Page 12

CHAPTER 12

Max

T he following morning comes too soon. The dark circles under my eyes age me in the way only a fitful and restless night's sleep can. If I'd slept a solid two hours before the alarm went off, it would have been a miracle.

The gurgle of the last little bit of coffee coming through the filter brings a sense of life back to my body. The sixteen-ounce mug sits at the ready, and I pour myself two-thirds coffee and one-third chocolate milk with a scoop of sugar. After stirring the delicious concoction, I take a sip.

"Ah, perfect," I say. I’ve been up for a while now, and even put out food and water for Chubs, but the cat hasn’t shown himself yet. London has yet to contact me with any news, but she is really careful with the way she does things—often taking longer than I would expect. Since I have to work today, I hope to receive a call from her soon, so I don't worry about it my entire shift.

Wandering around the small apartment double-clutching the warm ceramic mug, I head back toward the bathroom. With a quick spray of Windex and a paper towel, I clean the mirror so I can take a shower without any upsetting messages appearing once again. But before I can turn on the water, an unexpected knock at the door makes me jump. Maybe London has news she couldn’t talk about over the phone? I hurry to the door, swinging it open.

"Max?" the short, bald man asks.

"Yes?" I close the door a little since I don’t recognize him. "What can I do for you?"

"I need your signature here," he says, handing me an electronic pad and stencil. "You’ve got a delivery."

I sign the pad and hand it back to him. "Who’s it from?"

The older gentleman shrugs and gives me a small box wrapped in what looks like light brown butcher paper. I take the box. "Thank you."

As the man turns to leave, I take a good look at the guy. He isn’t wearing a uniform. The box doesn’t have any postal markings or shipping tags. I close the door and bring the box over to the kitchen table and sit. I set the box down and turn it 360 degrees. The paper is clean, and the box is well wrapped, professional looking. There’s a ribbon tied around it both lengthwise and width, and the address label simply reads: Max Salgado and then my address is listed below my name.

The penmanship is hard to determine gender. It's very neat and legible but nothing jumps out about it. I lift the package and give it a little shake. Nothing moves inside. It isn’t heavy enough to be a bomb, thank goodness. I pull at the white ribbon, and it falls away easily, revealing twine securing the box. Brown butcher paper and twine? Too coincidental.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and call London.

"Good morning," London says with a yawn. "You’re up kind of early, aren’t you?"

"I didn’t sleep well. My mind wouldn’t really shut off."

"Really sorry I didn’t get much of a chance to dig around on what we talked about." London is vague as I figured she would be since she, of all people, knows how easy it is to hack someone’s cell phone or eavesdrop.

"No worries," I say. "I’m actually calling about something similar, but equally as important. Possibly even more so."

There's a pause on the other end as London no doubt racks her brain to figure out what I mean. "How do you want to proceed?"

"I think we should meet up at our usual spot." I’m not sure if that will actually be enough information as we meet up pretty much everywhere.

London must be thinking the same thing because she laughs. "Our usual before or after school?"

"Before."

"Great, I will see you there in an hour."

"Thank you so much, bestie," I say. "You won’t be disappointed. I promise."

We hang up and I hurry to get ready. It won’t take me too long to get to our favorite coffee shop, but I need to be able to leave from there to go to work later. I gather up things I will need at work including some extra clothes and some I don’t mind getting dirty just in case. I expect that Dr. Austin is going to want me to help put up the exhibition and that is hard work and messy.

I arrive at the coffee shop and beeline for our usual seat. London is already there and has my coffee waiting for me. She jumps up from the seat and gives me a hug before we sit across from each other and enjoy a few sips of our lattes.

London leans in and whispers, “Tell me what’s going on. I can’t stand the suspense.”

I unzip my backpack and pull out the package. I place it on the table directly in front of her. “I haven’t opened it yet, but is there anything that jumps out at you about this?”

She shakes her head.

“Take your time, turn the box around, really examine it.”

London does as I suggest. She lifts it up and runs her fingers along the edges. There isn’t a single square inch she doesn’t scrutinize up close. After a few minutes, she sets the box back down on the table.

“Well?” I ask. “What do you think?”

London blinks a few more times as she gathers her thoughts. Her lips keep forming words to speak, but no sound comes out. Finally, she says, “It’s from him… isn’t it?”

I shrug. “I think it is, but I wanted your opinion.”

“The butcher-style wrapping paper… the twine.” She sits back in her chair and crosses her arms. “Shouldn’t we bring this to the police?”

“And say what to them? Excuse me, officer, can you please open this package to see if a serial killer sent it to me? Oh, and by the way, I think it’s from one you killed a few years ago. I would be laughed right out of the precinct… if not put into a straitjacket.”

“Okay,” she says with a nod. “At least it’s too light to be a bomb.”

“That’s what I thought too.”

“What do you want to do? Open it here?”

I look around the sparsely filled room and shrug. “We might as well.”

London pushes the box across the table toward me. “I’m here for moral support, but I don’t want to do the honors.”

I sigh and then take a couple of calming breaths. After reaching into my back pocket, I pull out a pair of latex gloves and put them on. I undo the twine, slowly pulling at the loose ends. “Can you reach into my bag and pull out the box of storage bags? The former cop in me wants to bag all this up for evidence, just in case.”

“Sounds reasonable to me.” London digs out the freezer storage bags and opens the first one. After I place the twine inside, she seals it and opens the next one for the wrapping paper.

