The Friday Killer, page 6
“What?”
“Just wait, won’t you? I’ll drive you.”
Mason bit back a smile. “You will?”
“Yes, but just… let me get my head down for a couple of hours.”
“Sure. But I thought you didn’t want to upset Diane?”
Amy peered around at the stairs, then lowered her voice. “Screw that. You’re going to save my friend, and to do that you’ll need my help. Now I’m going to rest my eyes. Wake me up in an hour or two, okay?”
“You got it,” Mason said, heading back to bed.
The next two hours dragged by.
THIRTY-ONE
Amy tried getting back to sleep, but it didn’t work. She had that same dream over and over—hiding under the desk, gripping the pen like her life depended on it. That nasty, furious sneer the killer gave, and then a hand reaching out. He took Yasmine, and then she woke up. Amy didn’t even have time to save her in the dream world, much less real life.
But that wouldn’t stop her from trying.
It was almost six in the morning. Her head was foggy, and her stomach was knotted. She slipped out of bed and got changed, her mind focused solely on the Friday Killer and the terrible things he’d done. She’d read snippets about him in the past—that was the cost of being a PI’s daughter—but after Yasmine had been taken, she had filled her time with research about his past work. She found it only horrified her, assaulting her with flash images of what he would do to her friend. The only other face she could conjure an image of was Yasmine’s mother… the hate in her eyes and the regret in her voice.
Amy blew out one long, stressed breath. She finished getting changed and then went for the underwear drawer where she kept her secret weapon. She held it sideways in her hands, running her fingers delicately over the barrel. It was cold to the touch, and it always surprised her how heavy it was. Nobody in the house knew she had it, which was why she kept it where she did. Her parents might come snooping, and the one place they’d never go was the place she kept all her panties. That was too uncomfortable for most people, but especially for her dad.
But should she take it, she wondered? What if her father got into some sort of trouble? What if it came down to her to save Yasmine? Amy didn’t want to be empty-handed, however, she knew the trouble these things caused. Besides, imagine if her father found it first.
It wasn’t the time. Amy dropped it back into the drawer and banished it beneath a pile of underwear with shaking hands. It was time now. Time to go and help find the killer. Amy realized without the foolish misguidance of adolescence that this was a serious matter and her best friend’s life rested in her hands. There was no room for error.
With that thought, she left the room and went downstairs, where her father was already standing by the door with his coat on and hers in hand. He held it out to her, his bloodshot eyes as red as hers probably were. It was as though he hadn’t slept, either.
“You ready to go, kiddo?” he asked.
Amy took the coat. They snuck out quietly so as not to wake Diane.
THIRTY-TWO
It was everything he had feared and more.
There was a police car on each end of the street. One of them was not a squad car, but the officers inside made no effort to hide themselves from plain sight. Mason leaned toward the windshield from the passenger seat, shaking his head.
“They’re not even trying,” he mumbled.
Amy clicked with her tongue, slowing the car to a crawl “What should I do?”
“No idea.” He looked over his shoulder at the street behind them, then turned back around. The streets were dark in the early morning, but he thought maybe that could work in their favor. “Turn the car around, take the next left, and stop the car there.”
“Why? We won’t be able to see the asshole’s house.”
“It doesn’t matter. If the killer sees those cops, he’s not going home anyway.”
Amy nodded and pulled into someone’s drive just long enough to reverse out. She followed her father’s instructions, handling the family car like she had driven it before, which she hadn’t.
They stopped under a tree’s overhang. There were no streetlights nearby, so they could easily conceal themselves within the car. Mason fidgeted in his seat, lowering the backrest and maintaining discretion. The pain in his leg didn’t bother him as long as he didn’t move it.
“What do you think Diane will say when we catch him?” Amy asked.
“I doubt we’ll catch him.”
“Then why are we here?”
“To try anyway.”
Amy smirked at that and lowered her seat. They lay there in silence for a long while. Mason’s head began to droop, but he snapped out of it immediately, pinching his leg wound to keep himself awake. He remembered this to be easy in previous years, but now? It was more of a young man’s game, and Mason was anything but young.
After some time, the sun began to peek shyly over the horizon. It rose from due east, behind the tree so they could stay hidden. Mason only shifted occasionally, but Amy couldn’t sit still. It agitated him to no end, but he decided to ignore it rather than say something—he needed a driver too badly.
It was almost six in the morning when Mason shot up, his stare fixed on the side mirror. The familiar white van approached from a great distance on the long stretch of road. Mason tapped Amy’s leg and pointed at the mirror.
“What…?” she began, and then: “Oh.”
They kept still while the van passed and headed around the corner. Mason reached over Amy’s lap, giddy like a young child, and turned the key in the ignition. “We can’t waste any time,” he said. “I need you to follow that van, but do exactly as I say.”
“Why?” Amy protested, but she followed his instructions anyway.
“Because he’s not going home. He’ll see the cops and drive to wherever the hell he’s been taking these girls.” Mason sat stiffly, gripping his own fingers, squeezing and twisting like he did in the dentist chair whenever they operated. It helped him control his anxiety and excitement, both of which were clouding his mind right now.
