‘And who is he?’

‘His name is Toby Bishop. He lives in Monrovia in San Gabriel Valley, and here is where it gets good. About twenty minutes ago, he withdrew twenty-five hundred dollars from his account. I’ve checked his withdrawal history going back two years. He has never withdrawn anywhere close to that amount, so unless he decided to buy a car this late at night . . .’

‘Do you have an address?’

‘You should be getting an email right about now.’

Mr. J heard a bell coming from his laptop. He killed the call.

Eighty-Two

Hunter had every intention of following Garcia’s advice. After dropping Erica Barnes back at her place, the idea really was to drive home and try to get some sleep, but the two screenshots Erica had captured on her cellphone were playing havoc with his mind, so Hunter decided to do a quick detour and stop by his office.

He had emailed himself the two screenshots from Erica’s cellphone as he dropped her off, being sure to also delete them from her phone’s ‘Image Gallery’. The media had now definitely caught the scent of blood, and if they ever got word that those two screenshots existed, they would do just about anything to get their hands on them.

Once Hunter’s computer finished booting up, he quickly found Erica’s email and double-clicked on the first of the two attached images – the killer’s horror mask.

Despite how terrifying, how sickening the mask looked, it was practically a work of art, crafted out of silicone rubber. The facial laceration that ran from the right corner of his lips, across his cheek and all the way to his right ear looked fresh, as if it’d been made into real flesh just moments earlier. Hunter almost expected blood to come pouring out of it. The mask’s sharp, blood-smeared teeth looked half-human, half-animal, but very real. The exposed lower jawbone and nose were incredibly detailed, with the eyes, covered by two blood-red sclera contact lenses, indeed looking like they belonged to a dem—

Hunter’s heart picked up speed, as adrenaline flooded his veins with such intensity it made his whole body shiver, because that was when he saw it.

Eighty-Three

The address Mr. J was given by Brian Caldron took him to the edge of Monrovia, on the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. The road, a hilly street on a residential area where California oaks shaded the sidewalks, was desert quiet, which suited Mr. J just fine. He paused under a tree at the entrance to the road and spent five minutes taking everything in. At that time of night, most of the houses had all their lights switched off, with the exception of two. One of them was the house he was looking for.

Mr. J pulled the hood of his black jacket over his head, cracked his knuckles and began making his way to number 915. He walked at a normal pace. Not too fast. Not too slow. His shoes, black and with anti-squeak soles, made absolutely no noise. His gloved hands were firmly tucked into his pockets, where he carried the same weapon he had with him earlier, a Sig Sauer P226 Legion, and a small hunting knife for good measure.

As he approached the house, Mr. J quickly turned around, making sure that the road was still deserted. Satisfied, he finally crossed the front lawn in the direction of the side wooden door that led to its backyard. The lock on the door was old, the wood not too sturdy. One firm kick and the door would fly open, but Mr. J wanted to avoid the noise. It took him less than five seconds to climb over it to the other side.

The house’s backyard was nothing more than a rectangular patch of green grass – no swimming pool, no garden, no flowers, no shed, nothing. Mr. J quietly stepped on to the back porch, avoided the squared window that looked into the kitchen, and flattened his back against the wall to the left of the back door. No lights were on inside or outside, which placed the entire porch in a dark shadow. On the floor, by the two short steps that led down from the porch, an ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts and joint tips. Mr. J was about to try the handle on the door, when the lights in the kitchen came on. His back returned to the wall and he waited.

He heard the fridge door open and close.

He heard a screw top twist.

Then the back door was pulled open.

Mr. J waited.

The porch lights didn’t come on.

The man who stepped outside wasn’t Cory Russo, but he was tall and carried enough gym muscle mass to look like he would put up a good fight, but Mr. J had no intentions of getting into one. Still cloaked by dark shadows, he pulled his silenced weapon out of his right pocket.

The man walked over to where the ashtray was and sat down at the edge of the porch. He reeked of marijuana. His arms were the hairiest Mr. J had ever seen. From his shirt pocket, the man took out an already rolled-up joint that was as thick as his index finger. He lit it up and sucked in a drag that seemed interminable. When the man began exhaling, Mr. J made his move.

The man never saw him coming.

He never heard a thing.

As he was about to take a sip of his beer, Mr. J placed the barrel of his gun against the man’s nape.

‘I’m going to ask you a few questions,’ he whispered by the man’s left ear, his voice calm as a priest’s, but firm as a drill sergeant’s. ‘You either nod or shake your head. You make any other movement other than that and you won’t have a head to shake or nod with anymore, is that clear?’

With the huge joint still held between his thumb and index finger, the man nodded once.

‘Is Russo in the house?’ Mr. J asked.

The man hesitated.

Mr. J cocked his gun. ‘Is Russo in the house?’

The man nodded once.

‘Is he alone?’

The man nodded once.

‘Is he awake?’

The man nodded once.

‘Is he in the living room?’

The man shook his head.

‘Is he in the bedroom?’

The man shook his head.

‘Is he in the bathroom?’

The man nodded once.

Mr. J smiled. There was nothing easier than sneaking up on someone when they were in the bathroom.

‘Thank you, and good night,’ Mr. J said.

Before the man was even able to frown, Mr. J hit him across the back of the head with the butt of his gun. He had done that so many times before, he knew exactly where to hit and how much strength to put into it.

With a painful ‘urghh’, the man slumped forward – unconscious.

Mr. J put out the man’s joint, cracked his knuckles and, like a silent rat, entered the house.

Eighty-Four

Hunter squinted at the image on his computer screen before blinking once, twice, three times.

‘What the hell is that?’ He sounded confused within himself, but he wasn’t imagining it. There was something there. Something in the killer’s eyes that sent goose bumps up and down his spine.

Many people believed that a person’s eyes were ‘the windows to their soul’. Hunter wasn’t sure if he believed that or not. He wasn’t sure if this killer even had a soul. What he believed – what he knew – was that a person’s eyes could reveal a lot about that person’s personality. It could reveal their identity.

Hunter leaned forward on his desk and brought his face to just a couple of inches from his screen.