The Friday Killer, page 5
That was why he looked up at the grocery store’s camera, then went inside.
The manager—a stout little man with a thick New York accent—greeted him moodily but cooperated fully after seeing the PI badge. Mason followed him through to the security room, and the man showed him the camera setup. It turned out there were three cameras overlooking the street outside. Mason had only spotted the one, which meant there was a chance the killer had only seen one of them, too.
“Don’t take too long, eh?” the manager said, leaving Mason with the screens.
But Mason only grunted, sucked into the tapes showing last night’s unfortunate events. He started by fast-forwarding to the moment the killer escaped. Regret tugged at him as he saw Yasmine hauled brutally out of the college by her hair. The killer threw her into a nearby van, and Mason watched patiently with his heart in his throat while the killer climbed inside, turned on the headlights, and then sped away.
There was no clear shot of the license plate, but Mason had another idea.
He took the tape back farther, leaning into the screen like it would put him on street level with a clear view. Once more he watched Yasmine being taken away, this time in reverse. He went back and back until he saw the same hideous white van. The Friday Killer arrived at the scene, scouted for a space, then parked the van.
Only this time, his plate was visible.
Mason’s hand couldn’t move fast enough as he jotted down the number. The rest of the tape had nothing to offer, but with the plate number, he just might be able to find an address. The door slammed behind him as he hurried out and thanked the manager, then left to find the sick son of a bitch who’d killed all those people.
He was so close he could taste it.
TWENTY-FIVE
Nothing he imagined could have prepared him for this.
Mason had found a name and address for the license plate from an old work buddy—a buddy who seemed to be his last friend left on the force. The officer had helped him without hassle but then insisted it was the last time he could help him. That figured.
Now Mason found himself on the doorstep of Barry Williams, owner and resident of a run-down house in Oakland. The brick was crumbling, the lawn grass was at waist height, and a disgusting smell emanated from inside. He tried the door, waited, and there was no answer. Mason had his own remedy for such things. He checked behind him at the empty street, then let himself in with his shoulder.
The door swung open and hit the wall. The stench grew stronger, making him sick. Mason masked his mouth with one hand and stalked through the long hallway.
“Hello?” he called, but nobody was there to greet him.
Growing more and more horrified by the smell—a smell he knew but didn’t want to admit to himself—Mason continued through the house until he found the kitchen. He let himself in and circled the room, checking the bizarre décor. There were dusty shelves on every wall. Each shelf was full of jars, all containing some pungent yellow liquid that looked contaminated. Revolted, he peered in closer, and his mouth went dry with horror.
One of the jars contained a thick, rubbery item. It took seconds for his eyes to adjust, and then he recognized one of them as a human heart. The jars on either side were full of similar items, only slightly different in shape. Mason examined those as terror crushed him. There were lungs, kidneys, and livers, all collected like some kind of twisted hobby.
Mason realized what he was in for. He hurried back to the hallway, ready to grab his gun from the glove compartment. He figured he could wait in the car while the police were on their way, keeping a wary eye on the street around him in case the killer came home and saw him.
But it was too late.
The same white van from the cameras pulled up on the street outside. Mason leapt back from the hallway and pushed the door shut, hoping he hadn’t been seen. He froze, unsure of what to do or where to go until he remembered the pantry. Not wasting any time, he rushed back into the kitchen, opened the pantry door, and hid inside until a shocking thought occurred to him, appearing in his mind’s eye as an evil, haunting memory.
The front door’s lock was busted, and Barry Williams—the Friday Killer in all his murderous glory—would see that first.
TWENTY-SIX
Footsteps made the creaky floorboards whine. They padded in slowly, teasingly. Mason held his ground inside the pantry. When the killer came close, he would step out and attack. It would have to be fast—something a younger version of himself would have no problem with—but the Mason of today was slower. He was in more danger at this age.
The footsteps grew louder as the killer entered the kitchen. Mason watched through a thin gap in the doorjamb as the killer took a slow stroll around the kitchen. Maybe taking stock of his inventory, Mason guessed. He continued around the room until he reached the pantry door. Mason winced, biting back a gasp. Through the gap, he saw a hand reach out for the door handle. Like it or not, the killer was about to find him.
It was now or never.
Bellowing a loud war cry, Mason exploded out of the pantry. The door bashed into the Friday Killer, knocking him on his ass. There was a great crash as his body hit the floor. Dust puffed upward into a thick cloud. Mason seized his opportunity and rushed forward, throwing all his weight on top of the killer. He landed on a raised knee that caught him in the groin. It made him cry out in pain as he saw colors and rolled to one side.
By then the killer was halfway to his feet. He reached out and swung a wild haymaker that knocked some sense out of Mason. It rattled his senses, impairing his vision and leaving him dazed. He was coming to understand he might die today. That MJ might grow up without a father. That Diane would lose her husband. And Amy… he would have failed her.
