Spiraled (Callahan & McLane Book 3) (25 page)

36

Mason picked at his sandwich. The kid behind the counter had put too much mustard on it and now it was inedible—or was he simply not hungry? Across from him Ray worked on a vegetarian sandwich and Zander made silent progress on a Greek salad. He watched guacamole drip onto Ray’s plate, decided his problem was lack of appetite, and pushed his sandwich away. After talking with Simon Goethe, who’d decided to spend the evening and night at a friend’s apartment, the three investigators had agreed to grab a fast dinner and then head back to the command center.

“Sergeant Shaver says he got some flak from the owner of the strip mall where Starbucks leases their building,” said Ray between rapid bites. “The owner says the activity with all the electrical guys is affecting the other businesses and they’re complaining.”

“Did he tell him to go pound sand?” Mason asked.

“Yep. Pissed the owner off. Shaver wanted to say, ‘Do you want to host the next mass shooting?’ but he kept his temper. We don’t need the word getting out like that.”

“No,” agreed Mason. He’d had a stern talk with Simon about keeping all information about the Starbucks shutdown from his friends. He crossed his fingers the young man would keep his mouth shut. If the media got wind that a mastermind had orchestrated the shootings
 . . .

Not yet. They had to keep it quiet for a little while longer. They’d briefed Sergeant Shaver over the phone, stunning him with the stories about the pranks, and Shaver had agreed that it was their best lead. “The phone that belongs to the number Simon had was sold at a local Walmart six months ago,” Shaver had said. “They don’t keep video that long, and if I was buying the phone, I would have paid cash. There’s no way I would have left a credit card trail.”

“Shaver’s got someone checking out who set up the YouTube channel, right?” asked Ray.

“Yes. The videos appear to be dated, but popular. If our guy is on film in any of them, he’s going to be at least five to ten years older now. And they haven’t located who created them yet. I suspect all the posting information is false.” Mason took a sip of his bottled water and silently watched his dinner companions finish.

I wonder how Ava is doing.

She’d sounded good on an earlier phone call, but admitted she was running on autopilot. She’d said she was going to yoga, and he’d agreed it was a good decision. A big part of him wanted to get her out of town and onto a sunny beach for two weeks. Who cared that her vacation time was nearly done? His phone vibrated loudly on the table, drawing Ray’s and Zander’s attention.

Simon Goethe.

“Callahan.”

“This is Simon—from earlier today.” The kid sounded out of breath.

“I know, Simon. What’s up?”

“He just texted me. Well, I assume it was him. It came from a different phone number just like you said it would.”

“What’d he say?” Mason held very still, willing Simon to get to the point.

“It said to be in place at that Starbucks at seven thirty tonight.”

Mason checked the time; it was nearly seven. “Give me the number. Did he say anything else? Did you reply?”

“Not yet. You said to call you immediately. No, he hasn’t said anything else.” He rattled off the phone number, which Mason copied onto a napkin and handed to Zander.

“Text him back that you’ll be on time. Say something like you’re really excited.”

“I will? You want me to go?” His voice cracked.

“No.”
Do I need to use smaller words?
“We’ll take it from here. Keep your phone close and call me again if he says anything else. I’m going to send an officer to stay with you until this is over.”

“Am I in danger?” Simon asked slowly. “You said he doesn’t know where I am, right?”

“I’m just taking precautions. He probably thinks you’re on your way to Starbucks, but let’s not take any chances, okay? Do you feel like you’re in a safe location?”

“I’m still at my friend’s apartment in Sandy.”

“Good choice. You’re miles away from where he thinks this is going down. Give me the address.” Mason added it to another napkin. “Keep an eye out for the officer, okay?”

Simon agreed and hung up.

“So Travis—or whatever his name is—hasn’t seen that we’ve shut down the Starbucks,” Ray said slowly. “That seems odd.”

Mason agreed. “What if the victim wasn’t going into the Starbucks? Maybe she works nearby? Somehow closing the store hasn’t affected his plan.”

“But Simon was told to wait in the bathroom, right?” said Zander. “Travis needs the store to be open for his plan to work. What are we missing here?”

