Page 81 of Killer Clone

At the next bed lay Old Clive, with his white beard and his bulbous red nose. He was a regular and, as usual, he was drinking from a bottle hidden in a paper bag. Father Ted took the bag from his hand.

“You know that’s not allowed in here.”

Clive tried to retrieve the bag, but his effort was half-hearted and his reach short. Father Ted pulled the bottle away.

“You know we hold meetings in the room next door. Every week. Do you want me to keep a place for you?”

Clive kept his eyes on the bottle. He shrugged. “Sure, Father. You do that for me.”

Father Ted patted him on the shoulder. He’d hold a spot, though he knew there was almost no chance Clive would turn up. He never did.

As he continued to gather clothes, he greeted his guests as he passed them, wished them a good night, returned a fist bump, and delivered a high five. The doorbell rang. Placing the bagsof clean and dirty clothes on a table, Father Ted strode between the beds.

The last two beds were empty. There was still room for more that night.

He opened the door.

A figure stood outside. His hood was up, and his face was down. His sweatshirt was torn and muddy, and brambles stuck to the folds of his baggy jeans.

Father Ted opened the door wider. “Welcome home. We have a bed for everyone here.”

The man lowered his hood. He had a fresh face and wild eyes. “I’m not here for a bed. I’m here to get what’s coming to me.”

36

Hagen blasted through a red light, horn honking. Cars screeched to a stop in the middle of the intersection. Two horns returned Hagen’s warning, and the drivers added a selection of swear words to the noise.

Stella called Slade and put her phone on speaker as she scanned their suspect’s driver’s license. “We’ve got a lead on a Trevor McAuley, Caucasian male, twenty years old, almost six feet, light-brown hair, from Claymore Township, Pennsylvania. We have a lead that he’s at the Good Samaritan Shelter and Soup Kitchen in Idlebrook, a neighborhood just north of downtown. Agent Yates and I are en route, with Agents Ander Bennett and Anja Farrow in a second vehicle.”

“It’s been a busy night, Agent Knox. I’ll alert SWAT and head that way. How’d you find him?”

“Got a call from the mayor at Claymore Township. Trevor got in touch with him…watch it!”

Hagen shot through a stop sign, his hand on the horn, compensating for his foot on the gas. A Volvo hurtling too fast down Trinity Lane didn’t even hoot, let alone slow. With a curse,Hagen weaved across the lanes and sent Stella sliding across her seat.

Slade groaned. “That Hagen driving? Tell him to slow down. You people are no good to me dead.”

Stella eyed Hagen. “Hear that? Slade says to slow down.”

Hagen ignored her. If Trevor McAuley was at the soup kitchen, they needed to get there and shut him down. Before he killed again.

He gripped the wheel, set his jaw, and pushed hard on the gas. With a slight movement of his wrist, he pulled the car into oncoming traffic and zipped past a slow-moving Chevy.

A truck barreled down the road toward them. The truck’s horn screamed.

Bright headlights filled the SUV. Stella blinked. She reached for the dashboard as though her arm would be enough to stop the car collapsing in the impact. Hagen pulled the steering wheel to the right, and the SUV slid back into its lane, missing the front of the truck by inches.

“What did I just tell him to do?” Slade sounded exasperated.

Hagen didn’t slow. “You both worry too much.”

Stella recentered herself on her seat, pulling her seat belt tighter. “Trevor’s going to kill again. He’s got a shelter full of vulnerable victims, the kind he likes the most. We’ve got to get there.”

“Backup’s on the way. Wait for them. Don’t fall into his trap.”

Hagen had no intention of falling into Trevor McAuley’s trap. He had every intention of catching him. But Slade had a point. This dickhead had been pulling them around, arranging a corpse and calling in tip-offs to set up ambushes. They’d been lucky those ambushes hadn’t worked. But this call was more deliberate, clearer.

Trevor McAuley hadn’t phoned a hotline. He’d called Claymore Township and had the mayor pass on a message.

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