The Night Stalker (46 page)

‘So you found them,’ Hunter said. ‘Women who looked just like your mother. Who were as talented as she was—’

‘No one could ever be as talented as my mother.’ Anger returned to Andrew’s voice.

‘I’m sorry,’ Hunter corrected himself. ‘You found candidates for your love . . . and took them from their homes . . . studios . . . cars . . . But you couldn’t fall in love with them, could you?’

Silence.

‘You took them and you held them captive. You watched them in silence every day, just like you did with your mother. But the longer you watched them, the more they reminded you of her, didn’t they? That’s why you couldn’t touch them in a sexual way, or in any other way. You couldn’t hurt them either. But unfortunately the memory of your mother brought back something else.’

Hunter wiped his mouth of the blood.

‘It reminded you of her betrayal to your father’s love,’ he continued. ‘Her betrayal to
your
love. Her betrayal to your family. And in the end, instead of falling in love, you hated them. You hated them for that betrayal. You hated them for the exact same reason you took them in the first place. For reminding you of your mother.’

Andrew didn’t reply.

‘So just like your father, you allowed rage to take over, and when it did, it took you right back to that day and what you saw him do to your mother.’

Again, no reply, but Hunter sensed anxiety in the air.

‘We found the interviews, Andrew. We found the questions you put to them about true love.’

‘I gave them what they always wanted.’

‘No, you didn’t. You distorted their words. Just like you distorted your mother’s words. Your mother
did
want you to find love, but not this way. You need help, Andrew.’

‘STOP CALLING ME ANDREW.’ The yell reverberated all around the underground floor. ‘You think you know me? You think you know about my life, my pain? You don’t know SHIT. But if you like pain, I’ll give you pain.’

The fresh blow hit Hunter on the right side of his face, filling his mouth with blood again, and sending him back to the floor. It took him several seconds to regain composure.

‘And now, I have a surprise for you, Detective . . .’

There was an uneasy silence, followed by the sound of something heavy, like a sack of potatoes, being dragged across the floor.

‘Wake up, bitch.’

Hunter heard faint slapping sounds, as if Andrew was tapping someone’s cheeks, trying to revive them.

‘Wake up,’ he said again.

‘Umm,’ a female voice whispered and Hunter held his breath.

‘C’mon now,’ Andrew said. ‘Wakey, wakey.’

‘Umm,’ she said again.

From the sound she made Hunter could tell that she was gagged, and in a lot of pain.

‘Captain . . . ?’ he called, jerking his body forward.

Andrew laughed. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ He rammed the heel of his boot onto Hunter’s chest, sending him crashing against the wall behind him again.

‘Umm . . . umm . . .’ She sounded frantic, but the gag around her mouth had been tied too tight.

‘Captain . . . ?’ Hunter called again in a desperate breath.

‘I guess it’s time we all said goodbye to each other,’ Andrew said. ‘I’m sick of this shit.’

‘Ummmmmm!’ This time her tone was full of fear.

‘Andrew, don’t do this.’ Hunter tried moving forward one more time, but again he was kicked back to the wall. He coughed a few times before regaining his breath.

‘She’s got nothing to do with this.
I
broke your rules, Andrew, not her. If you gotta punish anyone, punish me.’

‘Ohhh, how noble, Detective,’ Andrew said with disdain. ‘You cops are all the same. You all want to be the hero. You never know when to quit, when to give up. Even when it’s so obvious you just can’t win. And that makes you predictable. So guess what, Detective?’

The pause that followed filled the air with dread.

‘This time you don’t get to save the day.’

‘PLEASE, ANDREW, NO.’ Hunter sensed the determination and rage in Andrew’s voice and knew he’d run out of time. He lunged himself forward with all the strength he had left, but they had moved again. Hunter reached nothing. ‘Captain . . . ?’ But all he heard was her dying gurgling cry; a split second later he felt a gush of warm blood hit him across the face and chest.

