The Friday Killer, page 7
“No. She came home for five minutes this morning, then went straight back out.”
A thousand possibilities swam in his mind. Mason pictured the Lullaby Killer, back when he had taken Amy with such ease, snatching her from her own home. His heart began to pound, anxiety tearing him up inside as he ran for the door to find her. It wasn’t like her to disappear like this, which meant something terrible had happened.
By now, she could be anywhere.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Mason had no luck whatsoever. Having spent two hours in the back of a cab, he called Amy repeatedly but only got her voicemail each time. The cab driver tried to connect with him between attempts, but Mason was in no talking mood. He just wanted to find his daughter.
“Take a left up here,” he told the cabbie, propping his elbow on the armrest and leaning his chin on his fist. He had been right about the weather—a storm was coming in from the west, turning the city into a wet, dismal place. Mason stared out the window, hoping Amy wasn’t caught up in all this horrendous weather. Hopefully she had just gone somewhere quiet to reflect. Somewhere private, but more importantly, somewhere safe.
“You want me to keep circling the same block?” the driver asked.
“Spread out a little. Make it three blocks, then move on.”
“No problem, pal. The meter’s running though.”
Mason nodded but didn’t argue. He would pay whatever the fare was. Money wasn’t important to him. All he wanted was to get Amy home safely.
But then something else stole his attention. He rocketed forward, leaning over the front seat to listen closely to the radio. He pointed at it and urgently said, “Turn that up, will you?”
The driver twisted a dial and another voice filled the cab.
“—police are on the scene, and many witnesses are being questioned. We’re led to believe, ladies and gentlemen, that the Friday Killer has struck again.”
“No…” Mason mumbled through a dry throat. It felt like the devil’s darkness had found him, making his whole world black and miserable. He listened carefully, each word seeming to stretch on for an eternity while he waited for a location that never came.
The reporter went on to talk about sports, and Mason desperately reached for the dial. He couldn’t reach, and the cabbie—whose concentration on driving was out of sync—yelled at him. “Keep your hands to yourself. This is my vehicle, not yours.”
“Just find another station, will you?” Mason barked.
“All right, fella. Jesus Christ…”
The radio tried on five new voices until it found one that suited. A female reporter this time, talking about the same scene the previous report had described. Only this time they got a location. Mason smacked a palm against the headrest in front of him. The cabbie flinched.
“Get me there within ten minutes and I’ll double your tip,” Mason said.
The car spun around so quick it almost hurled him through the glass. But no matter how fast they raced through the streets of San Francisco, it wasn’t fast enough.
THIRTY-EIGHT
The rain pattered against his hood as he watched the crime scene. His crime scene.
It had been a long and trying week, but the reward for his hard work had been worth every grueling moment. The latest victim—who put the A in Friday, he mused—had been relieved of her innards and was now strung upside down like a skinned rabbit. It was only then that he realized he’d missed a trick. Maybe he would skin the next one.
The scene was buzzing with pedestrians, all gathering around the police cars in one united swarm. They pushed and shoved to view the horrifying sight of the latest murder. The killer simply stood there and smiled, anonymous in this sea of morbid citizens. It filled him with glee and excitement, a small tingle starting in his loins. He was completely invisible. He was dangerous, and nobody could stand in his way.
Except for her.
The killer saw her now, edging her way toward the scene. She stood on a car’s tire to peer over the heads of the growing crowd, and then fear slashed across her face. She dropped to the ground and sprinted into the crowd, batting people aside like weightless puppets. The killer knew who she was immediately. Not only had she punctured his skin with a cheap pen, but she had followed him halfway around town. It made his head hurt to see her here now.
But that wasn’t all.
No, there was more. A familiar man in a long trench coat dove out of a cab and threw money at the driver. He hurried in the same direction the girl had gone, his coat trailing behind him and flapping like a flag. Just what kind of a hero did this man think he was? The killer clenched his fists, the rain still beating down on his car as the man approached the young girl and put his hand on her shoulder. It was a loving touch, but not one of lovers. It was a touch of something deeper, more protective. The killer guessed he was the girl’s father.
It was all information he could use another day. Until then, he thought and spun around to flee the scene before he got recognized. There was so much work left to be done, and it wasn’t going to do itself.
Hell, he had barely even started.
THIRTY-NINE
Relief swelled through him when he saw Amy at the crime scene, but the trouble wasn’t over yet. There was still a dead body beyond the growing crowd, and they were about to walk right into it. Mason shuffled forward, squeezing through the people to reach his daughter.
“Amy,” he called.
She turned around at once, frown lines framing her young face. Mason read that expression easily—it spoke of how scared she was for Yasmine. Mason had the same fear, but considering the killer’s pattern, he suspected Yasmine had not yet been hurt.
The same couldn’t be said for Annie Swanson.
He pushed farther up, his large body making intimidated civilians part like the Red Sea. When he reached Amy, he embraced her in a fierce hug and told her it was okay. That he wasn’t angry, and he was here for her. No matter what.
“I think it’s Yasmine,” she said, peeling away slowly.