But he had to stay calm. If they kept their distance and didn’t lose sight of the van, Mason knew he and his daughter had a strong chance of catching the Friday Killer that morning. And if they weren’t too late, they could get the girls back safely.
Mason knew that was a slim chance, but he was going to try anyway.
THIRTY-THREE
They kept the car slow and steady. All was tranquil inside, save for the heavy, excited breaths of father and daughter. Mason sensed Amy’s anxiety as she drove unsurely behind the van. There was a lot riding on her shoulders, and he didn’t want to add to that weight.
“Where do you think he’s going?” she asked.
Mason shrugged, staring straight ahead without blinking. “He has to be keeping the girls somewhere. Might be he’s heading back to his hideout, whatever shape that comes in. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“If he’s seen us already, he could just be playing with us.”
“Is that normal in this kind of work?”
“It can happen. Now focus on driving, kiddo.”
Amy opened her mouth to speak, then gave up and took the thought with her. Mason said nothing more, watching the van only five car lengths in front of them. It moved slowly, like it was purposely trying not to draw attention. That was good—it meant he hadn’t seen them yet, and suddenly Mason’s body filled with the lightness of hope.
They were on Stillman Street before they knew it. The van stopped at an intersection, halting before a red light. There were four cars between them and the Friday Killer now, and the lanes on either side of them were full. Mason sat clutching his bad leg, a nauseating sensation playing with his senses. Something wasn’t right. Discomfort gripped him with sharp nails that dug in deep. If anything happened now, they were trapped.
It was as though the killer had read his mind. The van leapt forward at first, threatening to stall. Seconds later, it picked up momentum and sped through the intersection. Horns blasted as cars swerved by from both sides. The van weaved between them, tires screaming as they threw up white smoke.
Mason jerked forward. “Floor it.”
“I can’t!” Amy cried.
She was right. They were boxed in, and the killer must have recognized that before he made his move. Now the van was disappearing from sight, and there was nothing Mason could do but sit helplessly in the car and curse. Now anything could happen to the girls.
And there was nothing he could do to save them.
THIRTY-FOUR
The Friday Killer couldn’t see them in his mirrors anymore. He straightened up the van and drove more carefully, turning each city block in a zigzagging pattern to throw them further off his scent. Who were they, anyway? he wondered. The girl driving was too young to be a cop, and besides, he was sure he recognized her from somewhere. The man beside her was easier to identify: only the man who’d broken into his home was that big.
Anger boiling up inside him, the killer found a quiet spot behind a shut-down burger restaurant and killed the engine. He sat in silence, twisting in his seat to peer around the corner in the direction from which he’d come. The sun was rising now, which meant more and more cars were appearing on the streets. It worked in his favor, lending him anonymity.
Why did things have to get so complicated? All he’d wanted was to head home and grab a few things. A jar of hearts and the kitchen chair he’d so thoroughly constructed from human bones. That particular art project had taken him weeks, and now what would happen to it? The police would seize it, no doubt, and he would never see it again.
All thanks to that one man.
The killer wished he knew who the guy was. He had ridden with the girl, pursuing him across San Francisco. But he wasn’t a cop. He may have acted like one, but he sure as hell didn’t dress like it. Maybe a private investigator, or worse—the father of one of his previous victims, hell-bent on revenge. A man who wouldn’t stop until—
The girl!
It finally clicked then. Of course he had seen her before. Back when he had taken his Y at the college, she was the girl who had fought back. The feisty little white girl, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, with none of the innocence her appearance suggested. The killer looked at his hand, where the cut she’d made with the pen had pierced his skin. It was scabbed now. Might scar. Who knew?
The killer waited with these thoughts—anger, joy, the possibility of leveling justice with the people who’d ruined him. He would soon find his face on the front page of all the newspapers. Those people he’d known in his ordinary life would all talk about how they had sensed something all along, like they had been in on his little secret, because Heaven forbid they should be fooled just like everyone else. It made the killer sick with hate, and soon he realized he’d been clenching his teeth for some time.
It was an hour until he dared move the van. He got out and walked out to the street, looking up and down the busy road with a hand shielding his eyes from the sun. There wasn’t a single police car in sight and no Ford Explorer to follow him. He hurried back to the van, started up the engine, then drove calmly back to his hideout.
It was time to kill again.
THIRTY-FIVE
Mason sensed her discomfort as they drove silently around the sloped streets of San Francisco. She peered over the wheel like an old person hard of sight, concentrating like she had never done so hard before. It was uncomfortable to sit here, having all the power and experience of a retired cop but none of those skills helping him to be a good father.
“We’ll find her,” he said calmly. Like an empty promise.
“Will we?” Amy said in a blunt, rhetorical way. “Because you keep saying that, but everything we do leads us to a dead end. I’m starting to think it’s never going to happen. So much for that promise you made me.”
“Hey, that’s not fair.”
“Whatever.”
