Missing, Adam Nicholls [book recommendations website txt] 📗
- Author: Adam Nicholls
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The Lullaby Killer’s phone pinged before it lit up the dark.
Another email alert from the news site: the father of the twins wanted to make a statement. The killer touched the link and opened the video, which showed a man with red eyes and a solemn glare. He had the police behind him and a mass of reporters begging for information at his feet.
How pathetic.
“It’s with great relief that I can announce the safe return of my daughter, Kylie,” he read from the cue card. “Although she was able to get away, she was struck down by a driver as she ran for safety. We will not be pressing charges.”
The killer skipped the video on. He didn’t care for gratitude or well-being. He was still pissed off that the girl had tried to run from him, and even more aggravated that she’d succeeded. But now he cared for one only thing—how desperate the man was to see his son alive.
“And I pray that my son is returned to me. If anyone has any details that may help the investigation, please contact…” The video went on, but the drama ended there. Perhaps it was time for the killer to send in his ransom. But how much should he ask for? One hundred thousand? Two? Most people would pay anything for their children’s safety.
“Is that my dad?” The voice behind him was weak and whiny.
“Does it matter? It all ends the same for you.”
Little Ryan Carter whimpered in the corner, his arms folded and his face buried into them.
“Quit your crying, boy.” The killer set down his cell phone and continued to tap away at the keyboard. There was a lot to get done, but he couldn’t do it with that sobbing noise behind him, ruining his focus.
“Please, just let me go.”
“I said shut it!” The killer turned and pointed a finger, bellowing at the kid. “Little boys should be seen but not heard, and you’re pissing me off.”
“I just want to go home and—”
The killer shot to his feet, grabbing the nearby scissors. “Back at the beach, you asked me what these are for.” He stepped forward, leaning toward Ryan and spitting through his teeth. “Another word out of you and I’ll show you.”
His anger getting the best of him, the killer launched the scissors across the room, smashing through something made of glass. Distracted by his jittering nerves, he dropped back into his chair and continued his work. Damn kid’s more trouble than he’s worth. But how much was he worth?
It was time to find out.
Mason headed into Rigby’s trailer park with the plate number and a better photograph. He clutched them tight, unwilling to lose the progress he’d made. And with the dark gray clouds crawling all over San Francisco, he feared they might get wet.
The ground was mostly dirt that squelched under Mason’s boots as he trudged through the site. The woman had been right; it was where all good trailers came to die.
All around him were row after row of battle-scarred trailers, some of which had once given less-fortunate families a place to live. There was no getting past it, of course; 90 percent of the people who lived in these things were junkies or fugitives.
Screwing up his nose at the lingering mustiness, Mason headed for the reception booth, where an underweight and grubby-faced teenager sat fiddling with a chunk of metal. He looked up as though he hadn’t seen another human being in years.
“Mason Black, private investigator. I’m looking for an RV.” He took out the plate number and held it up to the glass.
The boy—no older than sixteen—got to his feet and came around to a nearby door, meeting with Mason face-to-face. “Yeah, it comes by here a lot. Hey, man, can I interest you in some spares? We got bits for all sorts of things. Check this out.” He leaned into the booth once again and pulled out a VCR. “Still in good working order, look. Even cleaned it and tested my Tom & Jerry tapes. Reckon it’s worth a fortune, but you can have it for…” He looked to be calculating a large sum in his head. “Eighty bucks.”
Mason stood in shock and tried to stifle a laugh. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen a VCR. “Just the RV today, kid.”
The boy lowered his head. “Oh, sure. Okay.” He went back inside the booth and pulled a hardbound book from an overhead shelf, flicked it open, and perused the vehicle log. “Yeah, thought so. It’s every two weeks, and he comes and parks in lot B. It’s out back.”
“How long does he stay for? Does he say what he wants?”
“A couple days or so. Usually takes some scrap metal and throws it in the RV.”
Mason nodded and showed the photograph. “Is this him?”
The kid leaned forward and nodded. “Yeah, man, that’s him for sure. Is he under arrest?”
“I’m just a PI, kid, with as much power to arrest someone as you. I just want to ask him some questions.” Mason played it down for a reason. If he made a big deal about the fact he was tracking a serial killer, the boy might let an early warning slip. Then it would all be over. “Do me a favor? Here’s my card.” He slid it into the payment tray. “Give me a call next time he comes by here.”
The kid took the card and looked it over with intrigue. “Sure. Except I won’t need to call ya. He’s here right now.”
Mason stormed toward the Mustang and grabbed his revolver from the glove compartment. He considered calling for backup—or even just calling Bill—but people were encouraged to be absolutely certain they needed help before rounding up the cavalry.
The boy ran behind him, struggling to keep up. “Slow down, mister!”
But Mason had no reason to stop. For all he knew, the Lullaby Killer was just around the corner and could even be caught in the act. He imagined finding Ryan Carter inside, still alive and well, though he knew it was a long shot.
“Shh.” He put his finger to his lip as they approached the RV and gripped the revolver tight. He crept along its side, his shoulder raised and the barrel aimed at the driver’s-side door. He used the side mirror with ever-growing doubt until he approached.
Shit.
Nobody was inside. Not in the front, at least.
“Looks like he ain’t home,” the boy said, far too loud.
Staring daggers at the kid, Mason swept back to the side door. It was a dangerous risk, but he needed to be sure, so he rapped on the door and listened for any sign of movement inside.
There wasn’t a peep.
Mason stepped back and raised the gun.
“No, no, don’t—” the boy yelled, holding his ears.
Three bullets blasted the lock at an angle. He shoved open the creaking door, and with his gun raised, he stepped inside.
“You can’t do that!” the boy yelled.
Mason continued, fumbling around for a light switch. On the wall to his left, he found something and flicked it. The lights flickered on one at a time, revealing something that Mason could barely believe.
Kylie Carter had told him it was a metal box, and it was exactly that: a cold, empty prison that stank of stale blood. He would have loved to have a black light in here. But it was also quiet, his own echoes the only sounds. “Help me out, kid. Keep shouting until I say stop.”
“You can’t be in there! There are rules!” he shouted, though it was unclear whether he was meeting Mason’s request or displaying real disagreement.
Mason pulled the door to a close, drowning out the sound of the yelling until it was silent. He opened it again and heard him at full volume. Interesting, he thought. It’s soundproof. The killer has gone to a lot of trouble to do this.
“What’s going on here?” A large bearded man approached, his chest puffed out.
Mason stepped out
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