The Bureau Killer, page 3
Mason climbed out of the pool and gave chase. MJ giggled and dive-bombed back into the water, shaking off the imaginary predator. Mason pretended to fall and hit the water with a great splash, creating a long wave that rippled around MJ, who was giggling uncontrollably.
“Amy should come next time,” MJ said.
And that pain came back to stab him. Did he not understand his sister wasn’t coming back? It drove a spike of pain into Mason’s heart, and for a moment he saw them all together as a family again. Diane was in his arms on Christmas Day, while Amy helped MJ unwrap his present on the carpet. The hot, enticing aroma of cooking meat wafted through the house.
It took one splash, and he was brought back to this time. This lonely, awful time.
Mason gave chase to his son again, making noises like a sea monster that didn’t exist in real life. That was when he got the idea: there was nothing stopping him from asking Diane to come back. Nothing but dumb, childish fear of humiliating himself. Seeing how happy MJ was now—making his own laps around the edge of the pool as Mason half-heartedly gave chase—it was evident that they could become a happy family once more.
All he had to do was ask.
TWELVE
The Educator had his thumb over another button, and this one was even more delicious.
Not only had he murdered all those people at Alcatraz, but the police—even the FBI—were no closer to catching him. They were completely helpless, leaving the Educator free to do whatever he pleased to whomever he wanted to harm. How fun was that?
There was a wrench in the works, however. He had followed Jacob Fray around town, and by now it was obvious he was seeking advice from a private investigator. Not that the PI could do anything to help, but the Educator didn’t appreciate that his threats weren’t being taken seriously. They never had been, had they?
But that was fine. There was another blast to come. And another. And another. This next one would not be his biggest, but at least he had the opportunity to play around a little. The Educator would start with the PI, play with him a little, and then things would get a little more fun.
A little more… explosive.
THIRTEEN
Something has to go my way, Mason thought as he approached the house.
MJ let go of his hand and rushed toward the doorbell, pressing it repeatedly until Diane’s silhouette grew larger through the door’s pane of frosted glass. She opened up, and MJ ran past her, his Power Rangers backpack bobbing up and down as he went.
Diane giggled. “Did you give him sugar?”
“Nope,” Mason said, returning the smile. “That energy is his and his alone.”
“Well, it looks like he had a good time, so thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure, really. Anytime you want me to spend time with him, I’m a phone call away.” Mason stood still and let those words settle into the uneasy space between them. Diane let go of his gaze and fiddled with the bracelet on her wrist.
That was when he noticed something was missing.
“You’re not wearing your wedding ring,” he said.
“No. I took it off.”
Mason didn’t know what to say. His heart was in his throat. He’d come here hoping for a resolution to their dispute, but he suddenly felt as if anything he said would come out the wrong way and make him sound like an ass. He was an ass.
“Do you ever think about trying again?” he tried.
Diane heaved a great sigh and looked up at him. The smile had faded, and a frown sat in its place. But frown or no frown, she looked as beautiful as the day he’d met her. “Sometimes, yeah. But it just wouldn’t work.”
“You know I can make sacrifices for you.”
“It’s not you that made me leave. It’s your job.”
“And if I packed that in? Closed shop tomorrow and got a job at the market or something?”
“Then you wouldn’t be you, and I can’t take your identity away like that.”
Mason was sure he understood—was grateful for the honesty, even—but that didn’t stop it from hurting. In truth, he still lived in that false reality where he dreamed that someday they would be a happy family again. But was that even possible anymore?
“What can I do?” he asked, sensing a cold chill come in with the evening breeze.
“For me to come back?” Diane shrugged. “I don’t think it’s ever going to happen. I loved you, Mason. Maybe I still do, but that doesn’t change anything. We’ve tried time and time again to give up that lifestyle, but it just never works out. And look what it cost in the end.”
Mason stepped back, feeling an almost physical wound. He didn’t need reminding of what his ambitious nature had cost him—Amy was in his thoughts every moment of every day, and that wasn’t going to change.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s fine. I get it.” Mason rubbed at the scratchy hair on his chin and thought of what to say next. There was nothing left, however, that would help this situation more than hurt it. “Look, just call me when you want me to take care of MJ. I’ll be there.”
Diane nodded but said nothing. Mason only caught a glimpse of her closing the door as he turned and headed down the driveway toward his car. There was nothing waiting for him at his own home, either, except a good night’s sleep so he could focus on the case.
As if that would ever happen.
FOURTEEN
The streets were as dark as the rest of his world when he got back to the one-bedroom house he’d been renting for the past few months. Mason pulled the Explorer onto the drive and did all he could to keep himself together, while thoughts of Diane and Amy raged around in his head like a tempest. There was nothing he could do, he realized, but wait out the storm.
Cussing himself for his humiliating attempt at asking his wife to come back, Mason killed the engine and climbed out. His neck and shoulders were sore, probably due to tension caused by his stress levels. They were something he was supposed to keep in check, but with everything else going on, there just wasn’t enough time.
Try to focus on Jacob, he told himself.