“We need a bigger presence around that store, now!” said Mason. “Get a half dozen cars spread through those parking lots.”

Ray grabbed his phone and headed to make a call outside.

Mason looked at Zander, doubt suddenly filling his mind. “Right? A police force needs to be seen to stop whatever he thinks he’s planning. Or should we be watching for him, planning to catch him? We sort of know what he looks like. And he should be dressed in black. Shit! What’s the best plan?”

“A presence,” said Zander. “We’ll never spot him in time. He plans too carefully. This guy knows exactly what he’s doing.”

“Then why did he just activate Simon in a place that’s not available?” Questions zinged through his mind like pinballs.

“I wish I knew,” admitted Zander. “Let’s get over there.” He stood and picked up his empty tray. Mason neatly folded the paper around the rest of Ray’s veggie sandwich to take to him and then threw the remains of his own in the garbage.

By seven fifteen the Starbucks parking lot held one electrical van, two police cars, and no customer cars. The mailing shop next door had closed up. With some strong persuading from Zander, the two other stores in the little strip mall closed early and the employees left. The only other businesses still open were the grocery store and big electronics store that sat at the far end of a big shared parking lot. Mason and Zander watched from a corner of the Starbucks parking area as Shaver barked orders at his teams. Three other police cars sat in the larger parking lot in clear view of the Starbucks while another half dozen cars slowly patrolled the lot. Prevention was the primary goal in this operation. Anyone who intended to start shooting would think twice at the sight of the large police presence.

Any sane person would think twice
, Mason amended. Chances were that their shooter was quite sane. His planning and success indicated he had a sharp brain and knew exactly what he was doing; but his brain had something very twisted or missing in one corner, which was typical for serial killers and mass shooters. On the drive over he’d wondered where their shooter fell into the killer classification system. He seemed to be a hybrid of mass and serial. He definitely fell into the mass shooter category, but the majority of those killers went into the shooting knowing their chance of survival was very small; they were willing to take that risk. Had their shooter expected to die? Mason didn’t think so. He’d created a near-perfect exit strategy and neatly placed the blame on someone who couldn’t defend himself each time. This shooter had no intention of dying.

And then he did it again. And again, shortening the window between killings and placing himself firmly under the serial killer classification. Mason knew the FBI profilers would say he was doing it for the sexual-type thrill and power he experienced. The dizzying high from the success—and the belief that he could get away with it over and over.

“This guy is a serial killer,” he stated out loud. “We thought we had a rash of brainwashed young men looking to end it all and take people with them. That wasn’t right at all.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Zander. “The mass shootings are his signature, but the murders are his goals. And we know he’s not done. He’s enjoying this way too much.”

“Do you think we’re on target believing it’s these particular women? Or is it just a coincidence that there’s been one female law-enforcement type each time?”

“I think we’re following a good lead.”

His answer didn’t give Mason any satisfaction. “I asked Lane County to follow up with the range where Jennifer Spendlin worked. If we’re right that she was the first targeted victim during a shooting, we need to know why he shot her. We’ve got a killer who’s a good shot. Chances are he crossed paths with Spendlin at her place of work.”

“Good point,” said Zander. “I hadn’t put that together. You’re right. He clearly sees weapons as a tool of his trade and would have spent some time honing that skill. That’s a good place to start.”

“Your FBI profilers are going to salivate over his records.”

“Hell yes. If we’re right about what he’s doing, they’re gonna love it. A new brain to dissect.”

“He’s definitely not typical. I think of most serial killers as moving in the shadows, stealthily spying on their prey. This guy makes as big of a scene as possible.”

Zander agreed. “But what’s his main motivation? What is his primary purpose and final goal?”

“Shit. Now you’re sounding like your profiling buddy, Euzent.”

“He’s the best. I wish he was here right now. He’d have more insight into what makes our killer tick. I emailed him earlier, but it’s too late on the East Coast. Maybe we can get him out here.”

“I want to catch this guy tonight,” said Mason. “I want him to show up here in the next fifteen minutes and have fifty cops take him down.”

