Mimicry, page 8
“What is it?” Bill asked, an expression of concern wrinkling his forehead.
“It’s the killer.” Mason let himself in and leaned against the wall, but he was hunching forward as he unraveled the letter and showed it to his friend. “The mailman delivered this a few minutes ago. Came straight to my house.”
Bill’s jaw dropped as he read it, his lips moving slightly to mimic the few words. Finally, he looked up. “Is this… blood?”
“I think it’s just ink, but he tried to make it look like blood.”
“Want me to take it in and test it?”
“No.” Mason shook his head. “No police unless we have to, remember?”
“You’re right. So… what do we do?”
This was what had Mason excited. His breathing became labored as he rummaged into his pocket for the envelope. He unfolded it clumsily and stuffed it into Bill’s hand. He spat out the big secret before he could finish reading. “He made a mistake.”
Bill studied the envelope. “How?”
“Look at the stamp.”
Mason watched him as he made the same discovery he himself had made only a few minutes ago. The address was printed on the front—that was terrifying in its own right as another confirmation that the killer knew where he lived—but Bill’s eyes rolled up to the corner of the envelope. A smile crept onto his face, making him look ten years younger.
“The stamp is marked,” Bill said. “So what?”
“It’s marked, but that sticker beside it suggests it was sent directly from the post office. Think you can call in a favor and investigate the postmark?”
“I can definitely do that. Turns out Wendell’s mom’s place was empty all along, unless you consider some used underwear and a bunch of discarded takeout containers good evidence. So yeah, at this point I’m willing to take chances on anything.”
“You can find where it came from?”
“No problem at all.” Bill wasted no time in running through the house, calling to his wife. “Christine? Pack a bag and head over to Diane, will you? Mason and I might be onto something.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He and Mason ran out for the car and dove inside. Seconds later, Mason was speeding out of the driveway and heading toward the location marked on the envelope.
For the first time in weeks, he had hope.
Chapter Forty-Four
The post office was small and dirty. A friend of Bill’s had told him over the phone where they needed to go, and they had expected somewhere a little more… normal. This building was falling to pieces, with no signs of life except for the clerk behind the counter.
“Can I help you?” the old man asked, clasping his liver-spotted hands together.
“We’re with the San Francisco Police Department,” Mason said, noticing Bill flash his badge in the reflection of the dirty glass. “Can you find out who sent this letter? It would have been a day or two ago.” At least that was what he hoped. Any longer than that and the twins could already be dead. Mason’s mouth turned stone dry as this thought occurred to him.
The old man reached out and took the letter. He studied it, handing it back only a second later. “I’m afraid there’s not much I can do about that. People come and go every day, so there’s no hope of me remembering any particular item of mail.”
Mason glanced over his shoulder at Bill. They shared the same doubtful expression. “What about security cameras?” he tried with a certain amount of desperation. “If we can get a look at some security footage, maybe we’ll find what we’re looking for.”
“No security in here, Detective.”
“Shit,” Bill mumbled from behind.
Mason excused himself and took Bill to one side. He was feeling the stress fill up every pore of his body. It was all he could do not to drive his fist through the closest inanimate object. Until an idea popped into his head. It wasn’t a bright idea—certainly, it relied on hope—but it was something. “Do you have the internet on your phone?”
“No, it’s 1999,” he said with an eye roll. “Of course I do.”
“Can you get me a picture of Wendell?”
Bill looked down, his attention disappearing into his phone. Seconds later, a photo of the Lullaby Killer, smug and devious, appeared on the screen. Mason snatched it from his hand and marched back to the clerk, placing it against the glass.
“This is the man we’re looking for. Have you seen him before, sir?”
The old man leaned forward, squinting. His eyebrows raised as he pushed the glasses further up his bulbous nose. His mouth opened into a perfect O of surprise, and then he pointed a shaking finger. “Yes, I know him. Couldn’t tell you his name though.”
Mason cursed inside. “What can you tell us?”
“Well, he’s got something of a reputation around here. A few of the locals are scared of him. They say he gives them a creepy vibe, you know?”
“I know,” Mason said, remembering those eyes with horror. “Anything else?”
“Yes, actually.” The old man sat up, shrugging his shoulders with pride. “I can’t say it’s for absolute certain that he lives there, but every now and then, I see him parking that hideous old recreational vehicle just up the road here.”
Finally, a break. Mason’s heart could have done backflips in his chest. He snuck a peek at Bill, who wore the biggest smile he’d seen in weeks. Mason turned back to the clerk, feeling a hopeful wave of energy. “Can you point us in the right direction?”
“I can do better than that,” the clerk said. “I can write down the address.”
Chapter Forty-Five
As the night started to creep in, the Lullaby Killer had an easier time of it. He’d claimed his victims easily from a bus stop outside of town, and all it had taken was the simple offer of a ride. They’d climbed into the back of the RV. By the time they’d realized they were in a cell, it was too late. They belonged to him now.
