Mike Omer - In the Darkness

“Ma’am?”

“Please send cops over,” she said in a low voice.

“Can you give me an address?”

She had no idea what the address was. “I’m at the gym. Uh . . . nearby Cheshire Station.”

“Okay, ma’am, I’m sending a patrol over. Can you try and get to somewhere public until they arrive?”

Was the shadow still by the door? She didn’t even dare look. “I’m scared.” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper.

“I understand.” The operator sounded calm, in control. Like Zoe always was. God, Andrea wanted Zoe there right now. “But if you’re in the gym, where there are a lot of people, you’re safe. Just go wait at the lobby for the police, okay? Keep me on the line, and walk to the lobby.”

“Okay.”

She crept toward the locker room door, her breath shallow, her heart feeling as if it were submerged in ice. She stepped softly on the wet floor, wiping the tears of fear from her eyes.

Footsteps. Movement at the frosted window. Someone was approaching.

“He’s coming for me. Help. Help!” she screeched. The phone tumbled from her frozen fingers.

Scream and run. If you can’t run, fight , Zoe had said. Andrea screamed, stumbling back, yelling as hard as she could. She couldn’t run, and she didn’t think she could fight. Only screaming was left. She screamed again, trying to summon anyone who could get there in time to save her.

A sweaty, fat woman stepped into the locker room, staring at Andrea in confusion and worry. Andrea fell to the floor, sobbing, the operator’s voice calling her from the discarded phone on the floor.

Zoe sighed and leaned back in her chair, the late-afternoon sun slanting through the meeting room window, blinding her. She moved around the table to a position where the sun wouldn’t bother her or reflect on her laptop’s screen.

The details about Maribel Howe’s phone call to her mother were sparse and frustrating.

There was a record of an incoming phone call to the Howe residence. That much was true. However, they had no way of knowing who it was. Delia Howe repeatedly claimed it was Maribel but added the girl hadn’t said much. And whoever it had been called her Mommy, which, Delia admitted, Maribel hadn’t done since she’d been a small child. It all felt like there was a chance it was a prank call.

The phone she’d used was still on, but the accuracy of its exact position was poor. It was somewhere in south San Angelo in an area that contained over seven hundred houses. Cops were doing a door-to-door search, but they couldn’t get a search warrant for seven hundred homes, and a lot of homes were vacant, their owners at work. And while they were doing that , other aspects of the investigation stalled.

Foster also told Zoe that the toxicology report had come back—the victim had traces of flunitrazepam in her system: Rohypnol. That clarified how the killer had been able to handle her and put her in a box without any struggle.

She mulled over it, distractedly doodling on the page in front of her. She was about to call Delia Howe to get the facts straight when Tatum entered the room.

“Hey,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“What is it?” she asked. She surprised herself with the eagerness in her voice.

“I had an idea about the case. I wanted to hear what you think.”

“Shoot.”

“You think this serial killer is obsessed with his own fame, right?”

“It’s definitely part of his motivation.”

“Could be a mind game he’s playing with the police?” Tatum asked. “A way of establishing his superiority?”

Zoe considered this. “Maybe he wants to prove his superiority publicly . If it was just about being superior to the police, he’d have sent the video just to them, which would have been much safer.”

“That fits the profile for the kind of killer who’d want to involve himself with the case, right?”

Many serial killers gravitated to the police investigation, making themselves part of it. A lot of times they were actually the ones who “found” the body, informing the police about it. Or they’d pretend to have valuable information about the case. It was a way to siphon information, and they also often erroneously believed it put them beyond suspicion. There was definitely a measure of superiority in that kind of behavior.

“I think you’re right,” she said.

“Let’s not wait for him to do it. We need to start a volunteer hotline. Say we’re looking for any info that might prove useful about the Nicole Medina case. And then the police can check the people that call as well as the leads. He might call.”

Zoe considered this. “I think that’s a good idea. We should suggest it.”

A silence settled between them. For a few minutes, they had a taste of their previous bond. But now that the discussion was over, the tension was there again.

“I need to call Maribel Howe’s mother,” Zoe muttered, rummaging in her bag for her phone. “I want to know exactly . . .” The words faded as she gaped at the display.

She’d set it to silent when they’d visited Dr. Cobb and had forgotten about it. She had two missed calls from Harry Barry, three from Andrea, and one from Mancuso, as well as a message from Andrea asking Zoe to call her back urgently. She was dizzy as she dialed Andrea, listening to it ring, praying for her to answer already.

Finally, Andrea said, “Hey.”

Zoe’s heart plunged, hearing her sister’s voice. She’d clearly been crying, and her breathing was heavy, frightened.

“Ray-Ray, what happened?”

“I saw Glover.”

“Are you all right? Did he—”

“He didn’t touch me. I saw him stalking me while I was at the gym. It was him , Zoe—I’m sure of it.”

“Of course you’re sure. I didn’t think otherwise. Where are you now?”

“I’m at the apartment. I locked the door.” Andrea hiccuped. “A patrol officer took me home and made sure the place was empty before he left.”

“Did you talk to Agent Caldwell?”

“Yeah, I called him.”

“What did he say?”

“He said the police will check the security cameras at the gym.”

“Is there someone keeping watch for you right now?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

Zoe leaned against the wall, feeling helpless and furious with herself. What was she doing all the way across the country from Andrea? Her sister needed her right now. “Listen, I’ll get home as fast as possible. I’ll catch the first plane, okay? For now, I’ll talk to Mancuso, make sure there’s someone watching the place at all times. Did you latch the door as well?”

“Yes.”

“And latch the windows too, okay? There’s nothing to worry about, Ray-Ray. He won’t get near you. Can you explain what happened, exactly?”

Zoe paced back and forth as she listened, ignoring Tatum’s worried stare, her mind in an uproar. Glover was watching her sister. Clearly stalking her. Had he been doing it the entire time? Did he intend to hurt her sister, or was he just getting a thrill from watching her? Stupid question—Glover was way past voyeurism. If he stalked a woman, it meant he fantasized about attacking her. And Glover acted on his fantasies. She needed to keep Andrea safe. Maybe they could get her to a safehouse. Or fly her out of the country for a few months until Zoe could catch Glover, tear his eyes out, castrate him, and force-feed him his own—

“Hello? Zoe? Are you there?”

“I’m here. Okay, Ray-Ray, stay inside. Keep everything locked. I’ll talk to Mancuso and get a flight out.”

“Okay. I took your chef’s knife.”

It took Zoe a moment to figure out the context of what her sister had just said. “Oh. Okay.”