Missing, Adam Nicholls [book recommendations website txt] 📗

The Lullaby Killer hid behind the scrap heap with clenched fists.

You really are pushing your luck, Mr. Black.

He’d hoped to simply come back and collect his RV but was shocked to see the PI’s Mustang parked out front. Perhaps he should have stayed away, but his curiosity made him follow, watching from a distance.

Black had his gun drawn and moved close to the RV, looking to catch him in the act. Soon after, a larger man approached. The killer had spoken with this man before—the owner of the yard. How can I ever come back here now?

When the kid stormed off in tears, the killer tried to grab his attention with a low whistle. The boy stopped, looked behind him, then joined the killer at the scrap heap.

“What’s going on over there?” he asked the boy.

“That man is looking for you.”

“Did he find anything?” The killer peered over the scrap heap and saw Black and the owner heading back toward the reception booth. This could be a problem.

“I don’t think so.”

“All right.” He dug into his pockets and took out a ten-dollar bill. You didn’t see me here, okay?”

The boy’s eyes lit up greedily as he snatched the bill. “Sure.”

“Hey, who closes the gates around here?”

“I do, mostly.”

The boy seemed eager enough to take money that he might not want to burn his bridges. If he could keep the kid thinking more money would flow his way, he would be under the thumb until the killer said otherwise. He dug around in his pocket for more cash and found another ten dollars. “This is yours if you forget to lock the gate.”

With immediate understanding, the boy took the bill. “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy. Run along now.”

As the kid scurried away with his twenty bucks, the killer had to consider how to get his RV back. He’d gone to far too much trouble to craft the interior that he really didn’t want to lose it now—especially at the hands of Mason Black.

Maybe it was time to send the video, to put a wrench in the works. Without a doubt, that would make the investigator stay out of the way for a while. But he was so damn persistent—it seemed as though nothing could make him stop.

You’d better be careful, Mr. Black, the killer thought as he crept around the heap and hopped the fence out of the yard. Because I know more about you than you do about me.

Chapter Forty-Three

I have an address. Mason could barely believe his luck as he climbed back into the Mustang and punched the zip code into the GPS. He was so close he could almost taste it. But he couldn’t go alone. He would need backup for this one, and he knew exactly who to call.

He tapped the button on his phone, and Bill answered right away.

“Mason, I’m glad you called,” Bill said. “Things are getting tight here.”

“Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait. I have a potential address for the Lullaby Killer.”

“What? That’s—Mason, that’s fantastic.” Bill lowered his head like he was subdued.

Mason turned the key in the ignition. The engine purred. “Right? I didn’t want to officially call in the troops, so get down here and help me out, will you?”

“I can’t right now. Look, there’s been a development.”

Mason’s heart rate notched up. In the police force, development was code for problem. “Just tell me and get it over with.”

“Owen Carter received a ransom video. I’m at his place now, trying to convince him to wait, but he wants to pay it.”

“Did you tell him his boy might be dead already?”

“What? No. I can’t tell him that.”

“You might have to, Bill. If you let it slip that the killer might not play fair, there’s a chance he’ll hold off on the ransom.” It was true, as much of a bastard as it made him feel.

“Tell him yourself, then.”

“I’m busy. You know that.” Mason put the cell phone on to speaker, dropped it into his lap, and pulled away from the trailer park. Rain was falling again, painting the sky a hazy gray.

“I’ve been scratching your back. Least you can do is check this out.”

Once again, between a rock and a hard place. Mason knew his blurred moral compass needed cleaning. How could he let his ex-partner down, after all this? “Fine,” he said, unhappy. “Send forensics to Rigby’s trailer park. I’m on my way.”

It took almost an hour to reach Owen’s place. There were a number of cars on the drive, including Captain Cox’s. Mason prepared himself for a take-your-old-job-back lecture and went inside without knocking.

“Mr. Black, thank God.” Owen stepped forward with a raised cell phone. “You’re going to want to watch this.” He tapped on the screen and handed it over.

Bill and Captain Cox were gathered around in silence. They’d already seen it, but as always were eager to witness Mason’s reaction. Mason, on the other hand, was not looking forward to it at all.

The video showed a young boy with dirty clothes and matted hair. His face was red, as if he’d been crying for days. His cuffed wrists were chained to a pipe as he sat on the floor with his knees to his chest. Other than that, there was nothing to offer.

“Say your name, boy,” said a voice from behind the camera.

The boy whimpered and sniffed. “Ryan Carter.”

“Have I treated you well?”

After a long pause, “Yes.”

“Show ’em.”

Owen walked back into the lounge and slumped into the armchair, sulking and covering his ears. “I can’t go through this. Not again.”

Mason stood still, the phone held close to his face. This was the first time he’d heard the voice of the Lullaby Killer, and was surprised to hear he had an accent. Kansas, maybe?