not to see her, he walks straight past her, a smell of alcohol wafting from him as he goes.

  Sandy follows him from the room, wondering why he has not seen her, and watches as he begins to walk down the stairs before calling out, ‘Paul.’ The man does not turn, and Sandy is surprised – not just at his failure to acknowledge her, but at the fact that she knows his name. She is certain that she has never seen this man before, but here she is, standing behind him trying to warn him that a madman has entered his house. For a second time she calls out his name, as he feels around on a table at the bottom of the stairs. It is only then that he seems to hear her and turns, starting back up the stairs towards her.

  ‘Listen, you’ve gotta get out of here now,’ she cries to the man as he continues to advance towards her muttering ‘Shit, shit, shit’ to himself as he passes her. Then she sees the figure, crouching behind the sofa in the lounge, and she realizes there is nothing she can do for the man.

  As she watches, the thing takes out a large knife from a bag on the floor next to it. She is halfway up the stairs, and now the man is coming back down them. But this time she is in his way, and despite the dull light inside the house, he will have to stop. But he comes down the stairs, and he walks straight through her.

  Like she is a ghost.

  It is a dream after all, she thinks to herself, relieved and expecting to wake at any moment.

  Behind the sofa the figure is getting ready to pounce, holding the knife and poised to strike at the man when he reaches the sofa.

  As Sandy watches, the man walks towards the sofa and the thing leaps forward. Sandy cries out to warn him, but suddenly she has no voice as everything goes into slow motion.

  Why haven’t I woken up?

  The man dodges to the side, foiling the first blow, but the thing strikes a second, more accurate blow that sees the knife penetrate deep into the throat of the man, who falls to the floor under the weight of his attacker. Blood oozes down the man’s chest, as the large figure repeatedly stabs him all over his torso, growling viciously as he drains the blood and life from his defenseless victim.

  She can do nothing but scream and scream, hoping to wake herself up from this nightmare. The figure continues to plunge the knife into the lifeless body repeatedly and Sandy continues to watch, screaming louder and louder and…

  ‘Sandy, Sandy, fucking hell, Sandy. You’re gonna wake the street. Relax; it’s just a dream, just a dream.’

  The voice was Melissa’s, and as Sandy slowly opened her eyes she could smell her own perspiration as it dripped from her body. Halfway between being awake and dreaming, it almost felt like the dream was trying to pull her back in.

  Melissa herself had no less than a feeling of terror as she looked at Sandy’s face, covered in beads of perspiration that rolled down and across her cheeks like tears before disappearing towards the large patch of sweat that had become visible beneath the prostrate Sandy Myers.

  Her face was a contortion of terror, as she grasped at her surroundings for a sense of reality and calm, and Melissa herself was terrified by the look of helplessness that was etched onto her normally smiling face.

  ‘Jesus Sandy, what’s going on here? There is something going on isn’t there?’ She could hold back her question no longer. She was now certain that something was very wrong in the private life of her friend if she were having dreams so tortured as this.

  ‘It’s okay. It’s okay. Just a nightmare,’ Sandy mumbled weakly, trying to buy a little time to regain her composure as the dream began to fade and she started to feel more secure in her unfamiliar surroundings.

  ‘Sorry Melissa. I just had a bad dream, that’s all. I didn’t mean to scare you. You go back to bed, okay? I’m fine.’

  ‘Jeez, you really did give me one hell of a fright screaming like that, Sandy.’

  It was obvious to Melissa that her friend was holding something back, but she did not want to push her on what she felt may be a serious matter. If she pushed too hard then Sandy may clam up completely; she may even drive her away, and that was the last thing she wanted.

  ‘I guess I must be missing Joe,’ Sandy said, promoting a truth as her cover against scaring Melissa to death with the actuality of her situation.

  ‘Well, you just go back to sleep and you can ring him as soon as you wake in the morning. Oh, and no more screaming the house down Sandy Carson, okay?’ Melissa pointed a finger at Sandy in a playful manner, forcing herself to sound jolly as she stung her friend’s nerves by saying her maiden name; the name it used.

  ‘Err, yeah okay,’ Sandy managed to say through teeth that were clenched with the fear of going back to sleep. ‘Goodnight ‘Liss, I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Goodnight Sandy,’ Melissa put a comforting hand across the tangled bed sheets and patted Sandy’s legs, before turning and leaving the room. The door closed with a low creak.

  Sandy pulled the covers up further, until only her face showed above the edge. She knew she would not be sleeping tonight; the dream had put pay to that. Her nigh
t would be one of restlessness and fear, as she wondered whether the dream actually was a dream, a premonition, or whether the events that she saw had already happened.

