The Friday Killer, page 2
Steadying his ragged breath, Mason crept through the hallway to another door. This was it: there was one last door before he came face-to-face with the intruder. Again he found himself thinking of the Wendells, who had caused him so much trauma. Of Anarchy, who had caused him so much pain. Had somebody come back from the grave to finish him off?
No. He wouldn’t accept it. Mason had vowed to keep his family safe, no matter what. Whoever was on the other side of this door would not live long enough to regret it. Using his protective nature as a source of confidence, Mason ripped open the door and took aim.
When he saw the face staring back at him, his heart almost stopped.
SIX
“Jesus Christ!” she yelled, backing up toward the desk and creating an avalanche of pen pots and picture frames. “Put that thing away or you’ll put someone’s eye out.”
Mason breathed a deep sigh of relief and lowered the gun. He engaged the safety latch and placed the gun at his side, shaking his head. “What the hell are you doing here? How did you even get in?”
Amy stood up straight and made a lazy effort to clear up the desk’s mess. Her blonde hair had been cut to shoulder-length, a half-bang still covering one of her striking blue eyes. She looked every bit her age—her twentieth birthday was just around the corner—but she would always be Mason’s little girl.
“Diane gave me the key. Said I could come here to study.”
“And you study with that noise going on?”
“Well… yeah. It helps me concentrate.”
Amy reached for her phone and lowered the volume, giving Mason a glimpse of her clipped finger. It had been almost seven years since the Lullaby Killer had done that to her, and Mason still found himself quickly filling with rage whenever he saw it. There was nothing but hot rage and cold hatred left for that psychopath.
“Why are you here?” she asked. “I thought you hated working late.”
“I do. Just needed a little breathing space, you know?”
Mason pulled out a chair and explained what had happened with Frank Swanson. Ten years ago he could have never imagined letting his own flesh and blood into his dark world, but after the things she’d suffered, she’d already become well-adjusted to it. Now he was fortunate enough to have another shoulder to cry on, even if crying wasn’t his style.
“Tough break,” she said when he’d finished telling the story.
“That’s an understatement.”
“What are you going to do?”
Mason rubbed his stubbly chin. “I’ll have to turn this case down.”
“For serious?”
“For serious,” he mocked, mimicking her light voice. It earned him a slap on the shoulder, the strength of it surprising him. “I promised Diane I would leave all that stuff behind, and have you ever known me to break a promise?”
Amy lowered her head, failing to hide a smile. “Your track record isn’t great.”
“Exactly. Which means it’s time for a little course correction.”
“But I know you, Dad. You can’t keep stuff like this locked away. Why don’t you talk to Diane about it? She’s always been good with things like that. Her advice is always good advice. That’s what you told me.”
“And I stand by that.”
“So do it.”
Mason imagined that now, but all he could see in Diane’s expression was disappointment. He would try—sure he would—but there was no getting through to her when it came to their family’s safety. Anyway, she was probably right. She usually was.
“I’ll just have to pass,” Mason said, standing up and scooting the chair back under the desk. He looked around the small office, half checking it was still tidy and looked professional, but really just distracting himself from the beckoning case.
“You might struggle with that.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you love this stuff.” Amy stood, too, closing her laptop and feeding it into a black bag with a long strap. “Besides, how would you feel if the Swanson girl turned up dead?”
“Horrible,” he said.
“Exactly. You hungry?”
“I could eat.”
“Then can I get a ride home?”
Mason nodded and left the office, shutting off all the lights behind him. Just to be sure, he double-checked there was nobody behind the doors, then followed Amy out to the car.
SEVEN
The atmosphere at San Francisco State University was like a poisonous cloud. Everyone was highly strung, rushing to class and sticking as close to the exits as possible. Two of the Friday Killer’s victims had been students here, and Amy had the same question as everyone else: Who was next?
The phone buzzed in her pocket, startling her. She shook out of her exhausted gaze, having stared into the depths of her locker for some time. She slipped the phone out and looked at the name on the screen. It was her friend Yasmine calling, which only meant one thing: she wouldn’t be attending class today. Probably because her parents had become so strict since the university had been targeted, Amy thought.
She rejected the call and hurried to class, where she took her usual seat at the back. She had always liked it there, being able to stay unacknowledged and out of enemy fire. Teachers wouldn’t aim for her, and most of the students kept to the front anyway.
But above all this, there was another reason she chose that particular seat. It was a lesson she had learned from her father. An accidental lesson, something learned more from watching than from being told directly. It was probably the best thing she’d ever learned. It was to remain an observer, where she could watch everyone from a safe distance.
Because people were not to be trusted.
EIGHT
It had been stuck on his mind ever since Frank Swanson had spoken to him. Every time he closed his eyes, Mason saw the pained expression of that poor guy. He just wanted as much help as he could get, and Mason knew what that felt like. His own family had been in immediate danger more times than he could count, and he wrestled with the sympathy.
