Mimicry, page 11
“Look,” he said, finally pushing back against Mason ever so gently. “This is a hard time for you. I get that. But I’m your only friend in the world right now. I’m the one throwing these guys off your scent so you can apprehend Wendell without interruption.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true. They’re already wondering about you.”
Deep down, Mason really knew there was some truth to it. But all this frustration and pain was disabling his ability to trust. What else was he to do, if not question the loyalty of the man who was supposed to have left Wendell for dead?”
“I want to look at it,” he said.
Bill squinted and turned his head to one side. “Look at what?”
“The body. Wherever it was you dug the grave.”
“Mason, that’s—”
“Not a request.” Mason let him go and stood back, adjusting his collar in a desperate plea for some air. “There’s so much uncertainty with this situation, so if I can just get some closure on whether or not this is actually Wendell, I want to see that son of a bitch’s body.”
Bill watched him for the longest time, slowly straightening out and pressing down his suit jacket. He breathed heavily, his warm breath reeking of a spicy lunch as he leaned over and pressed the button on the panel. The lights flickered. The elevator began to move again. Slowly, with a soft hum.
“I understand,” he said.
“Do you?” Mason said.
“Yes. Of course I do. You want closure.”
“Exactly.” Mason nodded, finding it tough to steady his heart rate and his breathing. He waited, giving Bill a chance to leave but growing less patient by the second. Finally, he gave in and resubmitted his one clear demand. “I want to see.”
Bill crossed his arms and leaned against the back wall. He didn’t look up, and he didn’t have to. His body language spoke volumes of defeat. He must have been aware of the wall of trust that had crumbled between the two, but rather than hurt he showed something else; he showed acceptance.
“Fine,” he said at last, but still without looking up. “I’ll show you.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
Were it not for the anxiety intensifying inside him, Mason might have felt sleepy at the whish of the windshield wipers on his car. They swept gushes of rain from the glass with every swipe, clearing only a small portion of his view. The headlights did the rest, beaming through the darkness and the downpour. All the while, Diane was on his mind.
She better be safe, or I don’t know what I’ll do.
He continued to follow Bill’s car, unsure of exactly where they were headed. They had already stopped at Bill’s to collect the shovels, so Mason simply followed like a blind sheep, eagerly awaiting the opportunity to put his mind to rest.
They crawled the car through an open junkyard. There was nobody around to monitor their movements, which might have been Bill’s initial reason for choosing this location in the first place. They drove through soaked gravel to reach the back of the enormous yard. When they finally stopped, Mason got out and made his approach. The rain didn’t bother him.
“Right in front of the car,” Bill said, getting out and taking the shovels from the trunk.
He handed one to Mason, then moved around and began to dig. He didn’t say anything else. Was guilt or impatience to blame? Whatever it was, Mason didn’t have time to worry about it. He slipped off his coat, dropped it onto the car’s hood, then began digging.
The storm made it both easier and harder. The dirt shifted with almost no effort, the shovel sliding into it like a hot knife through butter. The terrain fought back, however, quickly filling the new hole with filthy water. It took away whatever patience Mason had left, forcing him to work faster and harder, shoveling like his life depended on it. And he supposed it did—if they found Wendell’s body in here, they would know it was a copycat roaming free, and perhaps there was a chance Diane would come out of this unharmed. On the other hand, if it were empty, they could safely say this was the end for all of them.
They kept digging, letting out little grunts of pain now and then. The wood began to blister Mason’s hands, but he didn’t care. The pain in his palms was nothing compared to what he would feel if something happened to Diane. How could he ever forgive himself for that?
Finally, they struck something solid. Mason froze, his eyes flickering up at Bill. Bill set down the shovel and jumped into the hole, quickly placing a foot on either side of the wooden panel and reaching in to lift it.
“What is it?” Mason asked. “You gave that son of a bitch a casket?”
“No. I just threw an old door from the trash pile in there.”
“Why?”
“So I could remember we’re in the right place if something like this ever happened.” He stopped struggling and turned for a moment, rainwater splatting into his eyes. “Give me a hand down here, would you?”
Mason didn’t hesitate. He dropped the shovel and slid into the watery hole, mud caking him from head to toe. There was little room to maneuver, but he found purchase two feet from Bill. They placed their hands under the wood, counted to three, then heaved. The hole fought back like an impatient child, turning sloppy under their efforts and weakening their footholds. The men pushed on, lifting until they turned the door upright and heaved it out of there.
What they saw turned Mason’s biggest nightmares into a reality.
“It’s…” He couldn’t say it. Didn’t have the nerve. All he did was stare down at the impromptu grave, up to Bill’s equally terrified expression, then down at the grave again. If this wasn’t a confirmation that Marvin Wendell really was alive, what was? It took everything he had not to roar his incomparable frustration out to the dark night, finally given no option but to accept that his past had truly come back to finish him off.