‘NO . . . NO . . . CAPTAIN . . . ?’

Silence.

‘Captain . . . ?’

‘Sorry, Detective,’ Andrew said, sucking in a deep, fulfilling breath. ‘I don’t think she’s listening any more.’

The smell of blood intoxicated the air.

‘Why, Andrew? Why did you have to do this?’ Hunter shivered with anger.

‘Don’t be sad, Detective. There’s no reason to miss her so much . . . because you’re about to join her.’ Andrew laughed again. ‘Isn’t it some sort of dishonor for a cop to be killed with his own gun?’

Hunter heard the sound of a semi-automatic gun being chambered.

In the dark, Andrew lifted Hunter’s gun and aimed it directly at his head. Hunter knew it was over. There was nothing more he could do. There was nothing more he could say.

Hunter took a deep breath, and despite the darkness, he kept his eyes open, defiantly staring straight ahead.

The deafening blast that came a fraction of a second later filled the corridor with a sick burning smell.

Bright, burning light exploded in the corridor like a flash grenade. Suddenly, everything was illuminated. Andrew let out such a painful roar it was like he’d been stabbed through the heart, but the pain came from his eyes, as he was almost blinded by the intensity of the brilliance, amplified thousands of times by his night-vision goggles.

Andrew instinctively reached for the device and lifted it from his eyes, but the damage was already done. His eyes were struggling to cope with the light blast they’d received directly to the retina, and he felt dizzy and confused.

It took Hunter just a split second to realize what had happened. From the corner of his eye he could see Garcia standing at one of the turns of the corridor. On the floor in front of him was a flare, burning intensely – one of the trial flares he’d seen just minutes earlier in Andrew’s ‘factory’.

Garcia had soon realized that the only way anyone could see in the dark was by using a light-enhancing device, like night-vision goggles. And he knew exactly how they worked. From Katia’s cell, he had heard Hunter and Andrew fighting. He couldn’t just sit there and wait. He knew Hunter was great in hand-to-hand combat, but he wouldn’t stand a chance against an opponent he couldn’t see. Garcia remembered the ‘factory’ and the flares. Even in the darkness, he knew he wouldn’t get lost in corridors structured to go around in a squared pattern. All he needed was a second of bright light, but to Andrew it would feel like a bomb had gone off inside his eyes.

That was exactly the chance Hunter needed. Without thinking, and in a fraction of a second, he threw his body forward towards Andrew. Garcia did exactly the same. Both of them collided with Andrew at the same time, sending him thundering against the wall. He slammed head first into it with incredible force. The roles had completely reversed. Andrew was totally blinded by the explosion of light, and entirely disoriented by the heavy knock to his head. Just like Hunter moments earlier, Andrew swung his arm around in a desperate attempt to defend himself. But how do you defend yourself from opponents you can’t see?

Garcia immediately delivered a well-placed and powerful punch to Andrew’s solar plexus. Hunter followed it up with one to his jaw. Andrew’s head jolted backwards and hit the wall again with a dull crack.

He passed out immediately.

The last thing Hunter and Garcia saw just before the flare extinguished was Whitney Myers’ lifeless body lying on a pool of her own blood on the floor. Her throat slit the entire length of her neck.

Thirty-six hours later – USC University Hospital – Los Angeles.

Hunter knocked twice and pushed the door open. Captain Blake was sitting up in her adjustable bed. Its backrest inclined about forty-five degrees. Her face had been cleaned of all the dried blood, but it still looked black and blue and very battered. Her left eye, lips and nose were still swollen. She looked exhausted, but she certainly didn’t sound that way. Her good eye moved towards the door and widened in surprise at the sight of what Hunter and Garcia had brought with them.

‘Flowers and chocolate?’ she asked skeptically. ‘Are you guys getting soft on me? ’Cause two soft detectives is the last thing I need in my department.’

Hunter stepped into the room, and placed the flowers on the small table next to her bed. Garcia did the same with the chocolates.

