Mike Omer - In the Darkness

“You,” she hissed. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, just traveling for work,” he said. “I’m staying in this motel. What about you?”

She blinked, and dismay showed on her face as she realized they were staying in the same place. Now that the initial shock of facing her intense glare had abated, he found something unquestionably alluring about her. Her delicate neck and her rich dark hair gave her an almost Snow White quality. But that delicacy was shattered by her strange eyes and crooked nose, morphing her from “cute” to “mesmerizing.” He made a mental note to mention that in his interview. He thought of other possible adjectives. Captivating, gripping, spellbinding . . . no, spellbinding sounds ridiculous.

“I’m here on . . .” She hesitated. Finally, she blurted, “Personal business.”

“Personal business in San Angelo, huh? And Agent Tatum Gray is also on personal business, I assume?”

She glared at him for a long second. “I have nothing to say to you.” She turned away and began marching.

Harry hurried after her. “No problem.” He breathed hard. Damn, the woman could move fast. “Maybe just comment on the article I have for tomorrow’s paper? I’m considering the headline, ‘Serial killer expert consulting local police in San Angelo in wake of young woman’s suspicious death.’” He wheezed as his heart and lungs screamed at the sudden unexpected effort. He hadn’t moved so fast in years.

“I’ll start by building the atmosphere.” He raised his voice to overcome the traffic noise. She got farther away, and he hastened his steps, gulping air between words. “Dr. Bentley, famous for catching Chicago’s Strangling Undertaker and the infamous Jovan Stokes, recently flew to San Angelo with her partner, Special Agent Tatum Gray. Though there was no comment regarding their presence, it is possible that it has something to do with the death of nineteen-year-old Nicole Medina . . .”

Zoe slowed her steps and then stopped. Breathing hard, Harry stopped as well. He felt like he was going to have a heart attack.

“Who was . . . found dead outside the . . . city.” Damn those cigarettes. They’d be the end of him. “After . . . being reported missing . . .”

“Stop.” She whirled around and strode toward him, looking like she might strangle him. “You can’t print any of that. That’s just provocation and misinformation.”

“Misinformation?” He looked at her, hurt. “Aren’t you in San Angelo with Agent Tatum Gray? Wasn’t Nicole Medina found dead? They said she was found dead in today’s news. Oh! I get it. You don’t like the title serial killer expert . Fair enough. How about renowned profiler ?”

“Mr. Barry, if you publish your article, the consequences might be . . . you can’t . . .” She waved her hands helplessly, her gestures frantic and vague.

“Use your words, Dr. Bentley. I don’t understand sign language.” His heart rate was slowing down, but he was drenched in sweat. Maybe he should quit smoking. “What consequences?”

“Please wait one more day before publishing anything.” She was not good at beseeching. Her tone made it sound more like an imperious order.

“So that all the local papers get the story before me? I don’t think so, Doctor. Do you have a quote for me or not?”

She stared at him. He met her gaze calmly, but it was like having a staring contest with Medusa. He ended up glancing away first.

“There’s a story for you here,” she finally said. “But if you go public now, with my name and a list of all my so-called accomplishments, I swear you’ll never hear anything from me.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t seem like I’m hearing anything from you either way.”

“I’ll give you the whole story before anyone else. I promise.”

“What if the rest of the press gets hold of it first?”

“You don’t want to write about a dead girl in San Angelo. Your readers in Chicago couldn’t care less about her. You want my angle on it.”

“You can read me like an open book.” He grinned at her.

“Wait with the article. I’ll call you in a day or two.”

He nodded. “I’ll wait for your call. Just don’t take too long.”

She let out a long breath. “Good night.”

“Did you eat dinner? We could grab something together.”

“I’d rather dine with a rattlesnake, Harry Barry.”

He watched her walking away, a bemused smile on his face. Then he rummaged in his pocket and took out a crumpled box of cigarettes. He tapped one out, put it between his lips, and lit it. He inhaled the smoke, shutting his eyes with joy. The hell with giving up smoking. He knew nothing better than the first cigarette after you snagged a good story.

The girl’s screams were background music as he browsed the local news websites. She was pleading for someone, anyone, to get her out. He listened to her for a few seconds, comparing this girl to Nicole Medina. He wasn’t certain which one of them he found more engaging.

Shaking his head, he sifted through the websites again.

He’d been hoping that by now someone would make the connection, realize the girl who had died was the same one from the video he’d posted online. But all the articles just mentioned the bare facts. The dead victim’s name and age. A selfie in a club the victim had posted two weeks ago on her Instagram account. The police statement that they were investigating it. No mention of a serial killer. No mention of the online video. No mention of Schrodinger. Article after article of bland, dry tidbits of information.

He smacked the table in a sudden bout of rage. How could they be so blind? He’d left them a blazing trail. Did he need to force-feed them every tiny detail?

He clicked the “Contact Us” link on the San Angelo Live website. Typing furiously, he pointed out the connection between the death of the victim and the video. He copied the URL. He pointed out the name of the video and stated there would be more. The police were helpless against him, and so were the FBI. There would be more victims, and no one was safe. They were all on his radar. There would be more. Dozens.

The cursor hovered above the “Send” button, and he paused.

He read the entire thing again. He literally had to scroll to do it, it was so damn long. Almost half the words were in all caps. He sounded deranged. He spotted no less than thirteen spelling mistakes. The number of exclamation marks was staggering. At one point he’d written DOZENS!!!!!!

Six exclamation marks. Capital letters. Like some frothing madman.

This was not the impression he wanted people to get, no matter how angry he was.

He got up from his chair and paced the basement, taking deep breaths. The space was a lot more cramped than it used to be. Boxes were stacked to the ceiling on the far side, their sizes uniform, each with a single hole drilled in it. Each box was intended for one subject. One experiment. Just looking at them calmed him down, made him smile.

Next to them stood bins full of soil. He had enough for five experiments, matching the different locations’ soil. This was who he was. Someone who prepared. Who tied every loose thread. Who left nothing to chance.

He’d stick to the original plan. So what if the press was a bit slow. Soon, everyone would know about him. And everyone would be wondering who was next.

Because this girl wouldn’t only make him visible. It would also clarify he wasn’t about to stop with one or two.

Her screams echoed in the basement again. She was screaming for her mother.

And that gave him an idea.

He should have thought about it long before. These days, no one cared about what was happening right now.