Rick Mofina - Into the Dark

Protection orders, attacks in public and police checks-it was no way to live. Was this a foundation for her future? The man she’d loved was gone and she had to move on.

She checked the time.

It was late. She had to be up early for work. She drew a hot bath to ease her tension and help her sleep and as she soaked in the tub, she seized on a warm, fleeting thought of Officer Campbell.

The spark of attraction was surprising.

Amber climbed out of the tub, drained it, toweled off and brushed her teeth. As she blow-dried her hair she smiled at the fact that she, Amber Pratt, had flirted.

Maybe I am coming out of my shell. Gaining some self-confidence? Maybe there’s hope for me yet.

In her bedroom, Amber pulled on her nightshirt and started running a comb through her hair when she froze.

A soft thud-thump somewhere in the house.

What the heck is that? She went room to room, throwing on every light, checking every window, every door, every closet. Nothing was out of place, yet her instincts told her something was not right.

Unease pinged in her stomach. What if Eric did break into Claire’s office and got this address? Remember what Officer Tate said. Sacramento police confirmed that Eric was in Sacramento at work.

But that was early this morning, which left him time to fly, even drive, to L.A.

This was just stupid. Amber couldn’t stand it. She grabbed her cell phone and called Sharon. After three rings, the line was answered.

“Hello?” Sharon’s husband answered.

“Kyle, it’s Amber, could I speak to Sharon.”

“Amber- Geez, yeah, hang on.” It sounded as if he had a hand over the mouthpiece, but a muffled “It’s Amber-how should I know what she-” leaked out before Sharon got on the line.

“Amber, honey, it’s Sharon. What’s going on?”

“I need you to help me.”

“Of course, what do you need?”

“Is Eric in Sacramento right now?”

“What? Yes, he’s working with Pete on some new places in Citrus Heights, I think. Kyle, Eric’s working in Citrus? Yes, Citrus Heights. Why?”

“Is he still in Sacramento tonight?”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“You know what’s going on. You know everything that’s going on in everybody’s life.”

There was a long pause.

“I thought you were on my side, Sharon.”

“Amber, he really thought the letter would work to bring you back. I’m in the middle. I pray for both of you.”

“Where is he right now?”

“I don’t know exactly, but we heard that there was some sort of burglary in L.A. and the Sacramento police paid him a visit on the job site this morning, which really ticked him off.”

“So where is he now?”

“I don’t know. I guess he was so pissed that he told Pete that he wanted to take a long drive to take care of something.”

Amber’s hand flew to her mouth and her eyes went around the house.

“I’m calling the police.”

“Wait!” Sharon’s hand covered the phone, then she came back on. “Kyle said he stayed on the job and Pete and Marty took him to a bar after work to cool him off.”

“Call Pete now. Get him on the phone. I need to know Eric’s in Sacramento, or I’m calling the police. I know Kyle has Pete’s cell number.”

“All right, stay on the line I’ll get Kyle to call them now. Then we’ll put the phones on Speaker and turn them up.”

After a few harried moments Amber heard Eric’s brother, Pete, always the calm, smart, mature one of the two.

“Pete, it’s Amber. Are you with Eric?”

“Yes, we’re watching the game at the Nugget, he’s right beside me.”

“Put him on.”

“Amber?” Eric said. “What is it? Sharon said you got my letter.”

Satisfied she’d heard Eric, she said, “Everything’s fine. Give the phone back to Pete.”

“What? What about my letter, did you think-”

“Eric, put Pete back on, please.”

“What is this? Why are you being such a-” Eric stopped himself.

“Such a what, Eric? What were you going to call me?”

A tense moment passed.

“Here’s Pete,” he said. “I don’t know what she wants,” Eric told his brother before Pete came back on. “What’s going on, Amber?”

“Pete, I want you to pass your phone to the first female server you see. Just for one second.”

“What?”

“Please.”

“Are you okay?”

“Just do it, please.”

More muffled sounds.

“Hi,” a young cheery voice greeted, “this is Dixie.”

“Dixie, what city are you in?”

“What? Is this some kind of contest? Are there cameras?”

“Please just answer.”

“Sacramento.”

“Thanks, you can give the phone back.”

“Amber?” Pete came back on.

“Thank you, Pete, goodbye.”

Sharon was on the line again.

“Amber, this is really unfair for you to put the Sacramento police onto Eric when he’s trying to straighten his life out. He had nothing to do-”

“Thank you, Sharon, goodbye.”

Amber hung up, trembling from the anger and fear pumping through her body. She sighed and put her head in her hands until it subsided.

I must be losing my mind.

Taking long, deep calming breaths she walked through the house again, checking doors, windows, closets, shutting off lights, trying to relax. She went to the kitchen and made cocoa. As she waited for the milk to warm she pondered Officer Campbell’s card and smiled.

Everything’s okay, I’m just on edge, she thought, heading to bed where she read the opening of Madame Bovary before her stress yielded to exhaustion and she gently drifted off.

Amber fell into a deep sleep that swirled with dreams of a pretty little home overlooking the ocean where her children played under a brilliant sun in the yard. She was smiling, calling them, lowering herself so they could run into her open arms, but they stopped short and looked up at something behind Amber.

A large shadow fell over them.

Amber’s eyes flicked open. The sun gave way to darkness and the naked man standing beside her bed, staring down at her, his face a white, hideous mask of malevolence.

Amber’s scream was silenced when he crushed a wide strip of duct tape over her mouth. A sudden blow to her head rattled her teeth in a pyrotechnic explosion of stars before everything went black.

Commerce, California

The forty-eight hours the AllNews Press Agency had given to the task force to examine the letter was up.

Mark Harding’s phone had been vibrating all morning.

First Magda wanted an update, and then Sebastian Strother phoned Harding, demanding he deliver a story without police confirmation.

“We no longer need them. We’ve honored the agreement. They didn’t. I don’t trust them. They could be arranging a news conference,” Strother said from headquarters in New York. “Our story will say that someone claiming to be the killer has written to us and the task force is analyzing materials the writer included.”

“No, wait, we should give them a little more time,” Harding responded. “I should have it all taken care of soon.”

“Forty-five more minutes,” Strother said.

The ANPA was losing patience and fearful of losing its exclusive, but Harding kept pleading for more time because confirmation that the real killer had surfaced and written to the ANPA would give them a world exclusive.

After forty-five minutes passed, Harding called again.

“A few more things to check. Sorry, I have to push back meeting you until ten-thirty,” Tanner had told him on the phone.

It was now 10:37 a.m. and Harding was waiting alone in an empty meeting room at the Homicide bureau of the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department. His stomach had tightened. If the letter, license, photos and the whole thing were not a hoax, then he’d have a story that could be counted with those of Jack the Ripper, Son of Sam, BTK and the Zodiac, infamous killers who’d written to the press to confess their crimes while committing them.