‘You’re welcome, Captain,’ Hunter said. His bottom lip was also cut and swollen. His eyes carried only half of the sparkle they usually did.

‘I’m sorry about Whitney Myers,’ the captain said after an uneasy silence.

Hunter said nothing, but the sadness in his eyes intensified. He knew that Myers’ dedication and determination had led her to the killer’s clutches, and he could do little to save her. He felt guilty for not answering her call when he was in Healdsburg, and for not calling her back.

‘How did Andrew Harper get to her?’

‘She was at the airport the day I came back from Healdsburg,’ Hunter said. ‘And so was Andrew. He spotted her after making the call to me, followed her, and took her as she climbed into her car.’

‘How did he know who she was?’

‘He probably started following me after Carlos and I talked to him in his office. That same night Whitney and I met in a restaurant in Baldwin Hills. It wouldn’t have taken him long to connect the dots.’

‘And why was she at the airport?’

‘Because she knew I wasn’t telling her everything. She had contacts everywhere, even inside Parker Center.’

Captain Blake didn’t look surprised.

‘Through them she found out I was onto something. She guessed I knew about the kidnapper. And if I wasn’t prepared to share information, then she’d find out for herself. She was a very good detective.’ He looked away. ‘And a very kind person.’

‘So she decided to tail you?’

‘According to her partner, that was the initial idea, yes.’

The silence returned to the room for a moment longer.

‘The other woman?’ the captain eventually asked. ‘The kidnap victim.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Katia Kudrov. She’s the violinist concert-mistress for the LA Philharmonic. She was the woman who Whitney was hired to find.’

The captain nodded. ‘How is she?’

‘Terrified, a little dehydrated and malnourished, but Andrew Harper never touched her. Physically she hasn’t been hurt.’ He paused for an instant. ‘Psychologically . . . she’ll need help.’

‘Is he talking?’

Hunter tilted his head to one side. ‘The psychiatrists are making progress little by little. But this will be a long process. Understandably, Andrew’s mind is in a complete mess. We were right. He was kidnapping women who reminded him of his mother, but we were wrong in the assumption that sooner or later they did something to break his projection spell – and made him realize that they weren’t who he wanted them to be.’

‘On the contrary,’ Garcia took over. ‘They reminded him of her too much. That remembrance awoke a 20-year-old suppressed feeling that he probably didn’t even know it was there . . . and it wasn’t
love.
’

‘Hate,’ Captain Blake guessed.

‘Anger,’ Hunter corrected her. ‘Violent anger. Subconsciously he blamed her for betraying his father . . . destroying his family. He used the knowledge he gained through his interviews and the questions about
true love
to mimic what happened that day in his house. To punish his mother time and time again.’

‘How come he wasn’t killed by his father?’ the captain asked.

Hunter explained that Andrew’s father never intended to kill him in the first place. ‘Andrew saw everything that happened that day from the attic, and then hid there for three days. When he escaped the house, he hid in the back of a truck at the interstate gas station. By chance, the truck was destined for Los Angeles.’

‘He’s been here all this time?’

Garcia nodded and took over. ‘He slept in the ghettos in South Central and shined shoes in West Hollywood for money. At the age of fourteen he managed to get a job in a clockmaker’s and locksmith shop in South Gate. The shop was a family-owned business, run by a childless couple in their sixties – Ted and Louise Coleman. That was where he learned about time triggers, precision mechanisms, building complicated devices, and to pick locks. In fact, he became an expert. It was also where he adopted his new name and identity.’

‘Sonofabitch,’ the captain said, reaching for the glass of water on the side table.

‘He joined
Contemporary Painters
magazine as a runaround boy at the age of nineteen.’ Garcia carried on. ‘The magazine belongs to the DTP Corporation. They also own
Art Today
magazine and several others, together with the A & E TV network. He was very intelligent, and moved up the ranks fast.’