James Swain - Shadow People

“Is this woman some kind of saint?”

Peter nodded, and a look of recognition spread across the FBI agent’s face, along with the weight of knowing that if he didn’t act fast, he’d be responsible for her demise as well.

“Then I’ll order the police to arrest him,” Garrison said.

“Can you do that?”

“Yes. I’m putting my ass on the line, but I’m willing to take that chance.”

“Thank you. You won’t regret it.”

Peter climbed the steps to the back of the stage as Garrison began to make the call. The music had already started, his other life about to begin. He cleared his head, and prepared himself to enter the world of make-believe.

The parking lot of the Pelham train station was deserted as Munns parked and killed his headlights. During the day, there was not a space to be found, and cars often parked illegally on the street. Nighttime was a different story, and most of the spaces were empty.

Munns lowered his window. The sound of the northbound train from New York could often be heard a mile or more away as it lumbered into the station. Each of Munns’s six victims had come on the train to Pelham, where Munns had picked them up with the promise of a nice job at the local college but instead had taken them to the basement of his house where he’d tied them up, laid them out on a long table, and ended their miserable lives in whatever fashion struck his fancy. He never decided ahead of time, preferring to follow his impulses and go with the flow. Rachael would be no different.

The train’s whistle caught his ear. It was time. On the passenger seat sat his kill kit. From it, he took the bottle of chloroform, which he put into his left jacket pocket. Next he removed a folded handkerchief, which went into his right jacket pocket. The kill kit was moved to the floor of the backseat. He climbed out of the car.

He waited on the platform. He was not alone. A woman had come to pick up her husband, and was chatting on a cell phone while holding an infant in her arm. That was the extent of his worries.

He glanced at his reflection in the window of the station house, fixed his necktie, and patted down his lapels. If Rachael stepped off the train and got a bad vibe, she wouldn’t get in his car. He had to win her over right from the start.

The ground shook as the train pulled in, and a handful of passengers disembarked. Dark suits and ties for the men, power suits and fancy shoes for the women. One passenger stood out. A tall, sallow women with prematurely gray hair and a slightly lost expression. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of her.

“Rachael?” he called out expectantly.

She smiled and came toward him. Not too fast, not too slow. Sizing him up like any intelligent woman would do. Munns stepped forward and opened his arms in welcome.

“It’s so good to finally meet you. Welcome to Pelham,” he said.

“You must be Doc Munns.” She stuck out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

Her handshake was firm but also friendly. He waved to his parked car. “Your chariot awaits. The dean is expecting us. I’m told his wife has cooked up a wonderful meal with all the trimmings. I hope you brought your appetite.”

“Matter of fact, I did. I’ve been so looking forward to this,” she said.

They continued to chat as they walked to Munns’s car. Out of the corner of his eye, Munns saw the woman with the kid drive away with her husband. The other passengers were piling into cars and heading home. No one was paying them the slightest bit of attention. Munns opened the passenger door for his guest.

“Such a gentleman. I like that in a man,” Rachael said.

“My pleasure,” the serial killer said.

The routine that Munns used to abduct his victims never varied. Like a short one-act play, he’d memorized the lines that he would say, and had choreographed the individual steps that led to his victims being knocked unconscious in the passenger seat of his car. He had performed his play in the railroad station parking lot, and in the supermarket parking lot down the street where he’d taken several of his victims after picking them up. It had seemed bold at first to perform the abduction in public, but time had proved it a smart tactic. His victims did not think anything could happen to them while in a public place, and let their guards down. As a result, none of them had seen it coming. He did not anticipate Rachael being any different.

He fastened his seat belt and requested that his passenger do the same.

“Sorry,” Rachael said, buckling up. “I hardly take car rides anymore.”

“How do you get around in the city?” he asked.

“Mostly by the subway, sometimes when I’m late I’ll take a cab.”

“You don’t own a car?”

“On my salary? You’re funny.”

No one had ever called him funny before, and he grinned. He found himself liking her, but that feeling would soon fade. It always did when he brought his victims to his house and carried them downstairs to the basement. Each step down the creaky staircase was a painful journey back in time. By the time he reached the basement, he was ready to kill.

He fired up the ignition and threw the car into reverse. Then he started to wheeze and cough. It was an ugly sound, and he pounded his chest with his fist.

“Is something wrong?” she asked in alarm.

He threw the car back into Park. More pounding on the chest and heavy breathing followed. Pointing at the glove compartment, he said, “If you don’t mind. I need my pills.”

“Is this serious? Do I need to call nine one one?”

“Not at all. I just forgot to take them, that’s all.”

“Do you have any water?”

“No,” he gasped.

“Have no fear.” She produced a water bottle from her purse and stuck it into the cup holder jutting out of the dashboard. Then she turned her attention to the glove compartment. The latch was tricky, and she fumbled opening it. She rummaged through maps and car junk.

“I’m not seeing any pills,” she said.

“They should be there,” he wheezed. “Keep looking.”

She obeyed, paying him no attention. Sticking his hand into his left pocket, he unscrewed the chloroform bottle with a quick twist. His right hand removed the handkerchief, which he doused liberally. He kept his face turned to avoid knocking himself out with fumes.

“I’ll still not seeing them,” Rachael said.

“Do you know what it’s like to be beaten as a child?” he asked in a normal voice.

The words caught her off guard. Rachael turned her head, and Munns placed the handkerchief over her nose and mouth. It was important to get his victim to turn into the chloroform, and not shove it into her face. Her eyes rolled into her head, and she slumped into her seat.

The hard part over, Munns felt himself relax. As he started to back out of his spot, a police cruiser rolled into the lot and pulled up behind him, its headlights bathing his vehicle.

“Shit,” he swore.

In his mirror he spied a grim-faced cop at the wheel. Before the economy had taken a dump, the Pelham Police Department had employed pairs of officers for its nightly patrols. Budget cuts had changed that, and officers now rode solo at night.

Munns strained to make out the officer’s face. He’d gone through school with many of the cops in town and knew most of them by first name.

The cop was someone new. A clean-cut rookie with a square jaw and straw-blond hair. Munns decided to have a talk with him. He had talked his way out of tight jams before, and felt confident he could handle this rookie. Opening his door, he placed his foot on the ground.

“Stay in your car,” the officer barked over a bullhorn.