He had a long, metal pole at the ready, making his way to the back of the vehicle. His plan was to rip the door open quickly, pole raised and ready to strike anyone who dared attack him. If that failed, he’d just have to discharge his firearm. It wouldn’t be the first time, and if his plan with Mason Black went right, it wouldn’t be the last.
The killer steadied himself and gripped the handle. He counted to three and pulled hard on the stiff metal door. It came open with a groan. The two adults—both identical twins, which suited him just fine—cowered at the back, cradling each other like a couple of cowards.
“You’ve decided not to fight,” he said, lowering the pole. “That’s very wise. Now, I want just one of you to come out slowly. Try anything funny and you’ll have one hell of a headache.”
The women whimpered. One started to make a move, and then the other eased her back down, standing to take her place. She edged toward the back of the van nice and easy, her pink lip quivering and red, curly hair dangling over one eye.
“Easy,” he said again, like he was training an animal.
The woman stepped down with a thud. The killer grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her out of the dirt. They were going inside the abandoned building—one of his many temples of solitude. Only he was coming out alive.
“Good girl,” he said to the crying woman. “Now just—”
It caught his eye in an instant, leaving a dark, hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. Not too far up the road, the silhouettes of two large figures were running toward him. Not far behind them was a black Mustang. Mason’s Mustang.
“Get back inside,” the killer barked. “Right fucking now!”
The woman screamed and climbed back in. The killer slammed the door and ran to the cab, reaching for his gun. If the private investigator wanted to get involved so early on, that was fine. The killer was ready to play whenever, wherever.
Because he knew he couldn’t lose.
Chapter Forty-Six
“You really think it’s him?” Bill asked from behind the passenger seat.
Mason leaned toward the windshield and squinted. Although the night had turned to day and there was no sign of a streetlight, he was still able to easily make out the RV. There was movement around it, but the shape was indiscernible.
“It has to be,” he finally said.
“Plan of action?”
“No plan. Just action.”
Mason took the Glock from his shoulder holster and checked the rounds. Satisfied, he shoved open the Mustang door and closed it quietly. Bill did the same on the passenger-side door, and they met in front of the car.
“Do you want to sneak up?” he asked.
“No sneaking,” Mason told him, hearing the hot blood in his ears. “If he’s been working on his sicko project, then every moment we spend is wasted.”
Just as he finished saying that, there was more movement up ahead. A second silhouette joined the fray outside the RV. Mason’s nightmares were coming true: the Lullaby Killer had taken someone new. Maybe two someones, if history was coming back around to haunt him.
“How are your cats’ eyes?” Bill asked.
“Good enough to know we have to move. You ready?”
“More or less.”
They began to pick up the pace, rushing toward the killer with a frantic kind of urgency. That fast walk turned into a run. That run turned into a desperate race toward the RV, gun in hand while they approached the Lullaby Killer, hopefully for the last time.
Mason felt a cold chill shoot down the nape of his neck.
Would this really be the last time?
Chapter Forty-Seven
Their feet hit the sidewalk with desperate slaps. Their heels pounded onto the concrete. Mason struggled for breath, age catching up to him as he caught up to his past. It was hard to believe he was about to stop the Lullaby Killer all over again. Maybe because it didn’t feel like it would actually happen.
He squeezed his Glock in a tight grip. Bill slowed down beside him, taking aim with his. Mason whispered, “Hey,” then gave him the signal to move around the side of the RV while he patrolled the other. They met around the back, where the open double doors gave way to a man standing just inside. He had a woman at gunpoint. Behind him, signs of movement.
“Drop the gun, asshole,” Bill said.
Mason took aim at Marvin Wendell. His face was shadowed by the dark interior of the RV, but he knew it was him. Just in the same way he knew the RV had been hollowed out to form a cell. A torture room of sorts.
“How about you drop yours?” the killer said.
It sounds like Wendell, Mason thought. Only… softer?
The tension rose between the three of them. They all stood in silence, a Mexican standoff that wasn’t so Mexican. After a few uncomfortable moments, it became clear that none of them had any intention of giving up their firearms.
“Why don’t you let the woman go?” Mason said. “You let her go, I’ll lower my gun, then we can talk like big boys. That sound fair to you?”
“Not really,” Wendell said, nodding in the direction of Bill. “What about him?”
“He can go right now.”
A quick turn of Bill’s head with a scowl. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
In fact, he didn’t. Mason wasn’t sure what the hell to do in a situation like this. In a normal situation, he would have called the police for backup, but that would reveal his secrets—that he had left this man for dead; that he would do it all over again to save this stranger.
“Lower your gun,” he told Bill.
“You’re serious?”
Mason nodded. Bill complied, but not without a huff and a grunt. His gun hit a puddle below their feet, sloshing into the mud. Frustration forced him to punch the air, curse, then retreat behind Mason with the filthiest look he’d ever given.
“Now you,” the killer said.
“It’s not that simple,” Mason told him. “I’ve just given you a show of faith, and now it’s your turn. Turn that gun toward me. Let the woman go, and if you have to shoot anyone, then let it be me.” Because I can’t afford to let another one die.
