The Executioner

react.

‘I’m sorry?’ Garcia frowned.

Monica took a deep breath to steady her voice. ‘I know how this might sound, but please just listen to me for five minutes. I’m not crazy. I’m not a clairvoyant. I can’t see the future. I don’t read minds or talk to spirits either. But unfortunately I can sense certain things deeper than most people.’

Garcia glanced at Hunter, who was sitting back in his chair. His legs were crossed casually with his hands resting on his lap. He was concentrating on the girl.

‘What sort of things?’ Garcia asked.

Monica nervously pulled a loose strand of hair from her face and hooked it behind her ear. Even though Garcia had asked the question, she stared at Hunter before answering.

‘Pain.’

‘You can sense pain?’ Garcia asked with a dubious expression.

‘I can sense other people’s pain,’ she explained.

Garcia shifted his weight in his chair. Almost without fail, every time a high-profile case hits the news, the police get tens of people dropping in or calling and saying they can help with the investigation because they had a dream or a vision. He knew it was only a matter of time before it happened in this case, but he wasn’t expecting it to happen so soon.

Since Garcia took point on questioning, Hunter had limited himself to listen and observe. He was taking in the girl’s reactions, analyzing her eyes and physical movements together with voice intonation and quivers. Experience told him that when people walked in from the streets claiming they had a vision that could help the police catch a criminal, they usually fell into one of five categories – a lonely person looking for attention – a drug user who had hallucinations – someone with mental problems, most probably schizophrenia – a charlatan looking for money and/or publicity – or they had been involved in the crime themselves. Monica, so far, gave no indication of any.

Garcia once again glanced at Hunter, half hoping for some sort of reaction. When he didn’t get one, he checked his watch before leaning forward and placing both elbows on the table.

‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Monica,’ he said calmly. ‘I hope you understand that at the moment we’re stretched thin and really pressed for time. But I’ll ask an officer to take down what you think you saw, and if you leave us your details we’ll get in touch if we have any questions . . .’

‘I’m not trying to waste your time, detective,’ she said firmly, reading Garcia’s reluctance to believe her.

‘And we appreciate that,’ he replied in the same tone, but she didn’t break stride.

‘Whether you believe it or not, detective, it happens. Unfortunately, it happens to me. I see other people’s suffering. I see their pain and tears and what makes them sad. It’s not a gift; it’s a curse that makes me scared of closing my eyes every night. I don’t wanna be here either. I’ve never done this before, but I really think I can help.’

Monica went back to staring at Hunter. Something shifted in her eyes.

‘Helen . . .’ she whispered, ‘. . . it wasn’t your fault.’

Hunter raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You just wanted the crying to stop. She just wanted the pain to go away. You did what you thought was right. What she asked you to do. You freed her from the pain.’ She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

Hunter stiffened. His eyes fixed on the brunette in front of him. He felt his mouth go dry and his stomach churn as images of a long time ago flooded his memory.

Garcia sensed the change in Hunter, but before he could say anything the door to the interrogation room was pushed open by Captain Blake.

‘You guys better wrap it up in here,’ she said, ignoring Monica. ‘It looks like he claimed another one.’

Hunter looked up. ‘Our man?’

Captain Blake nodded. ‘In Malibu.’

Garcia jetted out of his chair. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said before hurrying out of the room.

Hunter turned and faced Monica. ‘I’ll get an officer to write down your details.’ He quickly placed one of his cards on the table in front of her.

‘Detective,’ she called as Hunter got to the door.

‘He knew about the fire. He knew what scared her.’

Thirty-Eight

Hunter sat in silence staring out of the window as Garcia sped down Hollywood Freeway. Night had already fallen over Los Angeles, and with it came rain. Not your typical, heavy Californian downpour, but a steady, annoying English-type drizzle. The sky was covered by gray clouds. The wet weather would go on for hours.

Hunter was softly massaging between his eyebrows with his index finger, focusing his attention on the raindrops on the passenger’s window. His thoughts were tangled in a tight cluster, and he was trying hard to unwind them. In the space of half an hour, the whole complexion of the case had changed. Now that they knew about the priest’s dream, the idea of the killer being ritualistic took a knock. Hunter was certain that what happened a few days ago inside the Seven Saints church was not a ritual. The killer had simply acted out Father Fabian’s nightmare, but why?

Garcia’s attention was on the road, but he’d noticed his partner’s change in mood inside the interrogation room. Something that girl said had really got to Hunter.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Garcia asked tentatively.

‘Shoot,’ Hunter said without breaking his stare.

‘Who’s Helen?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Monica, the—’ Garcia searched for the correct word ‘—psychic girl we just talked to. She said something about Helen and it not being your fault. Who’s Helen?’

Hunter closed his eyes.

Garcia knew better than to push for an answer. He allowed the silence to stretch.

‘My mother,’ Hunter finally replied, returning his attention to the window. ‘Helen was my mother.’

He’d only been seven when it happened, but the memories crowding his mind now were still fresh.

Thirty-Nine

He sat alone in his room watching the heavy rain hammering against the window. He liked rain, especially heavy rain. Its thundering noise was almost enough to cover the crying, the moans of pain that came from the room next door – almost. He’d asked his father why the doctors didn’t do something. Why they didn’t take her into hospital and make her better.

‘There’s nothing more that can be done,’ his father had said with tearful eyes as he placed two tablets next to a glass of water before hiding the medicine bottle deep inside the highest cupboard in their small kitchen.

‘Can’t we give her some more tablets, Dad? They help with her pain. She doesn’t cry so much when she takes them.’

‘No, Robert,’ his father replied in a nervous voice. ‘Too many aren’t good for her.’

He had to take care of her when his father wasn’t home, and back then his father worked nights.

Nights were always worse. Her screams sounded louder, her groans deeper and heavier with pain. They always made him shiver. Not like when he felt cold, but an intense shiver that came from deep within. Her illness had brought her so much pain, and he wished there was something he could do to help.