That would not stand.
Mason set aside the pain in a fight for his life. Regardless of his weak vision, he quickly climbed to his feet, reaching out for the killer. He groped at the blurred shape and found purchase on a thick handful of clothes. The killer pulled back, and Mason manipulated that weight to haul himself to his feet. He stumbled forward, caught another handful, and finally had the Friday Killer caught in his firm grasp.
That was when the knife came out.
Mason’s vision was already starting to clear, but by then it was too late. He saw the killer swing a kitchen knife in a wide arc. It pierced Mason’s leg, and he stumbled back, a deep agony sounding in his thigh. It felt like it was scratching bone – indescribable agony made him bare his teeth and fight, reaching for the man who was scrambling away in fear.
The Friday Killer fled the room like his life depended on it. His life did depend on it, because Mason hadn’t been this angry in years. He tried to run after him, but the pain in his leg was too sharp—too unbearable. All he could do was watch through the window as the Friday Killer scurried out to his van and disappeared from sight, leaving Mason with his failure.
He’d only had one shot at stopping the killer, and he had lost it.
TWENTY-SEVEN
It was Diane who came to his rescue, but not gracefully. She hurried toward him, showing the greatest concern, saying nothing of her surroundings or of his failed attempt. Mason appreciated that, but he saw the contempt in her eyes. How could he not, after all those years?
“Let’s get you out to the car and wrap this thing up.”
Mason nodded. He kept a first aid kit in his car for such emergencies, and Diane had done well to remember that. She helped him to his feet. Mason groaned, tore a dishcloth from the counter, and then stopped to catch his breath.
“Can’t you make it?” Diane asked.
“Not with the knife still in there.”
She shook her head. “I can’t take it out.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll do it.”
It took a few deep breaths and a great deal of courage. Mason wrapped his hand around the hilt of the knife. Even that gentle grip sent a string of shock down the front of his leg. He tried not to squirm as he tightened his grip, counted back to three… and then pulled.
The knife came out in one short tug. Blood spat from the wound, and Mason groaned as he scrunched up the dishcloth and pressed it against the hole in his flesh. He closed his eyes and began counting to ten, trying to feel all the other sensations in his body to keep him grounded. It was a trick he’d learned from one of the hospital dramas his wife liked so much.
“We need to get you to a hospital,” Diane said.
“I’ll be fine. You know how to sew, right?”
“Ugh.” Diane sighed, then nodded.
Mason thanked her and made an effort toward the door. She kept him in her arms, stabilizing each of his steps. It took minutes to reach the car, and when they did, a totally unexpected thought crossed his mind.
“How did you get here so fast?”
“Uber. I knew you had the car and figured I could drive us home. Or to a hospital.”
“Home is fine,” Mason said bluntly.
Diane took the kit from the glove compartment, sighing when she pushed the gun aside. Mason had already been loathing himself, but putting her under such stress only made things worse. Now, all he could think about was how lucky he was that MJ was in school. It made him realize he had nobody else to call.
She patched him up slowly and carefully, disinfecting the wound and then sewing with an unsteady hand. “I haven’t done this in a while.”
“Gee, that’s calming,” Mason mumbled, rolling his eyes.
Diane ignored it and focused on her craftwork. Her tongue poked slightly out of her mouth—a small concentrating habit he had found so adorable since he’d first seen it. It made him think that maybe he wasn’t cut out for this after all, but the moment doubt began to creep into his psyche, his promise to Amy stood in its way.
“So this is where the killer lives?” Diane asked without looking up.
“Yeah.”
“What if he comes back?”
Mason shrugged.
“Are you going to tell the police about what you found?”
“I guess I should. Although Bill’s not going to like it.”
“You never know. He might appreciate that you helped.”
Someone has to, he thought but kept it to himself. He was already at Diane’s mercy, and if that wasn’t enough, he now had to deal with the damage to his pride. The fact he’d let the Friday Killer go was all he could think about. Now what would happen to the Swanson girl? What would happen to Yasmine? Mason realized with horror that he wouldn’t know the answer to that for certain.
Not until another body appeared.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The killer slammed on the brakes with hatred blowing through his veins. The van stopped suddenly, whiplashing him as it died in its parking spot in the mud- and gravel-covered yard. Who the hell had attacked him like that? And in his own home, no less.
Furious, the killer got out and slammed the door. He was seething as he realized the cops would now be aware of his identity. There was nothing he could do since he’d neglected to finish the man off. Perhaps nobody would have ever known, if only he’d butchered the intruder. Then the killer would still have his life. He would still have his home.
Oh, and my collection!
He knew he should have moved his collection of organs back to his hideout. Hadn’t the idea been that nobody could seize all of his property at once? Wasn’t he desperately trying to make it so if the cops found his victims locked up there, they wouldn’t find his collection? If he thought hard enough, he probably would have preferred they take the girls. He could always get new girls, but it had taken so long to bottle up their insides.