And what was up with that guy, anyway? He’d already done enough to hide the basic facts from Mason, and in his experience, that meant there would always be something else he wasn’t telling. Mason gnawed on his inner cheek as he gave thought to that one, fiddled with his keys, and took the three short steps up to his front door.
It was his phone that stopped him. It rang from his pocket with the AC/DC song Amy had set for him only weeks before she’d died. Mason set it to vibrate from time to time, but he could never quite bring himself to change the song. It was the last part of her that remained, and it had to stay.
Mason took the phone out, but he wasn’t fast enough. The call ended with a private number showing on the screen. He was about to dismiss it when another unknown sender—probably the same person—delivered a video message to his inbox. Although it took some time for the video to download, Mason immediately knew something was wrong.
The file finally downloaded. An image appeared. There was a blurred figure of a man, as if he stood in a sauna. The background was green, however, and Mason wondered if he might be standing in a garden with a backdrop of trees and bushes. But his wondering stopped when the voice started, and an eerie chill crept down his spine.
“This is a message for Mason Black,” the voice said, using some kind of distortion software. It was deep and brooding. Threatening. “I’m sorry to tell you that you’ve failed in your investigation. If you ever want to see Jacob Fray alive again, you should hurry over to his house. I’m just watching him enter now. Tick-tock, tick-tock…”
The video ended there. Mason felt the blood drain from his face as light-headedness came over him. His legs turned to jelly, but he was already turning on them, taking long strides back to his car. The only thing that slowed him was the shock, as he slowly came to realize what had just happened—on his own doorstep, no less.
The Educator had threatened him, and Jacob Fray was going to die.
FIFTEEN
There was another surprise waiting for Mason at home. The woman sat in the dark, impatiently longing for him to return. There was nothing to do in the meantime but play with her knife, using it to carve dirt out of her nails like cowboys did in the movies.
It was four long hours before he arrived. Mason Black—famous private investigator and all-around hotshot. Or was that infamous private investigator, the woman mused? She wasn’t sure these days. All she knew was that she had a big surprise for him.
“Come on,” she said, sighing as she went to the window.
The car appeared. The woman ducked, almost getting caught. She put the knife on the counter and rushed back to her position by the door. She listened with a big grin on her face while the car’s engine stopped. She shook with excitement as the car door slammed. Mason Black stepped up to his front door. There was a jingle of keys and… rock music? Yes, the woman was sure that was AC/DC, a song she loved, too.
Next, she heard the PI cuss under his breath. The woman became one with the darkness, bathing in it as she heard another voice. From the phone, perhaps? There was something wrong with it—something deep that she couldn’t understand. Like it had been edited. But there was no hope of hearing through the thick wood of the door.
Then the worst happened. There were footsteps again, this time rushing away from the door. The woman felt an emptiness hollow out her stomach as the victim of her elaborate surprise ran back to his car and brought the engine to life with a roar. She went to the window again, careful not to twitch the curtain too much and get seen.
Mason Black was leaving, reversing out of the drive with tires wailing in the night. White smoke drifted from the exhaust, and then the car was out of sight, only the long echo of its engine trailing in its wake. The woman was alone then, and there was nothing she could do but wait for him to return. It just took a little patience, was all.
And then he would get what was coming to him.
SIXTEEN
Mason raced through the streets of San Francisco. Cars around him blared their horns. Red lights became nothing but gentle reminders as he raced past them. Mason kept one eye on the road, and the other on his cell phone as he frantically dialed for Jacob.
“Come on, pick up,” he said. “Pick up, you son of a—”
“The person you are calling is unable to take your call. Please try—”
“Damn it!” Mason stuffed the phone into the inside pocket of his trench coat as sweat began to roll down his temples. He rushed through more red lights, almost hit a Chevrolet truck, and swerved, using both hands to fight with the wheel and realign the car. But his strength wasn’t enough. The car skidded and slid onto a grass mound and stalled.
The sweat was intensifying. Mason punched open the glove compartment and dug inside for a letter from Jacob. His address was printed on his case proposal letter, and Mason thanked God that he had thought to double check where he was going. He knew exactly where the address was, and it wasn’t far from here.
Mason turned the key and listened as the car grumbled to life. Somewhere in the distance were police sirens—hopefully for Jacob, but probably just for him. It didn’t matter too much now. The only important thing right now was getting to Jacob before the mysterious messenger’s threat became a grim reality.
It took a little over five minutes for Mason to reach the correct street. By then the sirens were gone, but for once, Mason actually wished they’d return. At least then he’d have a little backup. Perhaps even his old friend Detective Bill Harvey might come to his rescue and straighten everything out. That was a nice dream, but a distant one.
Mason stopped outside Jacob’s house. There were two lights on inside—one downstairs and one up top. He hurried from the car, leaving the door wide open as he sprinted across the long lawn. A spotlight blinked on. Jacob looked up from behind the window and saw Mason. His expression transformed from confusion to relief, before he waved at Mason.
That was the last thing he ever did.