The woman at gunpoint visibly shook. Her legs seemed to fail her as the killer—surprisingly strong considering his small, weasel-like frame—heaved her upward in one violent motion. It was like he was fighting a reluctant child.
“I’ll do what I want when I’m good and ready.”
A shrill, eerie gasp came from the back of the RV. A pathetic whine from the hostage, who was shaking her head and mumbling something under her breath. Mason struggled to control his breathing, his nerves leaving him wiry and tense. How much longer could he do this before his aging body refused to continue?
“The tables are turning,” the killer said proudly. “You could die right now if I wanted you to, but first I have work to do. So why don’t you get out of my face before I put a bullet in this whiny bitch?”
“Don’t” was all Mason could think to say.
“Drop your gun, Detective.”
“You kill her, and your body will hit the dirt before you know it.”
“Then put your gun down before I count to three, or she’s going to die.”
Mason sighed, his palms slick with sweat.
“Three,” the killer began.
“Wendell, for the love of—”
“Two.”
The hostage whined again.
“One.”
Mason took the shot and hoped for the best.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Evie’s nails were frayed. She continued to gnaw on them, staring at the blank computer screen in front of her. She had sat down with every intention of getting some work done, but all she could think about was the Lullaby Killer. Images of Mason getting hurt occupied her mind, and beside him, Amelia lay wounded. The image was so vivid that it hurt.
Shocking her out of her daydream, the phone beside her rang. It rattled against the hard, wooden desk and began to vibrate its way toward freedom. Evie caught it before it could cause any real harm and answered before looking at the name of the caller.
“Evie Black,” she said.
“Hey, Mom.”
She swooned, not only at the sound of her voice but at what she had just been called. It felt glorious and liberating, but at the same time, it filled her with self-hate. She hadn’t earned that title yet, and besides, the woman who had raised her deserved it the most.
“I just wanted to apologize for what my other mom did,” Amelia said.
“Don’t be sorry. She had every right to get upset.”
“But not with you. You didn’t deserve that.”
Evie slumped back in her office chair and continued to chomp on the ends of her nails. She was still half-asleep, struggling to cope with the guilt of having left Amelia at college. Why had she really fled? Was it to honor the wishes of Amelia’s adoptive mother, or was it simply because she didn’t have the courage to continue with this new relationship?
Either way, it was a struggle for acceptance.
“It’s already forgotten about,” she told Amelia.
“Okay, good. Because I have something to ask you.”
“Oh?”
There was a shaky breath from the other end. Evie waited patiently.
“I’m interested in crime journalism,” Amelia finally blurted out.
“That’s… are you sure?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for years, but I never took it seriously until I met you. Once I started seeing the operation you have going, then seeing Uncle Mason talking out his big plan, it got me thinking about how I want control of the story. I wanted to tell people.”
Evie shot forward. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“Relax, I won’t say a word. But the instinct made me think about my future.”
“You’re sure this isn’t just an in-the-moment thing?”
“No, I really want to do it.”
It would be an understatement to say Evie felt uncomfortable right then, but seeing her daughter interested in the same penniless career Evie had chosen for herself worried her. Sure, it had all turned around and brought in an income over the years, but only after she’d worked hard and gotten lucky. Amelia was a bright girl, and she deserved more than to struggle on a low salary. However, she could employ her…
“No,” Evie snapped.
“Excuse me?”
“To find any success out there, you have to be quick, with your ear to the ground. I don’t want that for you. Look where it got me. All I ever see is the dark side of this world, putting myself in danger every five seconds. You deserve better.”
A huff through the phone. “I deserve freedom, and I’m doing this. It’s my choice. All I’m asking for is a little help—a push in the right direction. But if you can’t do me that courtesy, then you can just—”
“Ugh. Wait.” Evie rubbed the space between her eyes, where a sudden pain was starting. There was no way out of this, she soon realized. But if she gave in to her daughter’s demands, then at least she could control where this was headed. Maybe.
“Is that a yes?” Amelia asked.
Evie rolled her eyes and let out a sigh. “It looks like I don’t have a choice.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
The bullet clanged off the RV’s metal. It sang in the dark. Mason waited for the cry of an injured man, but it never came. Instead, the killer retreated behind the door as he pulled it shut. Mason and Bill stood frozen, waiting patiently for a sign of surrender.
The RV rocked. There was a metallic scraping sound from inside. Mason pictured a door sliding back to grant access to the front seat. The engine grumbled to life, spitting out smog into the already dark night. Curious, his heart racing, he stepped carefully around the side of the vehicle, gun gripped and ready for a second, life-ending shot.
A blast came from the front seat. A flash of light came and went. The passenger-side door opened, and a body slumped out. Horror gripped Mason as Bill ran to the body and rolled it over. The mortified, pain-stricken face of the victim stared up at the starless sky. Blood oozed from her skull and ran into the mud.