  *

  Ten kilometers away, the thing that Sandy Myers dreamt about knew the answer to her question. He had shared the events with her and had seen her standing on the stairs of the house as he took the life of Paul Wayans. It was all a part of the process; he shared with them what their fate was going to be and they shared, or gave, their life to him when he decided it was time. The answer to her question was that the events were past, and the future held something very different for Sandy Carson.

  For Sandy Carson the future held more than just a bit part. She amused him with her screams. She was weak, and he was getting stronger all the time. It would be easy now; he felt that he could take on the whole of this world and win and he was almost ready. There were just a few things left to do. He must get back to his hideout in Atlantic Beach and keep tabs on his next victim, Arnold.

  He had left through the rear of Wayans’ house and had taken a car parked nearby. It always amazed him the things he took from his victims. On this occasion it was not merely how to drive a car but how to steal one.

  Wayans must have been some kid!

  He made quick progress towards Atlantic Beach. The roads were quiet, and the few cars that he did encounter did not see anything amiss when he passed them, as he slouched in his seat to disguise his extraordinary size. For the motorists that advanced towards him the darkness was enough to veil his face from their view. He felt better and better the closer he got to Atlantic Beach, and hugely strong by the time he arrived there. He could now keep an eye on Arnold.

  Arnold was a bigger man than Wayans, but that didn’t worry him. He knew that Arnold would stand and fight when the time came; his fear would ensure that he faced up to his stalker.

  As for Carson, she would be even easier than Arnold. He had begun the process of bringing her to him by showing her the death of Wayans in her dream.

  His dream.

  When the time came she would be where he wanted her to be. He had ways of making sure of this.

  Thursday was a new day and he would be ready to complete the facile task of taking the life of Arnold.

  Less than two kilometers away, Bill Arnold slept in his motel room. While the early hours of Thursday morning had left Sandy feeling as vulnerable as she had felt when she was at home, Bill slept soundly – unaware his death was being planned within twenty-five minutes walking distance of where he lay.

  He dreamed of playing in the Superbowl and scoring the winning touchdown. The last thing he had on his mind was the thing that stalked him.

  But pretty soon Bill Arnold would be facing up to his fears. Thursday was a new day.

  For everyone.

  17

  Special Agent Sam O’Neill turned the corner of the quiet street in Stamford to be confronted by a large police presence. As he made his way towards the area that was cordoned off by luminous yellow police tape that fluttered in the cool breeze, O’Neill began to wish that his feet would hurry up. He could never get to a crime scene quickly enough, especially when the crime scene promised links to another crime. The news had been given to him by Hoskins via his cell phone; the victim had been butchered in much the same way as John Riley had, and he was eager to take in the crime scene at first hand and make up his own mind on the similarities between the two cases.

  O’Neill hurried inside the house after ducking under the tape that surrounded its perimeter.

  ‘Okay, what have we got?’ His tone was brisk as he tried to take control of the situation quickly and decisively. This was the Special Agent Sam O’Neill show, and he was going to pull all the strings. He was determined that he would not be pulling any punches in his efforts to put an end to the cases set before him, whether they were linked to one another or not.

  ‘The body’s in the kitchen, Boss,’ Hoskins offered, and moved obligingly to one side to allow O’Neill to pass. O’Neill made his way towards the kitchen, noting the state that the lounge was in and needing nobody, not even Hoskins, to tell him that the lounge area was where the crime had been perpetrated.

  ‘How did he die? Who was he? Do we have any clues as to the perpetrator? Are there any signs of forced entry to the property?’ O’Neill’s voice boomed out before he paused and took out a small notebook to begin making a record.

  Hoskins delightedly took the chance to offer the breaking news on the case, saying, ‘Well Boss, first thing is this. There are signs that the perpetrator watched the victim from a distance across the garden. Even more strangely though, we’ve found another similar spot where the long grass is trampled that suggests somebody watched the killer watching Wayans.’

  ‘What did you say?’ O’Neill was shocked. This couldn’t be Wayans, not after he’d asked for twenty-four hour surveillance of Wayans and Wayans’ property. Not after he’d been so certain that Wayans had been involved in the murder of John Riley.

  ‘I said there are two spots in the garden…’ Hoskins began, only to be cut off by an impatient O’Neill. ‘After that, about the victim.’

