The River Runs Dry (24 page)

“Erm, I think it was unoccupied. I'd have to ask the Chief.”

Jack nodded. “Bring him in.”

Carla stood and rushed quickly out of the door, returning a few moments later with Bill in tow.

“What's going on Jack?”

“My apartment. Who used it before me?”

Bill did his customary beard scratch while thinking. “No one, not for a month or so anyway. Detective Sloane used to live there before then.”

“Has anyone spoken to him?”

“No point. The guy's dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yeah, he was your predecessor Jack, died a couple of months before we brought you in.”

Jack nodded, looking once more at the montage of evidence pinned up all over his wall. “And the apartment. Is it owned by us, or are we renting it?”

A silence hit the room for a moment and Jack turned around quickly to see Bill's face growing more serious.

“It's rented,” he said slowly, his voice low, “through a local realtor....Mason and Sons”

Jack's mind suddenly shot forward. “Carla,” he said, looking over at her, standing by the door. “I need you to check back on our previous victims, see if they've had any dealings with Mason and Sons recently.”

Carla shot from the door, rushing down the corridor towards her desk.

Jack turned back to Bill. “This guy works for them Bill. He's a fucking realtor. That's how he knows all about the victims' houses, how he knows who's living there, the layout. That's how he got through the door, into my apartment. He's got spare damn keys!”

Bill's eyes narrowed. “Hasn't Jessie been selling her house?”

The realization flowed over Jack's face in an instant as he nodded. It was so clear now. The guy had been to her house, he'd even met her. Maybe he'd met the other victims, maybe that's how he chose them...

“But we've got the description out. How could someone work with the public like that and not get caught?” asked Bill.

“Because he's been living a fucking lie Bill. He's been in disguise the entire time, like when he killed Leanne Graves in the hospital. He was blond then, but we've had descriptions of him as having dark hair. In fact, we know that's his natural color,” he said, turning and pointing at the picture of Trey Hunter on the wall.

“He's ten years older than that image now, and it's grainy, unclear. He might have had surgery for all we know, he might wear colored contact lenses. No, this is our guy Bill, this is our guy...”

At that point Carla rushed back in, opening the door fast and dragging their attention over towards her.

Jack's eyes widened as he saw her expression. “You've got something?”

She nodded quickly as she spoke, slightly breathless “A hit, straight away. Claire Marshall's place, rented off Mason and Sons.”

Jack and Bill locked eyes again, but were quickly dragged back to Carla.

“There's more Jack. I checked the employment records for Mason and Sons. There's a new guy on their staff, Webster Hart, only been there a few months. But that's not it. His last known employment was in LA working for another agent, Abbey Homes...”

Jack stared at her as she spoke, his words cutting her off. “They were the ones who rented Taylor Lane's place,” he said, finishing her sentence for her.

She looked up at him from her sheet and nodded.

“Webster Hart. That's what he's calling himself now. Webster Hart.”

Jack checked his watch.

“Do you know where the office for Mason and Sons is?” he asked, looking back up at Carla.

She nodded.

“Right, let's go. Right now.”

…

Jack's car rushed along the main road through town, his siren blaring, Carla sitting beside him in the passenger seat.

It was the middle of the day now, only hours since Jessie had disappeared from Jack's apartment. He hoped beyond hope that he'd find the guy they were looking for, Webster Hart, sitting casually behind his desk in his office, living the lie that got him through the day. At night he was a different animal entirely: a prowling, sick, demented beast.

“OK, right up here, then left at the next street.”

Carla was directing Jack through the traffic, passing red lights and zeroing in on their target. When they got close, she told him, and Jack shut off the siren. The last thing he wanted was to give this guy an early warning sign of their arrival.

There were other units behind, and they did the same, their wailing sirens suddenly going silent. They drove for a few more minutes, before coming up on the street where the business was based.

Jack got on the radio, calling for the other cars to set up a perimeter to block off the streets at both ends. Only Jack's car continued forwards, moving to park up on the sidewalk just a few doors down from Mason and Sons.