The killer stomped across the yard, his feet pounding into wet puddles and spraying mud everywhere. He glanced back at the van and wondered if that was now being searched for. Then he turned his head and looked up at the window, where he saw…
No. That can’t be right.
But it was right. There was a human face in the window. A girl’s face. The killer froze for the briefest moment before breaking into a sprint. He burst through the building’s only unsealed entrance and quickly made his way up the stairs. As he came out on the top floor, both the girls were backed up against the wall. The killer paused, looked at the room he had secured them in, and realized they had busted the lock. How they got out of their cuffs was a mystery, but it definitely poked at the fire in his belly.
“Get back in there!” he yelled, jabbing a finger in the direction of the room. “Now!”
One of the girls whimpered and went in immediately. The other—the one who had always put up more of a fight—stood her ground for a few moments longer before finally giving up. She followed her friend inside, but she had already sealed her fate.
The Friday Killer walked in after them. He found a busted pipe and knew he had his work cut out for him to resecure their chains. He also had to improvise a new lock for this room or face another close call like this. It shot right to the top of his priority list, but one other thing in that list got escalated: the killer needed to put the A in Friday.
And now he felt compelled to rush it.
TWENTY-NINE
They arrived home late, having taken a detour by the SFPD building. It was Diane who had insisted he make the report, and after a half hour of arguing in the car, Mason had eventually agreed. There was a resentment that came with it, of course—Mason was in two minds about helping Bill after their last confrontation, but if this doubled their chances of finding the Friday Killer a second time, it was the best move he could have made.
After sharing details of Barry Williams, they had gone home. It was dark out by then, and they both headed straight to bed. After thanking her for taking care of MJ, Amy had gone into her room and shut the door. Mason thought that tomorrow might be a better time to give details on what had happened. Really, he didn’t want to explain the leg just yet.
Mason limped his way into bed. Diane didn’t say a word as she applied her skincare routine and then slipped in next to him. There was no regular good-night kiss for him tonight. He had betrayed her trust and sought after the case anyway. It got worse, too; there was no sign of slowing down, and even a wounded leg wasn’t going to stop him.
It took hours of tossing and turning before he decided he wouldn’t sleep that night. Instead, images of the Friday Killer filled his conscience. He had actually seen the killer up close. Had felt his shirt clumped up in his fists. There hadn’t been a clear view, but it was enough to confirm Amy’s description from the nightmare at the college.
These thoughts whirled around in his head at light speed, keeping sleep at bay. After a few restless hours, he slipped out of bed, barely disturbing Diane, then went to Amy’s room. He had to talk to her—to get that one thing off his chest and maybe even explain today’s events.
But her room was empty.
Mason’s stomach dropped as he hurried from room to room, searching the rest of the house. He finally found her downstairs, sitting at the kitchen island with a tub of ice cream she reserved for such occasions. She only glanced at him as he entered.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
“No. You?”
“Not a chance.”
Mason took the time to fill her in on the day’s events. She listened carefully, nodding and asking questions in all the right places. As he continued to relive that day’s terrifying incident, a new idea occurred to him. It was a stupid idea—no doubt about it—but it could help.
All he had to do was ask.
THIRTY
Amy blinked disbelievingly. Mason held his breath and waited for an answer that didn’t come.
“Please,” he said. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“He can’t hurt you when I’m around.”
“It’s not that.”
“What then?”
Mason suddenly became aware of how empty the house felt. The dark living room attached to the kitchen was like a gaping mouth looking to feed. The clock above the fireplace made a horrible slashing sound as it clicked into place at each end of its pendulum. Hazy tiredness made Mason rub his eyes, but he knew sleep was too far away.
Finally, Amy lowered her head and confessed. “I don’t want to upset Diane.”
“I thought you didn’t care about Diane?”
“I said it out of stress, Dad.”
“So you didn’t mean it?”
Amy shook her head.
“Yeah,” Mason said. “I understand.”
It had been too much to ask, anyway. Mason needed a day off driving so his leg could heal, but there was an awful compulsion to go out and watch the killer’s house. Mason’s pride had already taken a battering. Letting the cops finish his job wasn’t going to help. What was he supposed to do, anyway? Sit around and wait?
“Are you still going?” Amy asked.
“Probably. If you’re not going to drive me, could you at least fetch me some jeans from the closet?”
Amy hopped off the stool and left the room at once. Mason glanced at her phone on the side. It had been left on, and a photo of her and Yasmine cuddling like best friends at Pier 39 made his legs weak with guilt. His investigation was lagging behind, and he knew it.
When Amy returned, Mason asked her to turn around as he painfully slipped into the jeans. He thanked her and lumbered around the kitchen island toward the door, trying not to look as beat up as he felt. That was when he heard the tutting sound behind him.
“For God’s sake,” Amy said.