  ‘He’s in the kitchen, Boss. Name’s Paul Wayans. Lived alone. A retired salesman who lost his wife a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Five years ago,’ O’Neill interrupted before continuing, more to himself than Hoskins, ‘bank robbery. Shit, this can’t be him.’

  ‘It’s him, Boss. Trust me. Knifed to death just like John Riley was. Take a look for yourself.’ Hoskins held open the kitchen door for O’Neill as he simultaneously handed him a pair of latex gloves. O’Neill took the gloves and stepped into the kitchen. He could not believe his eyes. He’d seen some things in his career, and the murder of Riley had almost shocked him, but this was even more brutal, and for the first time in his long career, Sam O’Neill was actually shocked at the viciousness of the attack.

  The face of the victim was obscured by the thick and matted blood that had poured across it, meaning that O’Neill would have to take Hoskins’ word for the fact that it was Wayans who lay, mutilated in the most extreme kind of overkill, in the blood soaked kitchen.

  ‘Who found the body?’ O’Neill asked.

  ‘Neighbor. Janice,um…,’ Hoskins replied, struggling to remember the surname of the woman who’s ashen face had been the first he had seen outside the property.

  ‘Nothing to suggest she’s a serial killer, I presume.’

  ‘You presume correctly, Boss.’

  Agents milled around the room, undertaking the painstakingly meticulous task of making sure that no piece of evidence, whether blatant or invisible to the naked eye, was lost.

  A scene familiar to the Special Agent who stood musing on the situation. A full minute passed before he spoke, such was the effort required to stop him from blowing his top at the fact that the surveillance he had asked for had not been sorted out by his lazy boss.

  When he did speak it was in a measured tone. ‘Okay boys, listen. I don’t want you to miss a thing in here. I want every last drop of blood and every last bit of evidence, hell, of everything in police custody. Whatever tests you guys can do I want you to do them twice, okay?’

  A mumble of agreement went up around the room as the overworked forensics team learned that their stay in the blood bath was being doubled in length by the finicky Special Agent O’Neill, big shot.

  ‘We’ve gotta catch this bastard before it’s too late for somebody else out there. It’s up to us to stop this sonofabitch now. So let’s everybody do their job the best they ever did it, okay?’

  A second grumble went up around the room, devoid of any enthusiasm.

  O’Neill turned to Hoskins. ‘Hoskins, go and repeat my instructions to the other agents that are in here and outside.’ The young agent rushed off, eager to fulfill his duties.

  O’Neill followed at a slower pace. For the first time in his career, he was forced to leave a crime scene due to a slightly queasy stomach. He navigated his way
through the lounge and past the blood, not pausing to take in the gory scene for a second time, and out through the door into the garden of the property.

  He sucked in oxygen and tried to clear his mind, as he surveyed the area surrounding the house. He saw two areas across the garden where agents examined what were presumably the spots from where the victim had been watched, wondering if he was dealing with two killers. There was certainly enough damage to the victim to suggest that four hands had done what it seemed would be very difficult for two hands alone to achieve, and O’Neill pondered this as he took out his cell phone and dialed Lineker’s number.

  Seven seconds and five rings later, the receiver was snatched up and the gruff voice of his boss snarled, ‘yeah’ – in a tone that suggested he was as fed up with his career as the furious Special Agent who now accosted him.

  ‘What did I ask you yesterday?’ Anger bubbled under the surface of the question.

  ‘I don’t know Sam. What d’you ask me?’ Lineker replied, in a flippant tone that did not make O’Neill feel any better, or any more ready to calm down.

  ‘I asked you for twenty-four hour surveillance of a man called Paul Wayans. Guess where I’m standing now. Outside Paul Wayans’ fucking house, that’s where.’ His voice rose to a crescendo as he continued, ‘And why am I standing outside Paul Wayans’ house? Because you never got up off your fat, lazy ass and sorted out that surveillance. Wayans was butchered last night; looks like the same butcher who put pay to John Riley. You’re supposed to be working with me, not against me.’ On delivering the final blow Sam O’Neill hung up on the call, determined not to say anything else that he may regret and that may earn him a suspension. He was sailing a bit closer to the wind than he would have liked, but he considered himself correct to be angry, when his position and people’s lives were compromised by laziness and incompetence.

  He stood for a moment and watched the agents as they went about their business, three men scanning the perimeter of the garden while two groups of four examined the two spots where the tall grass was flattened. A silence hung over the garden that seemed almost eerie. This was always the same at a crime scene; the surroundings mourning the loss of life, with a sense of the injustice of what had happened manifesting itself in the bad air that hung in the macabre setting.