Chris Carter - Gallery of the Dead

‘Motherfucker,’ Garcia said as he identified a tiny camera above the inside of the door to the enclosure. He moved to the tip of his toes and grabbed it off the wall. It was round and small, the size of a coat button. ‘No microphones,’ he said to Hunter. ‘This is a visual aid only.’

‘Whoever this guy is,’ Hunter said, ‘he’s got no ears here anymore. The phone is shot to pieces.’

‘How is she?’ Garcia asked.

‘Alive, but she’s losing blood fast. We need an ambulance here, now.’

‘I’m on it.’

‘And wrap something around your arm wound,’ Hunter said. ‘Before you bleed out, too.’

‘I’m on it.’

While Garcia called for back-up, Hunter called Adrian Kennedy. As they waited, Hunter stayed with Agent Fisher while Garcia went around the stables collecting every camera he could find. There were thirty-two in total — one inside each enclosure and four on the center corridor.

It took the FBI back-up team and the ambulances less than forty minutes to get there. Adrian Kennedy was inside a jet and on his way. Agent Fisher was still alive, but the paramedics didn’t sound very hopeful about the chances of her actually surviving.

‘So the killer’s got her daughter?’ Garcia asked, after Hunter had told him the little he had gathered just before Agent Fisher got shot. His arm had already been bandaged up.

‘That’s what she said.’

‘So chances are, she’s dead.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Hunter replied.

‘How come?’

‘Your shotgun blast obliterated the cellphone in her pocket, which means that the killer lost ears on this place immediately. He had eyes, but no ears anymore. What he saw through the cameras was Erica getting shot by you and falling to the ground like a corpse. He probably thinks she’s dead.’

‘She still might be,’ Garcia said.

‘But not yet,’ Hunter retorted. ‘Anyway, if the killer thinks Agent Fisher is dead, what’s the point in killing her daughter? Remember, this is a killer who has always been merciful with his victims. He never tortures them. He’s not after that kind of pleasure.’ Hunter shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think he’s going to hurt her. I think he’ll just let her go.’

Right then, Hunter felt his cellphone vibrate inside his jacket pocket.

‘Detective Hunter, UVC Unit,’ he answered straight away. He listened for several seconds, his expression changing from tired and worried to completely surprised. ‘You’re kidding. Send those photos to my cellphone now. I’ll wait and I’ll call you back.’

‘What’s going on?’ Garcia asked.

‘Hold on,’ Hunter replied, his attention fixed on his cellphone, waiting for it to beep announcing a new text message. It did ten seconds later.

A minute after that, Hunter was on the phone to Adrian Kennedy again.

Through one of his monitors, the man watched as Garcia suddenly appeared to Agent Fisher’s left and, quick as a flash, pulled the trigger on his sawn-off double-barreled shotgun.

‘NO!’ the man screamed, his voice resonating against empty walls, but it was already too late. The shot hit Agent Fisher with utmost precision, sending a crimson mist up in the air and the agent to the ground. Immediately, all the monitors that were broadcasting the images picked up by the camera buttons on Agent Fisher’s leather coat went blank. His audio feed also died instantly.

‘Shit!’

The man knew that the cellphone in her pocket had been hit.

He checked his other monitor for the images coming from the cameras inside the stables. Agent Fisher had fallen inside horse enclosure number four on the right, just by the door, but the camera for that enclosure was directly above that same door, which meant that she had fallen in a blind spot. With no eyes on her, the man couldn’t tell if she was still alive or not. All he could see, from one of the cameras on the corridor, was the edge of her feet, and they weren’t moving.

Then, all of a sudden he saw Garcia look up at the camera above the door and reach for it.

He’d been made. That was unfortunate, but instead of being angry, the man smiled at himself. It didn’t matter if they found the cameras, the phone, the leather coat, or anything else. He was already counting on that happening. Maybe not this soon, but he knew that they would eventually find them. Still, it didn’t matter because none of it was traceable. The cameras hadn’t been bought in a shop. He had put them together himself from parts bought from a variety of different outlets. The jacket he had purchased in a goodwill shop. There was nothing in that ranch that would give the FBI any clues to who he was or how to find him. He now knew that the FBI knew about his Optum platform breach, but he was a computer whiz, and he knew that there was no way they could trace any of those breaches back to him.

It was a pity that his little game had ended this way and so soon, but it had certainly been fun.

The man switched off all the monitors and sat back on his chair. He felt tired, exhausted even. He hadn’t slept in fifty-one hours, and now that his revenge against Special Agent Fisher was complete, the fatigue hit him like a plane crash. He decided that he would rest for a little before returning to the girl. He had no use for her anymore. The girl had no mother. Even if Special Agent Erica Fisher survived, she would spend the rest of her life in prison. He might as well end the little girl’s misery.

Maybe he would be merciful one more time.

It’s astonishing how light and darkness can completely alter one’s perception of time. Take, for example, every casino in the United States. The intensity of the lighting in their gambling floors is controlled and constant — twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week — just the right balance of brightness and colors so as not to overexpose and tire the human eye. Consequently, gamblers often lose track of time. What to them might feel like an afternoon spent at the tables, turns out to be a day and a half.

Heather Fisher was being subjected to the exact same experience, but in total darkness and without the luxuries of a Las Vegas gambling floor. Her notion of time had left her long ago.

After the man had allowed her to speak to her mother on the phone, he had put her in that dark room and Heather had waited and waited and waited. Her mother had said that she was coming to pick her up, but she still hadn’t turned up. After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, Heather had cried herself to sleep.

The girl missed her mother dearly, but what had really made her sad was the fact that she had been unable to go to the park after school to meet the boy. She really liked him. He was just like her, different, but they understood each other and they always laughed together. She liked that very much. She liked when he sat next to her, when he held her hand, when he smiled at her, and she had felt the warmest of feelings inside when he kissed her cheek last Friday.

The man had taken away her cellphone, so she had no way of telling the boy that she couldn’t be there. She was terrified that the boy wouldn’t want to go to the park to see her anymore. That he wouldn’t want to sit next to her again, or smile at her, or hold her hand.

Why was that man so mean? She had never done anything to him.

When Heather woke up again, the room was as dark as it had always been. She felt hungry, thirsty and cold, and the mattress she was lying on felt like it was made out of cement. Every muscle in her body hurt, especially the ones on her neck. As she sat up, blood throbbed in her ears, making her feel dizzy. Her clothes felt soaking wet and they didn’t smell so good. She really didn’t like that.