“Let’s find out for sure.”
Mason took her gently by the arm and pushed his way to the front of the crowd, where an officer patrolled the police tape that ran from one car to the other. Mason whistled him over, smooth-talked the cop, who recognized him from his days on the force, and then asked to be let in. Sadly, it wasn’t that easy.
“No can do,” the cop said. “Detective Harvey said you might turn up.”
“Bill?” Amy asked shrilly.
The cop nodded. “I got strict orders not to let you through.”
“Then can you at least tell us who the victim is?” Mason asked.
“I’m not at liberty to say, even if I did know.”
“Can’t you find out?”
“I can’t leave my post.”
Mason had had enough of this already. He made Amy wait where she was, then crossed the tape. The officer yelled at him, but it was too late. Mason was already halfway into the scene. The crowd behind him cheered like he was their star quarterback rushing for a touchdown. Other officers joined the fray, rushing to stop him.
But Mason kept on running.
He was out of breath when he reached the body, leaning over a dirt mound to get a good look at the corpse. Disgruntled shouting sang from behind him, but Mason didn’t care. He just wanted to see who had been killed, and when he registered the twisted, lifeless expression of the victim, he felt both relief and agonizing sympathy all at once.
Out of nowhere, two officers hit him like a train. They crashed into his midsection, knocking him onto his front. Mason bellowed in deep protest as his chin struck the dirt mound. A third man joined as they twisted his arm up his back. Mason fought but to no avail. Ahead of him, Bill Harvey stood unmoving, disappointment causing him to frown.
He didn’t come to help.
FORTY
The officer told him to consider this a lucky break. It wasn’t.
They escorted him back to the police tape, shoving him with force back into the crowd. The people cheered and swarmed him, asking questions like journalists begging for the latest story. Perhaps they even were journalists, but it was Amy who demanded his attention.
“Come with me,” he whispered.
Together, they worked their way back through the colony of curious onlookers and found a quiet spot out by the parking lot. Mason kept the item clenched in his closed fist and stuffed into his pocket, while Amy studied him like he was some sort of alien.
“What the hell happened?” she asked.
“It wasn’t Yasmine,” he told her.
Amy showed the same signs of relief as he had felt, but the trouble wasn’t over yet. Someone had to tell Frank Swanson that his daughter was dead, her organs scooped out of her body like ice cream. Heartlessly, brutally murdered like it was nothing.
“You’re sure?” Amy asked, and the tears came anyway.
Mason reached out to touch her arm gently. “Certain.”
“Did you know who it was? The victim?”
“I knew of her.”
“And?”
“It’s in the hands of the police.” He didn’t want to tell her that Annie Swanson was the last stop before the killer arrived at Yasmine. If the pattern was to be followed, that meant time was running out before Yasmine would suffer the same fate.
Amy, who had stared at the ground like it held all the answers, suddenly broke out of her daze and looked up at her father. She shivered, covering her bare arms, and then a cloud broke above them. Rain started to spit. “Can we go?”
“Not yet,” Mason said. “There’s something else.”
“Oh?”
Mason pulled his hand out of his pocket, revealing a dirt-crusted key chain with a buckled ring. He wiped off some of the dirt with his thumb, showing it to Amy. “When the officers pinned me down, I found this right in front of my face.”
Amy’s eyes lit up. “Didn’t they see you take it?”
“Nobody noticed. Whether they knew it was there or not—they could have been waiting on forensics—nobody batted an eyelid when I snuck it into my pocket.”
“You got lucky. Could this help us?”
“It might help me,” he said, “but you need to head home.”
“No chance. I’m coming with you.”
“No. Diane is worried sick about you. I was, too. You can’t just disappear like you did today. Not after everything we’ve been through together. I thought you knew better.”
Amy hung her head momentarily, then returned his gaze. “Yeah, sorry. I won’t do it again, I promise. But I can’t sit back and let Yasmine… well.” She nodded toward the crime scene. “Please, Dad. I need to do something to help. Anything.”
“For God’s sake,” he said, heaving a heavy sigh. Mason glanced down at the key ring, then concealed it in his fist and bit the knuckles on the same hand, thinking. There wasn’t much of a choice. Not really. “Fine. But you have to start listening to what I say.”
“Noted.”
They called for a cab, but Mason had an uneasy feeling in his stomach while they waited. The last thing he wanted was to put Amy in danger, but here he was doing it anyway. If he was in any kind of joking mood, he might have smiled at his last thought—the part of his mind that made light of all the sinister crap happening all around him.
That if nobody else killed him, Diane probably would.
FORTY-ONE
Either they’d found a lucky break, or they were both going to die. The odds were fifty-fifty, and Amy was willing to take that bet. After all, it was her best friend up there.
She stood in the street wearing her thickest coat, just as she and her father had planned. It was heavy on her small, delicate shoulders, but it kept her warm and dry in the thick wind that gusted along the street. The phone was pressed to her ear as she stared up at the building, watching… waiting.
“Remember, don’t act until I say,” came the voice, the signal dropping in and out.
