Mike Omer - In the Darkness

That much was almost a certainty. The parking lot was dark, and Tatum doubted Zoe would have headed anywhere else once she had the keys. He tapped the pen on the notebook and then added, He was stalking her, waiting for the right moment .

This was a shift in the killer’s strategy. He’d chosen Zoe as his target and was actively stalking her. Why? Fame? Or did he get a kick out of taking the one who was closest to finding him? Zoe had publicly shamed him in that article. Maybe that was what had made him act.

Tatum tried to imagine this guy Joseph doing something like that. It didn’t fit. If Joseph wanted to take her, it would make more sense for him to knock on her door. She already knew him. She’d open the door, and he could incapacitate her in the room, maybe drug her like he had with the others.

Once he questioned it, other things began to feel strange. When the killer had tried to break in to the gas station, he’d had latex gloves on. But Joseph was an electrician. Tatum’s uncle had worked as an electrician. Tatum recalled that he’d used special rubber gloves when working, much thicker and sturdier then simple latex gloves. Joseph would have used those.

Joseph was big. Though it was hard to estimate the killer’s size in the first video, Tatum doubted he was that big. He also doubted that knowing how big he was, the killer would film himself.

Besides, Zoe would have known .

Zoe tried grunting into her gag, nearly threw up, had a brief panic attack, and forced herself to stop. Could she remove the gag? She tried to push it out with her tongue, then froze.

Not only the police were watching. He watched her as well. And if she’d manage to get the gag out or to signal anything , he’d kill the feed. And her chance to help them would be gone.

It would have to be something he wouldn’t notice. Or that he’d figure out only after someone else got the message. No hand messages, no words, no sounds.

Blinking: that was the only safe course of action.

How she would have loved to know Morse code right now. Did anyone still know Morse? Just a few short and long blinks, and she could pass any message to the people watching her. But no Morse for her. The only other possibility was blinking letters according to numerical value. One blink for A , two blinks for B . . . and twenty-six damn blinks for Z . A significant pause between each letter. They’d have to insert the spaces between the words themselves.

She composed a short message in her head. The killer knew Debra Miller at school. She could definitely make it shorter. Do her best to avoid the second half of the ABC. He knew Debra at school. Much better.

Okay. H was eight, E was five, K was eleven . . . she began blinking.

It was nearly impossible.

She had to blink naturally, or the killer would notice something was wrong instantly. That meant short, light blinks. She had to count them carefully. And counting blinks in complete darkness, where she couldn’t really distinguish if her eyes were open or shut . . .

She got all the way to the W of knew . And she was pretty sure she’d screwed up the H and the N on the way.

She let out a frustrated sob. She’d have to start over until she got it right. But the killer was smart. He’d notice something irregular with her blinking. This would never work. She’d have to make the message shorter. Much shorter. She’d have to trust someone to figure out what she was trying to say.

Tatum. She’d have to trust Tatum would figure it out. She’d talked to him about the connection between the killer and Debra. She’d left all the notes about Debra in her room. Tatum would know it was what she had in mind.

Her new message was simply school . Nineteen, three, eight, fifteen, fifteen, twelve.

It still felt impossible. She decided to try.

But if she didn’t give the killer what he wanted, he might shut off the feed out of frustration or boredom. She couldn’t let that happen.

She bucked and screamed again.

He sat at work, door locked to make sure no one came in, and watched her. He knew he had things to do, but he just couldn’t pull his eyes away from the feed. The first hour was the best; she’d been completely out of control, and he’d felt an unimaginable thrill as she’d cried and screamed. Not so cold and calculating now, was she? That was what happened when people were shut in the darkness and had time to really think .

But when she calmed down, he began to feel frustrated. She was cheating him. The video was only seventy-three minutes long so far. He needed more .

She lay still for an eternity, and he wished he could prod her into moving again. Maybe that was what he should do in future experiments. He’d have to think about it.

She opened her eyes and for a while just blinked. What was wrong with her eyes? A nervous reaction of some kind?

And then she bucked and screamed again. Even wilder than before, and it was a thrill to watch. Soon, lust came over him, and he fumbled for the Kleenex on the desk, breathing hard, face flushed.

By the time he was done, she’d stopped screaming and was lying with her eyes closed. He let out a shuddering breath. This was the best experiment he’d done so far.

Tatum’s phone rang. It was Harry. Tatum answered quickly.

“Yeah?”

“Are you watching the video?” Harry asked, sounding tense.

“No, why?”

“Watch the damn video. I think Zoe is trying to signal something.”

Tatum hurried to the screen and watched. At first, he didn’t see anything unusual. She just lay there, blinking. But then he realized she was blinking fast. And then pausing. Blinking fast. And pausing.

“She’s . . . blinking in a pattern.”

“It’s not Morse—I already checked.”

Zoe suddenly shut her eyes. After a few seconds she began twisting and kicking again. Tatum tensed in sympathy, glancing away.

“I think she’s acting,” Harry said.

Tatum turned back to the screen. “How can you tell?”

“I’ve been writing about sex scandals and celebrities for years. Trust me—I know when someone’s acting fake.” Harry sounded annoyingly smug. “She’ll stop in a bit. She’s already done this twice before; you’ll see.”

Like Harry said, Zoe suddenly stopped. Eyes shut, seeming exhausted.

“Prepare for the blinking.”

Suddenly Zoe opened her eyes and blinked. It took Tatum a second to react.

“Count them!” he barked into the phone. “Count the blinks.”

He counted them himself, scribbling the results in his notebook. After a minute, she shut her eyes and lay still.

“Okay,” Harry said. “I have eighteen, three, fifteen, twenty-seven.”

“I have seventeen, three, fifteen, fifteen, eleven,” Tatum muttered. “I’m pretty sure there was a pause after the second fifteen.”

“If there was a pause, you’d get fifteen twelve to make twenty-seven.”

“You counted wrong. It’s fifteen eleven. It’s not Morse, so it’s probably letters. The number is the letter’s position in the ABC.”

“Okay. So let’s see. Seventeen is . . . A, B, C—”

“Do it quietly,” Tatum snapped. “I can’t think like that.”

He jotted the ABC and the corresponding numbers. Then he matched it to what he’d counted. On the laptop’s screen, Zoe was thrashing again.

“Right,” Harry said. “I got . . . rchook. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I have qchook,” Tatum muttered.

“If I counted right and just missed the pause, it would be twelve at the end, which would mean . . . rchool.”