That the grave was empty, and Marvin Wendell really was alive.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Anger sunk its teeth in. White-hot rage seared through his tense body. Mason hurled the shovel into a nearby pile of tires, hearing it clang as it bounced off and struck an abandoned kitchen appliance. Rodents scurried in fear.
“Goddamn it!” he yelled.
“Will you keep your voice down?”
Mason jerked a finger right at him. He wanted to hit this guy more than ever before in his life. Everything bad that had happened in the past few years somehow came back to him, and Mason wanted to see him suffer for it. But he just couldn’t. Bill had always had a charm that nobody could explain. It wasn’t a raw attraction—more of an endearing naivety. All the same, those old feelings of anger stirred back up in him.
They went to the cars. Mason crossed his arms across the roof of his Mustang and sunk his head into them. Exhaustion and helplessness were making him dizzy, swirling multiple colorful patterns even under his closed eyes. He also had closed fists, and his heart was no longer open for business. All he wanted was Diane.
In time, Bill collected the shovels, returned them to his trunk, then came back to stand at Mason’s side. His presence was known as always, but he didn’t say or do anything to intrude on the peace Mason was trying desperately to find.
Until he opened his mouth.
“What do we do now?” he asked.
Mason looked up and stared through the haze of fatigue. “We study. What else is there to do? Seeing as the police can’t help us because of your stupid goddamn lie.”
“I just didn’t know how to tell you.”
“With words, Bill. Like an adult.”
“There’s no need to condescend.”
Mason exhaled in a long, drawn-out breath. He closed his eyes again as he inhaled deeply, trying to maintain his calm. Finally, he opened his eyes and turned toward his old partner. “I need to be alone for a while.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Yes. You need to go be a cop, and I need to…” It disturbed him to realize how much he had to do. He had to find MJ and be a father. He had to keep Evie, Amelia, and Kylie safe. But how could he expect to do any of that while Diane was out there somewhere just waiting to become the next obscene proof of superiority from a madman’s twisted point of view?
“You need to what?” Bill asked.
“Just go,” Mason said, reaching for the car door. “I’ll be busy for a while.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
They were in total isolation, right where they needed to be. Nobody would disturb them out here, which was all he could have asked for. By now, the police would be breathing down his neck with a citywide search, and the killer wondered if that would still be the case if he wasn’t who he was. Normal missing people didn’t get such treatment. It was a weird sort of honor.
The night had come now, cloaking the RV in darkness between the trees. The wooded area was in complete silence, save for the distant rummage of animals in the brush. The killer stood enjoying the fresh, moist night air and was surprised to find himself shivering despite the multiple layers he had on. At least it proved he was still human.
By the time he was done enjoying the peace of the still night, the killer produced a bottle of water from the front of the vehicle. He unscrewed the cap and pressed the bottle to his lips, letting a sufficient amount fall down his throat. When he was satisfied, he replaced the lid and went to the back of the RV, checking his surroundings before opening the door.
Inside, an exhausted, terrified black woman was sitting with her knees to her chest. It was hard work discerning the outlines of her creased-up body, but the knowledge she was there helped guide his eyes in the dark. The killer tossed her a bottle of water. It panged as it hit the wall, then rolled to her side.
“Drink,” he said.
“Go to hell.”
“Drink, or I’ll end you right now.”
“Go ahead and do it,” Diane said aggressively, calling his bluff.
The killer smiled. He couldn’t help it. It made total sense to him that the wife of ex-cop and intervening private investigator Mason Black had some spunk. The question was, what would he do with her now? “Nah. You’re worth much more to me alive,” he told her.
“You’re disgusting.”
“Says the dirty tramp locked in an RV. If you’re not going to drink that, roll it back my way. No point letting it go to waste.”
Diane looked up from her knees, slowly twisting her head to face him. He couldn’t make out the look on her face, but the tone in her voice said it all as she hurled the bottle at him. “Take your damn water and stick it where the sun doesn’t shine.”
There was nothing to do but shake his head. As much as the killer wanted to hurt her for her absence of gratitude, he had other plans. Like it or not, this piece of work was needed as a pawn in a larger game. Sadly, that meant she had to stay alive just a little bit longer. The only satisfaction was in knowing she would soon outlive her usefulness.
But not before Mason got what was coming to him.
Chapter Sixty-Six
There was just no way to keep them all safe. As hard as he tried—driving the Mustang from Kylie’s house to check in, then over to Evie’s apartment and watching from afar—Mason understood the killer could come back to take what was left of him at any moment.
Where are you, Diane?
What he found, while he was sitting in the car staring up at the apartment, was that losing his wife was far greater a problem than losing his home. Homes could be rebuilt, gardens replotted. But nothing could craft a smile as infectious as Diane’s. Nobody could sound so soft and yet so strong at the same time. The thought of losing her left him shaking.