I carefully undo the tape and unfold the paper. I remove the plain brown box and set it to the side before folding the wrapping paper into a neat square and placing it into the plastic storage bag. Next, I turn my attention to the box. First, I turn it over and look it over for any kind of identifying markings.

Nothing.

I pull the tape free from the box, place it into a bag, and open the top flaps. We both stand and look inside. The box is filled with shredded paper that's crinkled into packaging material. I'm careful to stick my hands into it in case there's something sharp that might poke me.

A few seconds of searching and my fingers touch an envelope and a hard, plastic container about the size of the palm of my hand. “What should I do first? Open the envelope or the container?”

“Oh man, I don’t know. The tension is killing me, but I’m scared to look into either of them,” she says.

“I think I’ll start with the envelope.” It isn’t sealed, so the sender hadn’t licked it, but I will definitely bag it anyway. After pulling out a folded piece of printer paper, I open it and read the message scrawled in wicked handwriting across the full page. I read the letter first silently to myself.

Stop! Do not go to the police. If you so much as check with that bitch who shot me, I’ll know, and the hostage will die. I sent you a memento of my affection. Something to remind you of me during this time we can’t be together. You were the one who got away. The one who I dream about at night. The one who I marked as mine so no one else can have you. I’ll see you soon, sweet boy. Think of me in your dreams. We’ll be together soon.

I stand and drop the letter on the table and run to the bathroom. As soon as the door closes behind me, I turn toward the toilet, fall to my knees and vomit.

Sweat dampens my shirt and brow. I pull toilet paper from the dispenser and wipe my brow and then my mouth. My head pounds from the severity of my reaction and I have to push the sides of my temples to keep the room from spinning.

I sit back on my heels and sob. How could this be happening to me? Haven’t I already endured enough? I’ve had to change careers, been unable to seriously date, and spent more hours awake from insomnia and fear of my own dreams than anyone should have to endure.

And now it's happening again.

A knock at the door shakes me back to the present. I scramble to my feet and wipe the remaining sweat from my face, rinse my mouth out in the sink, remove my gloves, and wash my hands. I unlock the door and apologize to the line of people waiting to go inside and hurry back to London.

“Babe, you okay? I would have come to you, but I didn’t want to leave this unattended.”

“It’s okay.” I take a few sips of the coffee, which suddenly doesn’t taste good to me. “Did you read the letter?”

She nods. “What are you going to do?”

“First things first. I’m going to open the container and then decide.” After putting on a fresh pair of gloves, I reach a trembling hand into the box and pull out the container. It is white and opaque. I unlatch the lid and open it.

Unsure if it's the fact I’ve already thrown up my breakfast or if I am still in shock, but the sight of a severed finger doesn’t rock me as much as the letter had. I place the container on the table and slide it to London .

She looks away and gags. Waving her hands, she says, “Get the lid back on quick.”

I put the lid on and say, “It’s clear he has taken someone, but who? The finger definitely was severed pre-mortem by the amount of dried blood. The finger looks to me like it belongs to an adult male. Do you agree?”

She nods. “The fingernail was definitely a male’s, and it was too thick and creased to be a child.”

“How can we get this to the police without him knowing it? I am sure he is watching me. Maybe he’s staking out the police station?”

London shrugs. “I don’t know, but we can’t keep the finger.”

“I know that.” I sit back in my chair and tap the end of my chin while I think. “What if we keep the letter and box, but wipe down the plastic container and mail it to the station?”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. The container might have an embedded tracker. I can check for that at my house to be sure. What I’m concerned about is if we do something and get caught by The Butcher, not only are our lives in danger, but this hostage. It could be someone’s dad or something.”

I think about it for a while and then sigh. “You’re right. How about this? Since I don’t think The Butcher can surveille you, me, and the police station at the same time… you take the container and scan it for a tracker. If there isn’t one, put it in a mailer and drive all over the city. Stop for gas. Stop for food. Shop if you want. Take all day and then sneakily drop it into one of the postal boxes along the sidewalk.”

London takes it all in for a moment and then agrees. “I can do that, but I have some new tech I’ve been learning to use, and I think this will be the perfect time to implement it.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a digital fingerprint collector and printer. I found a guy online who knew a guy on the dark web… anyway, none of that is important. We can basically scan the finger and digitally enhance the fingerprint to be used to search databases for who it belongs to. We can also print the fingerprint onto a latex glove to use for fingerprint authentication. Not that it’ll come in handy here, but it’s my favorite part.”

“Wow, that is badass. Do it,” I say. “If we can identify who he took, we might be able to find him before the man is murdered.”

My watch vibrates. “Dammit. I have to go to work. I really appreciate you, and trust me, I could never do this without you.”

“Damn straight you couldn’t.” She smiles and blows me a kiss. “You owe me.”

“I sure do,” I say, getting up from the table. I lean over and kiss the top of her head. “Love you, bestie.”

“Love you too.” She gets up and collects the items she is now in charge of keeping safe. “I’ll call you when I have something to report.”

“Sounds perfect.” I hurry out the door and to my car. My mind is spinning with possibilities.

Was The Butcher watching me right now? Even if the police find out who the finger belonged to, how would they find him before it’s too late? I don’t think I could survive another run-in with the most notorious serial killer the city of Los Angeles has ever encountered. But could I leave another person to suffer at his hands? The only thing I am certain of—evil has returned, and it feels like it is right behind me.