Chris Carter - The Executioner

‘Look at it. Do you remember?’

She was weak, dehydrated and feeling too dizzy to concentrate.

‘C’mon, Mandy.’ He snapped his fingers a couple of times. ‘Pay attention to the photo. Do you remember?’

Still feeling confused, she stared at it with unsteady eyes. Nothing was making sense.

And then she saw it.

‘ It can’t be .’

‘Welcome to your fear, Mandy,’ he whispered. ‘I know what scares you to death.’

Some say Los Angeles Union Station is America’s last great railway station. Built in 1939 to consolidate passenger terminals from three different railways, the station still serves as a transit hub. Though its exterior is a successful merging of Spanish Mission, Moorish and Streamline Modern architectural styles, Los Angeles Union Station is best enjoyed from inside. It’s been carefully renovated, with original light fixtures, inlaid stone floors and tiled walls.

Beauty aside, the station is a constant hustle of passengers and tourists, but today it seemed busier than normal.

The girl ran as fast as she could, constantly swerving her body to avoid colliding with other commuters. People were coming from all directions, and everyone seemed to be in a hurry. After successfully negotiating her way around a large woman pushing a baby in a pram, she almost ran over a little girl in uniform, who seemed to have detached herself from her parents. By the time she reached the escalator going down to the station’s underground, she was puffing and sweating.

‘Excuse me, please,’ she called in a hurried voice as she squeezed her way through, skipping down the steps.

She saw the doors of the Red Line subway train closing as she stepped onto the platform.

‘Oh no, no!’

The train started to move away.

She dashed towards it, but she knew it was no good.

‘Late again… great,’ she whispered. ‘Just what I need.’

Her eyes searched for the noticeboard. At least fifteen minutes before the next Red Line service. Despite the departing train, the platform was still rammed.

Where the hell are all these people going today? she thought, looking around. Her eyes rested on an empty glass poster box and she caught a glimpse of her reflection. Her long dark brown hair was still neatly tied back in a ponytail, but beads of sweat had formed on her forehead, and her nose looked pink from a combination of the cold outside and her running effort. She desperately needed a makeup retouch.

The main floor was heaving with people. Tourists were noisily walking around, marveling at the many twinkling lights and shining baubles. She hadn’t even noticed the colorful Christmas decorations until now. They reminded her of her hometown and of her parents’ house. Places and people she’d do anything to forget. She checked her watch before making her way towards the ladies’ room at the far end of the hall. No hurry this time. A tall, skinny man carrying a red leather briefcase gave her a malicious smile and her whole body shuddered.

‘ Ladies and gentlemen ,’ a voice announced through the loudspeakers, ‘ due to a signal failure in Pershing Square, there’ll be a five-minute delay to our next Red Line service. We apologize for the inconvenience .’

‘Fantastic,’ she murmured. ‘This just isn’t my day.’

Suddenly, she felt her chest tighten around her heart. A burning heat took over her body with incredible speed as her throat knotted, making it hard for her to breathe. The station started to spin. Her vision was invaded by tiny circles of light, but they quickly got bigger and brighter until all she could see was a blinding white light. And then it happened.

The bright light was replaced by grainy black and white images, like a short segment from an old movie. But what she saw was no classic.

‘Oh God, no.’ Her voice was drowning on tears. ‘Please, not again.’

The images played for only a few seconds, but it was enough to fill her with terrifying fear.

Her nose started bleeding. Something pirouetted inside her stomach, and she gagged on the bile as it surged into her mouth. She desperately needed to get to the ladies’ room.

‘ Someone please help me .’ Her lips moved but no sound came out. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she fell to her knees as something erupted from her stomach. Right there, in the middle of the main floor of Los Angeles Union Station, she lost control and vomited.

Hunter lived alone. He’d never been married, and the relationships he had never really worked out. They’d always start well. The women he dated, at first, seemed very understanding of the pressures of his job and the commitment it demanded. But soon they wanted more. A lot more than he was prepared to give. And although he felt lonely sometimes, long-term relationships simply didn’t fit into his lifestyle. Hunter’s sexual life consisted exclusively of one-night encounters or short-term, no-strings-attached affairs.

He enjoyed spending time by himself. He felt comfortable in his sparsely decorated one-bedroom apartment. A good book and a double dose of one of the many single-malt Scotch whiskeys from a very well-accomplished collection always made him relax. But not tonight. This was only the second night since they’d found Father Fabian’s body, but the pressure was building up fast. He felt the need to go out and see other people talking, laughing and living life. The world of the dead had a habit of getting under his skin.

Los Angeles has one of the liveliest and most exciting nightlifes in the world. From luxurious and trendy clubs where A-list celebrities hang out, to dingy and sleazy underground venues. There are themed bars and lounges scattered all over the city. You can have a drink in a hospital ward where cocktail waitresses run around in skin-tight black nurses’ uniforms, or in the most traditional of Irish pubs, where the barman leaves the Guinness to settle before topping up the glass and drawing a shamrock in the froth.

Hunter wasn’t looking for anything crazy or loud, so live music venues and bars with dance DJs were out. He also decided to stay in Downtown Los Angeles instead of taking a drive to any of the many beach bars. He settled on the Golden Gopher on West Eighth Street. Its low-key and relaxed atmosphere was just what Hunter had in mind.

He got there at about 9:00 p.m. The place was busy but not crowded. He took a seat at the end of the old-West saloon-looking bar and ordered a single dose of single malt. The barman, a tall, short-haired Puerto Rican with a goatee trimmed to perfection, dropped two cubes of ice into the glass and Hunter stared at them as they cracked. His mind methodically going over the case. Two days and they had nothing so far.

He finished his Scotch and his stare fell on a small group huddled around an old Space Invaders game machine.

Without him noticing it, the barman poured another dose and slid the glass towards Hunter.

‘Wow, you’re quick,’ he said with a nod.

‘This one’s paid for, sir.’

Hunter frowned.

‘The lady at the far table to your right,’ the barman said with a slight head tilt.

Hunter turned to face the table the barman had indicated. A tall, attractive brunette was sitting by herself. Streaked hair fell in ringlets over her shoulders. She had olive-tanned skin and seductive brown eyes. The top two buttons of her cream blouse were strategically undone, revealing a jaw-dropping cleavage.

Hunter lifted his glass and accepted the drink with the most subtle of smiles.

She held his gaze, blinked and then smiled back, gesturing for him to join her.

‘You’re in luck,’ the barman said.

‘Does she do this often?’