“You and me both.”

Zander wiped the sweat off his forehead and Mason did the same. The temperature had peaked at ninety-five degrees earlier in the day and had barely cooled down. The air was heavy and still. Humidity was rare during the Pacific Northwest summers, but Mason felt it today. “Crime and heat,” he muttered. “Hand in hand. Give me some snow or ice that keeps everyone stuck at home.”

“Amen,” said Zander.

Mason watched the time tick down on his phone. Seven thirty came and passed. They waited, remembering that Justin Yoder had waited nearly ninety minutes before the shooting started at the Rivertown Mall. A text popped up on his phone from Simon.
H
E WANTS TO KNOW IF
I’
M IN POSITION.
I
SAID YES.
H
E SAID TO SIT TIGHT BECAUSE OUR TARGET IS LATE
.

Mason showed Zander, who scowled. “I don’t get it. He’s acting like things are normal.”

“This is the right Starbucks, right?” Mason said.

“Simon said this is where they met. He didn’t suggest a different one.”

Mason quickly texted Simon, double-checking the address of the location. Simon confirmed. “Is he pulling one over on Simon? Checking to see if he’s honest?”

“Don’t know.” Zander stepped over to confer with Sergeant Shaver.

Mason studied the parking lot.
Were they being watched and played with?
He lifted his gaze and searched for high points where they could be seen from a distance with binoculars. There really wasn’t one unless the killer was on the roof of one of the stores.

Zander returned. “Shaver’s telling everyone to be alert for single males. And told them again to keep an eye out for scars on the neck. If he’s surveying this location we’ll find him.” His gaze went to the rooftop of the grocery store. “Shaver had the roofs searched already and the access points covered. There’s no way anyone is up there.”

Sweat dripped down Mason’s back as dread crept up and dug at his brain. “Something’s wrong.”

37

He’d watched her grab her bag and yoga mat out of her trunk and head in the direction of the studio. Now he sat in his car and waited. After she’d gone inside he’d checked the studio’s class schedule online. Her class should be finished at eight
P.M.

Is this what I want to do?

An odd calm filled his brain. The cops were crawling around that Starbucks like ants on a piece of dropped ham. His perfect plan had been uncovered. And it’d started when that female agent had walked into the men’s room and discovered his stash of clothing.

One little mistake had exposed him.

Not even a mistake, he’d simply not had the chance to get to the clothes.

He closed his eyes and recalled her face as she’d huddled beside the bleeding teenager. She’d been inconsequential. A woman on the ground. Someone he’d believed he’d walk by and never see again. Instead she’d ruined him.

He needed to knock her off her pedestal before she destroyed him. No woman had the right to take him down. His destiny was his own.
He
chose what happened to his life. Now she’d forced his hand and he had to take action.

Just like the other bitches before.

That damned instructor at the shooting range in Eugene had been the first in a decade to push him over the edge. She’d disrespected him in front of other men, cheating during a competition and then laughing at him after she’d won. He’d argued that she should only compete against other women, and that she’d distracted the other men, but his complaints had fallen on deaf ears. The other men had gathered around her, congratulating her, their tongues hanging out, turned on by a woman who thought she knew how to use a gun, when all she did was cast illusions.
Women should be separate. Where they’re not a distraction to men.

And they definitely should not hold jobs where they told men what to do. That was asking for trouble.

No wonder men were angry. No wonder their prisons were full of men who’d lashed out in anger. They’d felt the injustice: women taking their jobs, women abandoning their children, women not fulfilling their roles as nurturers.

The world was out of balance.

After he’d taken care of the shooting instructor, the police were so distracted by the number of deaths and so convinced their shooter was dead that they hadn’t dug deep enough into the case.

It’d worked. He’d felt validated and empowered.

And he’d known he could easily do it again. He’d ached to do it again.

His plan had worked perfectly the first three times, and what had started as a personal issue for him had evolved into a bigger purpose.

He opened his eyes. This could be his last chance, but his actions would lead others to take a stand. They needed to man up and show who was in charge. Even though the media attention would be negative, his point would be made. If he could fucking do it, other men could, too.