Though it was impossible to concentrate, Mason knew he had to try. He fetched the files from his trunk, spread them over his lap and the dashboard, then got to reading. The pile was so tall it would take forever to get through, and he didn’t have forever. With this in mind, he fingered through to the most important parts. The parts Wendell might hold a grudge about. Where might he have taken Diane? What location might that psycho think of as significant?
As the hours went on and the answers didn’t come, Mason’s eyes grew heavier. He was battling total exhaustion, his motivation only carrying him so far. He began to drift in and out of sleep over the next few hours. There were short dreams about Amy, standing in the rain and asking why he had let her die. Then he’d snap awake, only to fall again into a world where he was protecting her. Where Mason was dangling from Cliffside Hill, Amy tethered to the other end. Mason took his keys and began to saw through the rope, but the faster he sawed, the heavier he became. Soon, he was dragging Amy to the edge of the cliff. She was dying, and it was all his fault. There was nothing he could do to—
“Cliffside Hill,” he mumbled, opening his eyes.
Mason looked around him as he wiped a small spot of saliva with his sleeve. He looked around only to find broad daylight had crept up on him. The papers in his lap were now all over the floor. He hurried to scoop them together, repeating what his dreams told him over and over, eager to head over there and look for something—anything—to get his wife back.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
The long drive to Cliffside Hill was cut in half by stomping on the gas pedal. The Mustang roared as it sped down empty roads, nothing standing in his way but teardrops of rain as they hit the glass, only to be swiped away moments later. Mason kept his window open, enjoying what little air he could as he tried to think of anything other than losing Diane.
As the rain stopped, he finally arrived, climbed out, and scouted the area. Slightly farther back down the hill, a single police car was parked. Mason used a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, struggling to make out the two figures sitting in the front of the vehicle. They were facing the edge where Mason had been pushed off eight years ago. Where he had almost given his life to save his own daughter, right before he was saved by his own family.
Mason offered a sarcastic wave to let them know he could see them. They looked at each other, their lips silently moving, then continued to stare in his direction. Mason turned his back on them, wondering just how much they knew. They were obviously looking for Wendell as much as he was, but where was everyone else? Did they have more areas under surveillance, or were they as stumped as he was?
It didn’t matter. They were equally useless at this point. Mason took a short stroll to the edge of the cliff, remembering the horror of hanging so helplessly. A harsh wind came at him, blowing his trench coat behind him like a flag while he struggled to keep his ground. He was just glad that the wind was pushing him back rather than forward, like God’s invisible hand pushing him to safety. Like there were other plans for him—to stop this killer one last time.
Mason breathed heavily, trying to gain control of himself. He had only come out this far to make sure Diane wasn’t left here as some sort of sick message, and to his relief, he was in the clear. But that didn’t stop him from worrying for her. She was still out there somewhere, scared and alone, wondering if he was coming for her. He just wished he could tell her that he was—that he wouldn’t ever stop searching until she was safe.
“Get ahold of yourself,” he said, rubbing his eyes with the balls of his hands, giving everything he had to staying calm and keeping himself from crying. But how could he do that when he’d already lost Amy? Diane had told him time and time again that he needed to find a new career, but had he listened? Was this a result of his neglect?
His phone rang as if to distract him from the question. Mason pulled it out, found it was a private number, and almost rejected the call. It occurred to him then that this could be Diane calling for help, Bill calling from a payphone. Anything. Any phone call was better than none at this point, so he quickly answered and gave his name.
The voice coming back at him made his head spin.
“Hello, Mason,” the Lullaby Killer said.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Mason spun around to look at the police. They were still sitting in their car, warm and secure, oblivious to the life-changing call he had just received. Mason walked away from the wind, switching ears so the speaker wouldn’t crackle under the breeze. His legs couldn’t move fast enough, their loss of strength making him feel weightless.
“Where is she?” he asked, fighting back the urge to call him every name under the sun.
“Tsk. You’re just going to need a little patience.”
“If you hurt her, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” the killer said, his raspy voice full of spite. “Kill me? It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? See, I’ve been trying to teach you that you did something really, really bad all those years ago. Every move I’ve made has been a hint in that direction, but it’s just not sinking in, is it? You’re just not getting it.”
Mason’s shoulders heaved up and down as he seethed with anger. He already knew he’d done wrong. Every move he’d made ever since had been a solid effort at changing his ways and becoming a better man. How was he to know it would all amount to nothing?
He walked into a secluded area where the trees started. It took him a while to notice this was where he had last been seen pursuing Marvin Wendell, but he tried to put it past him and focus on remaining calm. This was no time for rage.
“Give me my wife back,” he said as gently as he was able.
“Ha!” The killer laughed sarcastically. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
“What do you want?”
“I want to make my point.”
“You’ve made it already.”
“No, I haven’t, because you’re still alive.” There was a long sigh through the speaker, a rush of breath as if the killer were moving. “See, after the things you and your little cop buddy did to me, I won’t be satisfied until I see your head on a table.”