“Couldn’t you sleep, hon?”
Mason looked up. He was sitting on the floor with MJ between his legs, lying against him. MJ was silent, playing some block-building game on his child-friendly tablet. Mason looked up to the doorway, where Diane leaned with a worried frown.
“Not really. Got a lot on my mind.”
“Something you want to talk about?”
Not really, he thought. Mason had already explained Swanson’s request, and they had made a decision together—as co-owners of the business—to not take the case. It would take him too close to danger, and besides, Swanson had other interested parties.
He shook his head.
“It’s about Swanson, isn’t it?”
A deep sigh, making MJ shift uncomfortably. “I just can’t get it out of my head. If the Friday Killer has her…” He stopped, glancing down at Mason Junior. This was no conversation for a child to hear, so he lifted his son onto the couch, tickled his belly for a second, then went into the kitchen with Diane. “This killer is no joke. I’m just worried that Swanson’s daughter will turn up like the others. The guilt will be on me.”
“Because you turned it down?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I reject that theory.”
Mason leaned against the counter and folded his arms. “Huh?”
“This might be hard to believe, but you’re not responsible for everything that goes wrong in this city. Last week a Porsche was stolen from three houses down. Was that your fault?”
“No, but—”
“Some old lady was mugged in Union Square just yesterday. Was that your fault?”
“Definitely not, but—”
Diane cleared her throat, mostly to silence him. Her eyes met his in the same I-love-you-but-you’re-being-a-dummy way she’d had since they first met. Since she had needed his help, and he had immediately fallen for her.
“Trust me,” she said. “None of this is on you. And look around you. Look at what you have to lose if something goes horribly wrong. Now I’m not saying you shouldn’t feel something—I’d be worried if you didn’t, because that’s not you—but just keep out of it, won’t you? Like you promised?”
Try as he might, Mason couldn’t argue with that. It was too solid an argument, and like he’d already explained to Amy, he intended to keep this promise… but that didn’t strip him of curiosity, whether it killed the cat or not.
“I’ll stay out of it,” he said.
“Good.” Diane patted him aside so she could make a pot of coffee. “Want some?”
“No, thanks.” Mason peered in at MJ, who was making a big, colorful mess of blocks on his game. I’m heading out was what he wanted to say, but instead, he thought he should just grab his coat and do it. That way he wouldn’t have to argue.
That way, he didn’t have to explain where he was going.
NINE
The killer stalked them from the seat of his car. He grew more excited by the second, watching from a distance as they hurried to class, like scared little mice scurrying toward their holes. It was satisfying to hold such power over them, and the anonymity kept him safe.
It just wouldn’t keep them safe.
He had been to the college many times before. When he had first started his little legend of murders, he had looked young enough to walk the halls without being questioned. These days, however, it was just a candy shop to him. The killer studied the movements of each and every girl he saw, searching for a weakness: a dependency on their friends, an absence of friends, or those who didn’t look like they would put up a fight.
There was one girl he had his eye on, but she wasn’t here today. At least he hadn’t seen her yet. There was the possibility that she had fallen ill, and that left a disappointed ache in his stomach. Was he not allowed to play with his new toy today?
Planning to stay here for a long while, the killer turned the key in the ignition. The dashboard lit up. A gentle melody whispered through the speakers. He turned it down so it was nice and quiet, letting the smooth rhythm course through him like a musical trip. The sounds, along with the cherry air freshener and the feast of young girls outside the building, made him feel as though he could do anything. The world had been reduced to simple pleasures—he could take what he wanted, and nobody could stop him. Not to touch them sexually, of course—he was no dirtbag—he only wanted the pleasure of ending their unimportant lives.
A knock rapped against his window. The killer shot up from his recline. He saw the man outside and reached for the stereo and turned it all the way down. Then he rolled down the window to greet the intruder.
“Can I help you?” the campus security guard asked. He was a slim black man with a mean face. The kind of face that said you couldn’t be friends because if he caught you having too much fun, you would spend the night in handcuffs. Such a thought made the killer force back a grin, because if anybody was forcing someone into handcuffs that day, it was him.
“I’m just taking a break from work,” the killer told him.
“Outside a state university?”
“Is that—” He jerked around in his seat, as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. “Oh man, I’m so sorry. I know how this must look. Honestly, I didn’t think twice about where I was stopping. Just needed a breather from my boss. He’s been riding my ass all week. You must know how that is, right?”
The guard stared hard into his eyes, challenging him. The killer stared back but smiled. There was an uncomfortable silence as the guard judged him. Then he finally stepped back and gestured toward the open, empty road.
“All right. Be on your way, sir.”
“Sure. Thanks. And sorry again.”
The killer turned the key and brought the car to life. He felt the guard’s filthy eyes all over him as he pulled out of the parking spot. He was being judged, and he hated every second of it. Mostly because if he knew the truth—if he really knew what the killer was doing—his disgusting judgment would be justifiable. But not now. Not when he was just looking for his prey. His prey who hadn’t arrived today.