Mason was reduced to silence again, watching the city he’d grown up in pass by the window. Everything was bright and sunny outside, promising another warm and uplifting kind of day. But Mason wasn’t fooled. It was December, and the weather was nothing if not deceptive. As soon as he stepped outside, it would rain, clouds would collide in the sky, and the winds would brush through the streets with a chill in them. That was the way it had always worked, so why should things be any different now?
They stopped at a Denny’s for some food. They both ordered cheeseburgers with a side of fries, but they sat in silence and barely touched any of it. Mason enjoyed the coffee though—anything to help him through this horrible morning, where promises were broken and killers roamed the streets freely. They left a fair tip and then got back to the car.
It wasn’t until they parked at home that Amy said what was on her mind.
“Do you think we’ll ever find Yasmine?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes, honestly. Why would I want lies?”
Mason turned in his seat, his leg pain flaring up but paying it no mind. He looked into his daughter’s eyes, which usually sparkled with life and joy, but now seemed like windows to a cruel, hateful soul. It made him shiver.
“I don’t know,” he confessed. “Situations like this are hard to get around. You never know when something is going to reveal itself—a massive clue that can change the shape of your investigation. Take this morning, for instance. We got lucky to even see the killer, much less follow him as far as we did.”
“Right up until we lost him.”
“We got unlucky, kiddo.”
“I swear, if you call me kiddo one more time…” Amy clutched the wheel, squeezing it like she was wringing the life out of the man who’d taken her friend. Perhaps that was what she imagined when she did it. “We need to find Yasmine. Soon.”
Mason shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I know that. We’re doing all we can.”
“No, we’re not.”
“Amy, I know you’re hurting. Hell, you’re probably scared—”
“Scared? Of course I’m scared. My best friend is out there with some lunatic!” She bashed on the wheel. The car’s horn blared, startling him. “Don’t you see that with every passing day, there’s less chance of her coming back alive? Don’t you see that I can think of nothing else? It’s killing me, Dad. Killing me!”
Mason felt short of words. What could he say to offer real comfort rather than more false promises? It was worth her knowing that he knew exactly how she felt. He had been on her side of the fence many times. Hell, even Amy had been taken by a killer when she was younger, and that sick feeling it gave him was a sensation that had never left.
Desperate, he reached out a hand to stroke her hair. Amy recoiled, her eyebrows curved into a downward shape of hate. She drew her head back and reached for the car door, slipping out of it with a deep, frustrated sigh.
“I’m going inside,” she said. “Don’t follow me.”
The car door slammed. It echoed around him. Mason shuddered and sat in silent shock, watching his daughter storm up the driveway and let herself into the house. There was nothing he could say or do to console her, and that tore him up inside. All that was left to do was refuel with a little more coffee, then spend the day frantically looking for their next step.
But something told him there was nothing to find.
THIRTY-SIX
There was nothing but dead ends and time wasters, after all. Mason had spent the whole day battling with his exhaustion, taking cabs and long, painful walks around the streets of San Francisco. He had connected with the league of homeless men in Santa Rosa—who he had helped many times over the years and now called in the favor—but found nothing. He had spoken with Yasmine’s parents, and they had let him into her room looking for clues… but he found nothing. The whole day was wasted, and when he arrived home in the early evening, he was no better off than he had been twelve hours earlier.
But there was a new surprise waiting for him.
Mason stood at the doorstep, wracked with uneasiness about how he’d spent his day. He desperately wanted to find Yasmine and the Swanson girl, but Diane wasn’t likely to be happy about it. Not since he’d ignored all of her calls and voicemails. He had been in the zone, doing all he could think of while the wave of momentum carried him, even if that wave had crashed and left him drowning in the vast, empty sea.
It wasn’t until he got inside that things blew up.
“Where have you been?” Diane said, rushing to the door. Behind her, MJ cuddled her leg with innocent yet fearful eyes. He sunk back at the sound of her raised voice.
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s been a busy workday.”
“No, Mason. Busy workdays are when we’re both at the office swamped with phone calls and invoices. What we do as a team is a part of our workday. Leaving me with a five-year-old on a school day, with nobody to man the office phone, is not how we operate. And you haven’t even answered your damn phone. It’s like I don’t have a husband.”
Mason kept quiet. She deserved to speak her mind. Until she was finished, he simply stood there looking at her with apologetic eyes—eyes that said sorry, but that he wouldn’t change. Not now. Not when things had gotten so out of hand.
“Say something,” Diane demanded.
“I don’t know what to say. Amy and I have been looking for the Friday Killer—”
“You dragged Amy into this?”
Actually, she dragged me into this, he thought but didn’t say. Although it was true, it wouldn’t help the situation. “She needs my help” was all he said.
“Right. Well, get her in here and we’ll see what she has to say.”
“Get her in here? I thought she was at home.”
Fear shone through Diane’s eyes, immediate understanding taking her. MJ continued to hide behind her, tears streaming down his cheeks. Neither parent made a move to comfort him because a new, deeper concern had entered their lives.
