Chris Carter - Gallery of the Dead

‘You should keep her on a leash, buddy,’ he said in a weak, half-drunk voice.

‘Excuse me?’ There was no one else next to Hunter, so the man must’ve been talking to him.

‘She’s fucking lethal, that’s what she is.’

Shrouded in confusion, Hunter watched as the man stumbled away, grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair, and exited the lounge.

‘What was that all about?’ Alex asked Hunter.

‘I have no idea, but I’d better go check on Tracy.’

Hunter didn’t have to. As he turned on his stool, Tracy finally reappeared and returned to her seat.

‘What happened?’ Hunter asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, this WWF reject just came out of the bathroom, walked past me and said something about keeping you on a leash and how lethal you were.’

Tracy laughed. ‘Is that what he said?’

‘Who is he? And what did you do?’

‘No one, really,’ Tracy replied. ‘Just someone I met back there. He asked me for my advice, so I gave it to him.’

‘Advice?’

‘Yes. I told him that he should go home. He’d had enough to drink for tonight. Where is he?’ She turned and looked around the lounge but failed to spot the man.

‘He left,’ Hunter told her.

‘Oh, so he did take my advice.’

Hunter found all this too bizarre, but decided not to ask any more questions.

Tracy finished her drink. ‘Another one?’

Hunter considered it for a short moment. ‘How about if we go get something to eat? Have you eaten already?’

Tracy smiled as she glanced at her watch. ‘Given that it’s past eleven in the evening... yes, I’ve had dinner already, but I can keep you company.’ She paused and looked back at Hunter invitingly. ‘Or how about we go back to my place and I’ll cook you something?’

Tracy was a fantastic cook. Hunter knew that very well.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘It’s quite late and I wouldn’t want to impose.’

‘Yes. Positive. And you’re not imposing.’

As they smiled at each other, Hunter’s cellphone rang in his jacket pocket.

Tracy looked back at him, incredulous that this was about to happen again.

‘Detective Hunter, UVC Unit.’ Hunter took the call.

It was Special Agent Williams.

As Hunter listened in silence, his expression changed to something considerably more somber.

‘Where?’ he said into the mouthpiece, checking his watch. ‘I’m not home right now, but I can be there in fifteen minutes.’ He listened for another few seconds. ‘OK, I’ll be ready.’ He disconnected from the call and his stare moved to Tracy.

She didn’t need to ask. She knew that a call coming into Hunter’s phone at that time of night could only mean one thing.

‘I’m so terribly sorry,’ he said, reaching for her hand.

She smiled through her disappointment.

‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘It’s your job.’ She sipped her drink. ‘Same perp again?’

Hunter nodded.

‘Wow, he’s not losing any time, is he?’

Hunter placed a couple of bills on the bar counter and reached for his jacket. ‘Once again,’ he said to Tracy. ‘I’m so very sorry.’

‘As long as you make it up to me, I don’t mind,’ she replied in a half-joking, half-serious tone.

‘You can count on that.’ He kissed her on the lips before rushing out of the bar.

A black SUV picked Hunter up from his home address exactly forty-five minutes after he’d left The Thirsty Crow Lounge, enough time for him to have a shower and grab a change of clothes. Sixty-five minutes after that, he met Garcia and both FBI agents at Van Nuys airport, in San Fernando Valley. The look on everyone’s faces was a testimony to how little sleep they’d all had.

‘Coffee?’ Garcia asked as Hunter walked through the doors, offering him one of the cups he had in his hands.

Hunter gladly accepted it. ‘You read my mind.’

‘Perfect timing,’ Agent Williams said, joining the two of them. ‘The plane will be ready in under five minutes.’

‘Do we have any more information other than what you told me over the phone?’ Hunter asked.

All he was told was that The Surgeon had claimed a new victim and that he had about an hour to get ready before a car picked him up to take him to the airport.

‘I also know very little,’ Agent Williams replied.

‘But surely more than we do,’ Garcia said. ‘Do we at least know where we’re flying to?’

‘Tucson, Arizona,’ came the reply from Agent Fisher, who had just come off her cellphone. ‘Yesterday morning, after we learned about The Surgeon’s third victim here in Los Angeles, it became crystal clear that he isn’t sticking to a specific city, or even a specific state.’

Took you guys long enough , Garcia thought, but the thought didn’t make it to his lips.

‘So,’ Agent Fisher continued, ‘before flying over here, we made sure that every police department and every coroner and sheriff’s office in the country received a top-priority bulletin, informing everyone that if a body is found with missing parts, and/or bearing certain marks to its flesh, the FBI is to be notified immediately and no investigation is to be initiated by local detectives. About two hours ago, our headquarters in Quantico received a call from the Tucson Police Department in Arizona. A male body was found early yesterday evening, bearing some strange carvings to its back.’ She paused just to heighten the suspense. ‘The information we were given was that the markings to the victim’s back look like an odd combination of letters and symbols. Sounds familiar?’

‘Is that all we have on the victim?’ Garcia asked.

Agent Fisher shrugged. ‘At this point, yes... Oh, one more thing,’ she added before making her way toward the boarding gate. ‘Tucson Police also have a man in custody.’

‘A man in custody?’ Hunter asked, surprised.

Agent Fisher nodded. ‘I was just told. He was arrested at the crime scene. Police officers found him standing over the body.’

Homicide Detective James Miller of the Tucson Police Department pushed his silver-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose before tucking his hands deep into his trouser pockets. For the next five minutes he attentively observed the handcuffed man sitting alone at the metal table on the other side of the two-way mirror.

‘James, what are you doing?’ Detective Edward Hill asked, as he joined his partner inside observation room one. After six years in the force, Hill had finally made detective for the Tucson PD just under a year ago. He was nine years Miller’s junior.

‘What does it look like I’m doing, Rookie?’ Miller replied, without looking back at Hill. Since their captain had paired them together eleven months ago, Miller had never called Detective Hill by any name other than ‘Rookie’.

‘What you always do before interrogating a suspect,’ Hill said, pausing by Miller’s side. He too rested his eyes on the enigmatic tall man with a shaved head, sitting at the metal table.

‘That’s why I like you, Rookie. You’re sharp. No wonder you made detective.’

Hill didn’t laugh at the joke. ‘Didn’t you hear what the captain said? The suspect is not to be interrogated by us. This isn’t our case, James. All we’ve got to do is keep him here until the FBI arrives.’

‘Yes, I heard the captain,’ Miller replied. ‘And if you want to play puppet to those jerks in black suits and stupid-looking aviator glasses, be my guest, Rookie, but I didn’t work my ass off to make homicide detective just so I could chaperone a murder suspect for the goddamn FBI. This guy was arrested in Catalina Foothills. If you’ve forgotten, that’s our jurisdiction. As far as I know, until we see any official paperwork, this is our case, not the Fed’s.’ Miller finally turned and faced Hill. ‘Have you seen any paperwork yet?’