That was fine, though—he would try again tomorrow. That thought kept a wide grin on the killer’s face as he drove toward his large, desolate hideout. Toward his house of horrors, where he still had one victim waiting to be played with.
Where she waited to die a brutal, unimaginable death.
TEN
Mason entered the building with all eyes on him. It was an uncomfortable scene, and his abrupt absence from the force was the root of it, but he carried on regardless. He took the elevator up to the Homicide Department, sweating under the long, beige trench coat he’d owned for years. It was a little scuffed up, but it was his lucky coat… and he needed luck today.
There was a ping. The elevator doors dragged open. Mason headed to the front desk and asked to see Detective Bill Harvey, then waited patiently while the desk sergeant made a call, mumbling into the phone like there was some great secret. Finally, he set the phone back in place and gestured toward the large, open room behind him.
“You can go through, Mr. Black,” he said.
Mason thanked him and made his way to his old buddy’s desk. He found Bill slumped over it, holding his head in his hands while his fingers worked through thinning hair. Usually the optimist, Mason wondered if work was dragging him down the same way it had done for himself over the many years. It wasn’t implausible.
“Don’t tug at the last few strands,” he said.
“I don’t care if it falls out.” Bill looked up at him, red pressure marks sitting on his high cheeks. His eyes were bloodshot, his stubble growing past a shadow. Mason had never seen him so stressed. “What do you need?”
“What makes you think I need something?”
“If you just wanted to catch up, you would’ve caught me at home.”
“Clever boy.” Mason smirked and perched on his desk, scooting a pile of paperwork out of his way. “If you must know, I’m here about the Swanson case.”
Bill’s mouth worked while he tasted the words for a memory. “The missing girl?”
“That’s her.”
“Not my department. You know that.”
“But the Friday Killer is, and they’re linked.”
“What makes you say that?”
Mason jerked a finger at the paperwork. “Swanson’s file just fell out of the sky, did it?”
For a few uncomfortable seconds, Bill stared up at him with something that looked like contempt. It was probably just his fatigue making him stare harder than he should, but that didn’t make Mason feel any more welcome.
“Fine,” Bill finally said, slumping back. “I suspected there was a link. Can’t find it though. I guess you’d say I’m chalking this up to intuition, but as you know, that and a quarter will get you twenty-five cents.”
“Not great police work, is it?” Mason grinned and stood. “You need some sort of proof?”
“More than anything. Otherwise, we’re just hoping she turns up safe and well.”
“I’m with you there.”
“What about you? You working the case?”
Mason shook his head and looked around at the busy department. Phones rang. A great number of voices spoke into them. Things were obviously tense here, and he was suddenly glad to be out of it. “I was approached by Frank Swanson, but I’m not taking the case.”
“Diane won’t let you?”
“Something like that.”
Bill nodded understanding, then collected a separate pile of paperwork from his right. He groaned as he got out of the chair and squeezed past Mason. “Sorry, I don’t have time to stay and talk. Got lots to do. So unless it’s important, I’ll see you soon.”
“No, not important,” Mason said, but inside he was at war with his own temptation. Something about the environment of a police station made him crave the work. It wasn’t a strong enough pull to make him rejoin the team—especially not with the new captain, who was reportedly a grade A asshole—but there was some kind of familiar sensation. Nostalgia, perhaps, or something equally bittersweet.
Mason pushed it aside and said goodbye to Bill. They headed toward the elevator together, and when they went their separate ways, Mason produced the stolen file from inside his trench coat, fingering his way right to the middle as adrenaline coursed through him.
“Diane?” Bill had asked.
And he was right: she was not going to be happy about this.
ELEVEN
He couldn’t hide it from Diane… could he?
Mason had made the foolish mistake of heading back to the office to read the file. It wasn’t until he arrived that he realized how difficult it would be to do this stealthily. Although MJ sat quietly in the corner playing with some LEGOs, Diane sat behind her desk taking sneaky glances at Mason, who eventually made the effort to hide the file.
That night had not been much better, either. Mason had stored the file in his work bag and left it there when they returned home for dinner. The rest of the night had been some sort of sick game, where Mason kept thinking Diane knew what he was up to. Mason remained extremely quiet. On the outside, that was.
Inside, he was a bubbling cauldron of excitement. There was something deep and primitive about his temptation to research the case. Perhaps that was why he’d swiped the file in the first place. But Mason also felt the effects of guilt taking its toll on him. Guilt for turning down Swanson. Guilt for lying to Diane. Just how long could he keep this up, anyway?
He supposed it didn’t matter. He’d already decided to return the file first thing in the morning. All he wanted was a little peek inside, mostly as assurance that they were wrong—that the Friday Killer had nothing to do with Swanson’s disappearance, and that she would arrive at home tomorrow with the revelation that she’d been partying with some secret friends for a few days. A slap on the wrist, and all would be well.