He was a pioneer.

The parking lot at the far end of the Rivertown Mall had thinned considerably. This end was for office space, a day care center, and the yoga studio. At this time of night, the cars primarily belonged to people in class at the studio. The other end of the mall buzzed with late shoppers, people seeking frozen yogurt, and overheated families looking for air-conditioned restaurants. He knew the layout, patterns, and heartbeat of the mall. He’d done considerable reconnaissance with Justin Yoder and on his own. He had time for one last quick look.

He stepped out of his vehicle, knowing his supplies in his trunk were ready to go, but he wouldn’t need them for another hour. He’d been prepared, expecting to use the Starbucks to take out the female agent. But this time he’d be on his own. A new experience for him. There wouldn’t be a fall guy waiting in the wings to take the blame.

Was it worth the risk?

He could go home and create a plan for another day, but he had the feeling his window of time was shrinking. If the police had found Simon and he’d told them about the Starbucks, his world could already be crumbling. He might not have another chance to make her pay. It had to be tonight.

I am ready.

He headed in the direction of the studio, planning his actions as he walked.

No mask.

Not this time. He didn’t care who saw his face this time. Once other men realized what he’d managed to accomplish, they’d recite his name in awe.

Remember the guy who took all those lives and the police had no clue?

They’d study him, stunned at his clever plans. A slow smile crossed his face.

He’d chosen the end to his story; they weren’t going to choose it for him.

As they’d imposed on his father, sent to die in prison.

How many people do I want to take down this time?

Indecision crossed his brain. Should he shoot as many as possible or just her?

Just her.

He would miss the rush of power from walking in public and playing God, picking and choosing who’d die. But this was the right way to handle the fed. He’d originally used the mass shootings to help mask his targets, giving the police multiple victims to comb through instead of spotlighting his victim and possibly leading them back to him. And it fell in line with using the young men as the scapegoats. Across the country over the last few decades, young men had taken out groups of people. To the local investigators, it’d appeared to be more of the same.

Time for a small change in the game.

He stopped across the large outdoor aisle and eyed the studio entrance. The door led to a lobby with stairs and an elevator that led to the second floor where the women worked out. Downstairs were empty businesses, their workers safe in their homes.

One shot as she exits the building.
The scene unfolded in his brain. A discreet hiding place. Shoot. She goes down. Game over.

It was new and different. A fresh rush of excitement shot through him, giving him a dizzying high. He was stepping forward to take charge this time, not hiding in the wings as he moved his pawns.

It was terrifying and thrilling at the same time.

She’d pushed too hard. Ava had leaned against the counter in the yoga studio’s bathroom for fifteen minutes, searching for a reason to walk into the studio. She couldn’t find it. Everything was gone. She’d pushed hard all day long, trying to act normal, and now she had nothing left.

Did I eat today?

She couldn’t remember and didn’t care.

Go home.

She checked the time and knew she didn’t have the guts to walk into yoga class late. She put the strap to her mat over her shoulder, picked up her backpack, and stared in the mirror. The fluorescent lighting made her eyes appear bloodshot and her skin sallow. She’d spent the last quarter hour struggling with indecision and now that she’d made up her mind to go home, relief swamped her and she wanted to go to sleep.

Try again tomorrow.

She strode out of the bathroom, focused on getting out of the building that suddenly felt airless. She pushed through the double front doors, welcoming the slap of heat and fresh oxygen. The building had been freezing. Her stomach growled as she caught a whiff of Thai food, and she considered an order of pho to go. Trapped again in indecision, she glanced toward the parking lot and froze, making eye contact with a man twenty feet away. He’d halted, his surprised gaze locked on her.

It was the shooter. The man who’d offered to help her and Misty. Here. In Rivertown. Again.

Determination crossed his face and he took a step toward her as her gaze caught the scars on his neck, nearly hidden by his hair and cap.
That’s why he wears hats.

His hand went to the large pocket in his cargo shorts.

She followed his hand movement.
Pocket. Gun. Run!
Her indecision evaporated.

Ava dropped everything and ran.