He shut off the engine and stepped out, Carla alongside him.

“Stick behind me,” he said to her. “If he's there and he makes a run for it, call it in immediately.”

Then Jack walked forwards briskly, pushing straight through the door to the small office and quickly scanning the interior. There were several desks set up inside, only a handful of workers busily tapping away on their keyboards or chatting quickly on the phone.

A man at the nearest desk stood immediately and stepped forward as Jack's eyes scanned the staff. None of them looked right.

“Afternoon sir. Are you looking to buy or rent?”

“Neither,” said Jack, still suspiciously gazing around the room. “I'm looking for one of your staff, Webster Hart.”

“Ah, Webster isn't working here any more.”

Jack didn't flinch, but simply lifted his badge and showed it to the man.

“Do you have a registered address for him?”

“Um, sure...detective...is something wrong.”

Jack's tone was very matter of fact. “We believe Webster Hart isn't who he say he is. We need to talk to him in connection with the killings.”

“Jesus Christ, are you serious? Webster?”

Jack nodded. “That address please.”

The man walked to his desk and tapped on the keyboard for a few moments, looking confused and in slight shock. “105 Crescent Hill,” he said.

Jack looked to Carla who noted it down, then turned back to the man.

“Do you have a picture of him on file?”

The guy nodded again. “Um, sure, I'll get you a printout.”

He clicked a few more buttons on his computer before walking over to the copy machine and pulling out a sheet of paper.

“Here,” he said, handing it to Jack. “How's he connected with these killings?”

Jack looked down at the image, one of a man, smiling, smartly dressed in a suit and tie. He had blond hair, thin lips, and blue eyes. He immediately realized why no one here would have called him in. He looked completely different to the artists representations and the picture from his youth.

Jack lifted his eyes from the picture and up to the man. “We believe he's the one who's been doing them.”

“Fuck me....you're not serious? But, I saw the guy you were looking for on the news....that's not Webster.”

“When did he leave?” Jack asked quickly.

“Er, only a week or two ago.”

“OK,” said Jack, “thanks for you help. I might be back to talk to you later on.”

With that he turned, leaving the guy somewhat shell shocked in the middle of his office. He walked straight past Carla and back outside as she followed behind him.

“Get on the radio, tell everyone to follow behind to Crescent Hill. Where is that?”

“North of town sir, on the outskirts.”

They continued walking towards the car at a pace, stepping back inside as Jack gunned the engine, Carla calling his orders down the radio.

“He must have left the job as soon as he saw his face on the news.”

“But it doesn't look anything like him,” said Carla.

“Sure, but he knew it was only a matter of time before we tracked him down. Jessie said he'd slip up soon, that he was taking too many risks. Using that key, getting into my apartment, that was his biggest fucking mistake.”

They roared through town, up out through the center as the streets began to grow quieter. Soon they were in the heart of the residential north, small apartment blocks turning into longer streets with semi detached housing surrounded by white picket fences, and small front and back gardens.

Before long they came to Crescent Hill and the police once more set up a perimeter up and down the street. Jack stepped quickly from the car, Carla once more following in his wake, and up towards number 105.

The house was small, a ranch house with wooden slat walls and a low slung roof. Jack moved quickly up towards the white door and listened intently for any sound coming from inside. The neighborhood was quiet, a nice looking place considering the desert setting. It didn't look like the house of a serial killer.

Jack drew his weapon and signaled for Carla to do the same, before gently knocking on the door. He listened closely but no sound came, no movement inside, no hint of a TV or radio playing.

He reached slowly for the handle and twisted, but the door was locked. Then he stepped back, lining his foot up with the lock, and crashed his leg through it. The lock splintered, smashed from the door as it swung open.

Jack lifted his weapon quickly and stepped into the space ahead. It was bare, the corridor and staircase pristine, the walls untouched by paintings or pictures. He moved in, checking to his right to see a living room, empty of furniture. There was nothing there, nothing at all. It looked like no one had even stepped foot inside.