Amy was done listening to her father. He sat only a few meters from her, staying out of sight in a taxi. Everything he said only seemed to slow her down. In fact, the only good he’d really done in this investigation was to find that key chain. And was that even of use? They would never know until they entered.
The key chain had no address, but FURRY FRIENDS was printed on it in bold text. Amy had googled the name and found it was a small warehouse belonging to a company that sold subscription boxes for dog food. The address listed on their website stated that the business had shut down, but the website domain hadn’t yet expired. It had led them here, and if they were lucky, the key ring had belonged to the killer.
“Amy? Did you hear me?”
Although her dad hung back in a taxi parked farther along the street, Amy mumbled confirmation and continued to watch the building. It was a small, square warehouse in a suffocatingly small courtyard. The gates were wide open, only some of the windows were boarded up, and the FURRY FRIENDS sign was only half there. Amy gaped at it like it was the belly of some enormous monster. Inside, Yasmine lay in chains, longing for rescue.
Well, she was coming for her friend now. Whether her father liked it or not, she wasn’t about to wait until another body appeared. “Sorry, Dad, but I have to do this.” Pleas cracked through the phone as she hung up, stuffed the phone into her pocket, then crossed the street.
By now, nobody could stop her from going inside.
FORTY-TWO
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mason growled as he reached for the taxi’s door handle and told the driver to wait. His head seared with pain caused solely by frustration. He crossed the road, and when he reached the FURRY FRIENDS courtyard, he drew his Beretta.
The courtyard was dark—almost too dark to see. Mason crept inside, whispering his daughter’s name in short, sharp hisses. She didn’t respond. Amy seemed to have vanished, disappearing either around the back of the building or—more likely, given the torn board from the building’s smashed windows—inside.
Mason began to sweat with anger. This whole case was tearing his life apart. First Diane had been furious with him, and he found that she had every right to be. But now his own daughter had rushed headfirst into danger, leaving him to mop up the mess. How many times could he do this before everything fell apart? How much more danger could he lead Amy into before he proved himself, once and for all, a terrible father? This was not to mention little MJ, who had barely seen his own dad lately.
Gripping the gun tight, Mason ran around the perimeter of the building. There was nothing there but a rusty old dumpster, broken clay, and empty bags of dog food rotting away as the wind pinned them against the brick wall. It was too dark to see much of anything, but Mason took the good with the bad—he knew where Amy was; he just didn’t like it.
Coming around to the front of the building, Mason holstered his gun and climbed through the smashed window. Broken fragments of glass clung to the frame and nicked his skin, drawing blood. Mason landed inside the dark, damp room, the pungent smell of rot making him gag.
“Amy?” he called, taking his gun back out and feeling his way around in the dark with an outstretched hand. “Amy, if you’re in here, I need you to—”
It came then. A shrieking scream that pierced the night. Mason darted forward, his senses suddenly taking over and telling him where the walls were. He followed the sound into a large room with an array of machinery. Another scream, this one tearing through his soul. It came from upstairs. Mason found the narrow metal steps nearby and ascended them so fast it felt like he was gliding.
When he reached the top, Mason locked eyes with Amy. She stood pale in shock. The deboarded window gave way to a beam of moonlight that illuminated her face. The face that was paler than ever. She turned then, studying her surroundings, and Mason saw what she saw. Every pore in his body filled with terror, like water flooding a sinking ship. The entire case was about to change for the worse.
And there was nothing he could do.
FORTY-THREE
“Step away from that,” Mason said, moving into the beam of moonlight.
Amy recoiled and folded her arms like she was shivering again, and Mason didn’t blame her. The machinery in this room spoke for more than a dog food company. He walked around, slowly examining the gear one piece at a time.
The first was a low desk, plenty of paperwork scattered around it. A quick glance told him there was nothing of note—it was all documentation leftover from the company who had rented this building. Mason wondered if the owner knew what it was being used for.
“What’s under here?” Amy asked, breaking the silence.
Mason spun around and saw her lifting up a sheet. Below it, some large object was kept in secret, idling like it didn’t want to be seen. “Don’t touch anything,” he snapped, and Amy dropped the sheet immediately, backing away into the corner.
Breathing heavily, fear and concern for Yasmine sinking its claws in, Mason worked his way around the room. On one wall he found a shelf littered with work tools. He wondered just how many of these were necessary for the company and how many were brought here by the Friday Killer. The dried blood on the hacksaw and electric drill brought his nightmares to life.
“What is this place?” Amy asked.
“Some kind of…” Torture room, he wanted to say, but the implication would have driven her crazy, and she was already on the verge of shock. “Hideout,” he finished and made his way to the back wall, where open handcuffs lay busted on the ground beside a steel hook that was fixed into the wall. Mason sighed heavily, the images coming together like a jigsaw puzzle.
He moved on, turning to the bulky item in the middle of the room. The dust sheet lay over it, concealing it. Mason glanced at Amy. She shrugged, then nodded. He had told her not to look under there, but given the other horrors in this room, the temptation was too much.
