Mike Omer - In the Darkness

“The Son of Sam was already talking to them, writing his weird poetic letters. And he wasn’t stupid enough to answer directly. He just enjoyed the attention. If we publish a public letter for this killer—”

“You can call him Schrodinger’s Killer. I won’t judge.”

“We’ll get a similar result. He’d never answer us. He communicates very little as it is.”

“He isn’t communicating with us at all.”

“He named himself Schrodinger. He’s telling us his murders are experiments. And he sends us videos. These are all forms of communication, but he’s given them a lot of thought, made sure to keep them to a minimum. He’s careful. We need to establish a mode of communication that would catch him off his guard. That would make him answer impulsively.”

Tatum frowned. “What do you have in mind?”

“I want to get an unflattering article published.”

“Online media is already calling him a maniac and a monster.”

“He’s been expecting that. That wouldn’t enrage him.” Zoe shook her head. “I want to make him sound like a bungling idiot. Maybe we can get him to comment on the article.”

“That sounds . . . volatile. How do you know he won’t react by killing another victim? Showing us how capable he is?”

“He is planning to kill another woman soon—he pretty much told us that with his experiments,” Zoe said with certainty. “And his murders are well planned and calculated. I believe when we finally find him, we’ll see he has a list of potential victims. Maybe even dates. He won’t change his plan because of us. But with a bit of luck, we can get a gut reaction from him.”

“You’re thinking of using that guy Harry Barry, right?”

Zoe nodded, taking a swig from her Coke can. Coke was by far the most useless liquid when it came to negating spicy foods.

Tatum leaned back in his seat. “You don’t sound like you’re flying home tomorrow morning.”

Zoe bit her lip. She still hadn’t decided, but Tatum was right. She was thinking and talking about it as if she intended to stay, at least for a day or two more. She felt a stab of guilt. Shouldn’t she be with her sister right now?

“Nothing changed yesterday when Glover showed up,” she said. “For the past month I’ve been feeling as if I was sitting with a wasp in the room. I couldn’t see it, but it was there.”

Tatum looked at her, saying nothing.

“Glover is the wasp,” she clarified.

“I got that.”

“Now I know where he is. And everyone else does too. I’ve been trying to get Mancuso and Caldwell to take this threat seriously. Now they know I was right. They’re watching out for Andrea. And Glover wouldn’t attack now. Not when he knows we’re watching. He’ll wait. He’s always been careful and patient.”

Tatum nodded in agreement.

“I’m going back as soon as possible,” she continued. “But not yet. The San Angelo police isn’t equipped to deal with this killer. I’ll stay for a day or two more, make sure the investigation is progressing in the right direction, and then I’ll fly to be with my sister.”

“All right, then. There’s just one thing you didn’t think of.”

Zoe tensed. “What?”

“Andrea’s with Marvin. That’s the real risk. By the time you get back, he’s going to drive her insane.”

As soon as Juliet Beach dropped by her parents’ home, she saw they were having one of their nuclear, take-no-prisoner arguments. Her brother, Tommy, hid in his room, literally under the blankets. She shut the door to his room behind her, muting her mother’s hysterical monologue.

“Oh,” she said. “I thought Tommy was here, but I guess he went somewhere.”

The blob under the blankets shifted.

“That’s too bad.” Juliet sighed. “I really wanted to go for some ice cream.”

A sharp intake of breath expelled from the blob. In the background, Mom called Dad a useless bastard. Her parents’ fights were the main reason Juliet left home. Though weirdly enough, when they weren’t fighting, they clearly adored each other.

“Maybe I’ll rest a little before I leave,” Juliet said.

A slight giggle from the blob.

She lay down on the bed, squashing the blob with her back. “Oh, what is that?” she groaned. “This bed is so uncomfortable!” She shifted, poking the blob, getting another giggle.

Beyond the door, Dad’s muffled voice called her mom a leech. Lovely. She needed to get out of there, but no way was she leaving Tommy behind.

“I think maybe this bed needs tickling,” she announced, and her fingers went for the blob’s soft spots. After three seconds, Tommy let out a shriek of laughter, his head poking from the bedsheets, a mass of blond curls, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

“I was here all the time. I was hiding!” he said, brimming with joy for outsmarting his sister.

“You were ?” Juliet said, shocked. “I didn’t even see you.”

He was smiling at her, his button nose teasing her to kiss it. She grabbed him in a big hug. “Wanna go for some ice cream?” she asked.

“Can I get three flavors this time?”

“I’ll have to ask the ice cream man if it’s allowed.”

“Okay.” He bounded from bed, already putting on his shoes. “Can I take Ted with me?”

Ted was his Darth Vader doll. Juliet used to call it his “Teddy Vader,” and Tommy, assuming Teddy was the doll’s first name, had shortened it to Ted.

“Sure, but he isn’t getting ice cream.”

“Okay.”

Beyond the door, Mom shrieked something unintelligible. Tommy paused, stiffening.

“They’ll stop fighting by the time we get back,” Juliet said.

“How do you know?”

Nineteen years of experience, that was how she knew. These fights were fast and furious, always ending with Mom crying and Dad apologizing. “I just do.”

“Promise?”

“I promise. Now get Ted—I want my ice cream.”

He snatched Ted from the bed and was about to open the door.

“Wait.” Juliet took out her phone and knelt by his side. “Say ice cream.” She raised the phone so that the camera caught them both.

“Ice creeeeeam.”

Harry sat by the bar, drinking his second Miller and feeling very much like he’d been played.

He’d become too sentimental: that was the problem. He’d developed a soft spot for Zoe Bentley, thinking she’d never break her word. He should have known better. Words were just that, words, and they were fragile things, bound to be broken. After all, he’d broken his own promises more times than he could count.

And now every damn reporter in the country had the scoop. A serial killer in San Angelo. Tomorrow they’d all write about the FBI presence in the case, and Harry would have absolutely nothing.

Zoe had messaged him half an hour ago, asking him to meet. He’d named this place, hoping he could get her drunk enough to let slip a tasty morsel. But now she was late, and he suspected he was being stood up.

Oh, sure, he had already written his own article naming both Zoe Bentley and Agent Tatum Gray, referencing the Strangling Undertaker case, as well as Zoe’s encounter with a serial killer at a young age. But he knew it wasn’t enough. It didn’t have that extra spice that made an article viral.

He scanned the bar. Though it was Friday night, it seemed empty. News about the serial killer was spreading fast. People were scared.

A woman slid onto the empty barstool next to him. Zoe. She raised her hand to draw the barman’s attention. “A pint of Guinness, please.”

The barman smiled at her. “That’s a serious drink for a woman.”