He carried on through, seeing a kitchen ahead. It was also empty, brand new, untouched. The appliances looked as though they'd never been used, the fridge was empty but for ice trays. A growing sense of desperation grew inside Jack as he continued through, turning to the left into the bedroom. There was a single mattress in the middle of the room, a sheet on top of it and a light blanket folded in the middle. That was it. There was nothing else.

“It looks like it hasn't been lived in,” Carla said.

“He's lived here all right,” said Jack. “He moved when he left the job, when he saw us coming for him. He's been one step ahead this entire time.”

“So what now?”

Jack could feel the surge of disappointment building inside him, this weight of desperation growing ever more intense. He needed to find the guy now. He needed to find Jessie. There could be no more near-misses, no more close calls. This was yet another in a long line of them, and it was threatening to drive him mad.

When he spoke his words were tense. He wanted to shout and scream but he couldn't. He needed to stay in control, he needed to stay calm.

“Get everyone we've got on Webster Hart. Trace everything about him, any jobs he's had, where he's lived, any property he owns. I want to know everything about him, right now. And Carla, get someone back down to Mason and Sons to interview the guys down there. Find out if they know anything about him, if he said anything about another place. Just get me whatever you can.”

“And you? Where are you going?”

“I'm going to follow a hunch.”

Chapter 25

A hazy darkness surrounded her. Her mind drifted, strange dreams rushing through it of demons and ghosts and dark shadows engulfing her. She twitched, her eyes blinking as they regained their movement, opening gradually as she returned to consciousness.

But did she? Was she dead?

It was still dark around her. She thought her eyes were open but could see nothing but black, a void, empty and endless. A fear began to rumble up inside her as she recalled the sight of a man's face, exploding from the shadowed form ahead of her.

She remembered going numb, her body turning stiff, her legs giving way beneath her. He'd drugged her, paralyzed her, taken her. It all went dark then, and it was still dark now. Her open eyes could see nothing, no hint of light, nothing but a blank canvass.

Was she blind? Had he taken her eyes like the other girls?

The thought made her groan in fear, but she felt no pain around her eyes, no pain in her face. Was she still numb?

No, she could feel warmth, a heat in the darkness, the air close and stale. She could feel clothes against her body, lightly fitted, and a pressing around her ankles. She reached down to her feet, her body lying on a hard, stone, floor, and felt metal chains, locked to her ankles and rooted to the earth.

Her movements were slow, her body still waking from the drug she'd been given. The chains rattled slightly as she moved, her mouth opening to emit groans and slurred words. She tried to cry out, scream, but all she could manage were mumbles and grunts.

“Stay quiet.”

A voice suddenly came to her ears in the pitch black, a whisper echoing around the room. Jessie froze on the floor. There was someone else in there with her.

“He comes when you make noise. He comes....we don't want him to come.”

The voice was of a woman, her tone tense and fearful, her words mumbling incessantly after one another.

Jessie tried to form words, focusing on her speech as the drug continued to wear off.

“Wherrrrr arrrrr weee,” she mumbled, as best she could.

The woman spoke again, her voice still a whisper, always a whisper. “He comes....he comes. Don't make him come....”

“Whoooo arrrr yoooo?”

“Shhhhh! Don't make him come....don't make him come.”

Jessie groaned again, sitting up with difficulty as her eyes continued to adjust to the total blackness around her. But now a partial slit appeared, up above, between floorboards. There were several, so thin you'd barely notice them, cracks of light coming from the house above.

They shone the tiniest glow down into the basement, giving it shape. Jessie could just about make out the corners, the room a square, small and claustrophobic. She opened her eyes as wide as possible and stared straight ahead, in the direction of the voice, and saw the light drift down to display the top of a head, the shape of a nose.

A few minutes passed as she felt the drug slowly wearing off, her tongue growing less heavy in her mouth. When she thought it possible she spoke again, this time her voice growing in clarity, but keeping it at a whisper.