Mason felt the blast before he heard it. A bright ball of orange exploded from inside the house. A deafening roar boomed through the night. Chunks of brick, wood, and glass burst into the air, and that same blast pushed Mason off his feet. The world whizzed by as he was hurled into the air, intense pain searing in his chest. He landed on his side, his shoulder taking most of the impact, but the force of the explosion left him feeling sick and dizzy. It was like he was on some fast fairground ride that tortured its passengers.
The roar simmered into a steady crackle of fire. Mason groaned and rolled onto his back, fighting the urge to die and let the pain be over with. High-pitched ringing sang in his ear, screeching like a banshee and tearing a deep pain into his head. By the time Mason was even to his knees, the cold fact of what had happened here hit him like a brick: Jacob Fray had been standing in the center of that explosion.
And Mason had only been seconds away.
SEVENTEEN
It felt as though he had died. Every inch of his body was racked with trauma. Pain screamed through every pore in his skin. His muscles burned, his head buzzed, and it felt like somebody was squeezing his organs. A dry wheezing sensation began deep in his lungs.
Mason fought to his feet, unsteadily stumbling from one foot to another. Horror dawned on him as he looked up at the grand house that had been reduced to smoke and embers. Were there sirens nearby, or was that the explosion messing with his hearing? He couldn’t tell, but by the time he could think straight, there was something else to panic over.
There was a man across the street. Hell, there were many men and women, all of whom were standing in their doorways and gasping at the remains of the Fray household. But there was one man in particular—tall and thin and leaning casually against a tree on the sidewalk. Mason stared at him for a moment, his vision duplicating, blurring, then returning to focus before the cycle repeated again. The man was watching him, smiling, staring.
And then he waved.
Mason knew there was something wrong with him. Was this man the Educator? Was he responsible for the explosion that had nearly left little MJ without a father? Mason took a step forward, ready to cross the road and approach him, and then the unthinkable happened.
The man began to run.
Mason stumbled into the road as a fire truck rushed past him. The driver leaned on his horn, and the truck stopped. Mason hadn’t even heard the sirens in all the chaos—he was too focused on the man across the street. The man who was quickly disappearing.
He gave chase, holding his stomach like he was trying to keep all his insides… well, inside. His head still howled with pain, the elongated beeping sound trying to drill through his skull. It didn’t matter. Jacob Fray was dead, and there was a man fleeing the scene. Mason paid no mind to the intense pain and pushed past the EMT who had arrived to help.
“Sir, we need to take care of you and—”
“Not now,” Mason bellowed, his hobbling quickly turning into a sprint. He hurried across the road as the man was barely in sight. Breath came to him slowly and inefficiently. It was like he was underwater, not just moving slowly but unable to breathe at all. It made his vision even blurrier, his extreme headache growing worse by the second. But he hurried nonetheless, picking up speed on his weak legs until the man rounded the corner.
Maybe there’s still hope, he thought, barely aware he was kidding himself.
Mason clutched his stomach tighter, glanced over his shoulder and found that—for all his struggle—he had barely made it halfway along the sidewalk. It was hopeless. He was running on fumes, his body begging him to give up, to stop and rest, and—
A black van’s door slid open. Two pairs of hands reached out to grab him. Mason lost his balance and toppled, but two men in business suits stepped out of the van to catch him. Mason let them. All the strength left his body, and by the time he truly understood what was going on, it was too late. He realized with a dismal start that the men weren’t catching him.
They were taking him.
EIGHTEEN
It wasn’t much of a chase, and the Educator was thrilled about that. He had never been one for running and climbing or having brawls with ex-cops like Mason Black’s ambitious nature demanded—he’d read that much on the newspaper websites. Even the short run around the corner had made him wheeze, like a hand was clamped around his lungs.
But that was nothing compared to what the private investigator must have been feeling. Mason Black didn’t die in the blast, but only because the Educator didn’t want him to. This was more like a warning shot while finishing off the job from Alcatraz. If he had wanted it, Mason would have taken those few extra steps toward the house before the button got pressed. That would have ended his story then and there, but this… this was much more fun.
Police, fire trucks, and ambulances blew past him. Civilians pursued them on foot, reaching for their phones as if their pitiful existences depended on that one bit of social proof. The Educator rolled his eyes, slowing down to a walk just like he had only moments ago.
Back when he’d passed the black van.
It felt like some kind of cruel joke—the idea that those people thought he couldn’t see them. Their vehicle stood out like a sore thumb, and that was why he’d chosen the spot across the street to watch the Fray house go up in a puff of smoke. From where he’d stood, he’d been discreetly hidden behind the tree. By the time Mason had seen him and pitifully given chase, the Educator had started to run, slowed down to blend in with the ensuing chaos around him, then—when the black van was far behind him—continued to run.
It was that simple.
Hell, it was all simple really. Making the explosive devices was no challenge (in fact, they were a lot of fun). Planting them required a little more effort, but nothing too strenuous. The only taxing thing was sending out the messages that came with his little mission. After all, the one thing an educator had to do was educate.
