Page 3 of The Hunted
Do they see the pride that fills your eyes?
Or have you perfected your performance?
I’m sorry I got to him first, didn’t think he was on your list.
I’ll see you soon, Midnight Strangler, in the faces of strangers you think you’re better than.
When we meet, I wonder how your well-crafted lies will hold up against my truth.
Sincerely,
The Poet aka The Reaper.
P.S. I knew he was on your list. But I am, after all, better at this than you.
Oh, you should get going. If I timed it correctly you should hear something in
5…4…3…2…
Santino’s head snapped up as the not-so-distant sound of sirens blared in Chester Dean’s house. “Son of a bitch,” he cursed, moving back through the house. He wanted to rush. He had too much nervous energy coursing through him as he weighed his options. He couldn’t fuck up now. He held his breath and counted to four, letting his body settle. He’d been close to getting caught once before, and he knew how easy it was to make mistakes in haste.
He needed to leave, but he needed to be smart about it.
Once his heart rate slowed and his body was no longer in flight mode, he felt his shoulders relax as he took the steps down two at a time. As soon as his feet touched the main floor, the sound of sirens seemed to grow louder. They were close, but how close was the question.
“Back door, front door,” he mumbled to himself, pocketing the note.
He crept toward one of the front windows, peeking out to see how close those sirens were. When he saw no flashing lights, he made a mad dash for the door and broke out into a run back to his car.
He cursed again, removing his gloves and opened the passenger seat. But he couldn’t help but laugh. Not only had he lost his mark, but someone had been watching him and knew exactly who he was and what he enjoyed doing. He wanted to be pissed. He should do everything in his power to find the culprit and end their life before they blew up his own, but he felt none of that.
When was the last time he’d been challenged like this?
He couldn’t remember, and it made him want to play whatever game the Reaper was insistent on playing with him.
“A battle of intelligence and wills,” he whispered, feeling his lips pull back into a smile. This could possibly be fun, even.
The sound of the sirens grew louder, and he could see the flashing lights now. He made quick work of changing out of his black T-shirt and opted for a pullover hoodie. He swapped his jeans for basketball shorts and his boots for slides and waited till he could see the fire trucks and local PD pull up to Chester’s house.
He counted to five before he headed over, keeping his eyes locked on the house.
“Alvarez? You know the whole point of downtime is to, you know, relax?” Jordan Martin’s voice boomed. He always needed to be the loudest in the room.
“I was relaxing. I told you I was going to the gym,” he murmured, standing next to his partner.
“The gym we go to is on the other side of town.” Santino could hear the skepticism in Jordan’s tone.
“You do know there are other gyms, right? I go to the gym on Cedar sometimes. I was on my way back when I saw the lights.” He nodded toward the fire truck rolling in. “With the back-to-back murders I assumed….” He let his words trail off, knowing Martin would be all too eager to fill the space.
“You might be right. Someone called in an anonymous tip saying they saw someone leaving Chester Dean’s house with a bloody knife in hand. It was a pre-recorded message, though.” Martin rushed on when Santino opened his mouth to ask a question. “A poem started right after the operator started asking questions.”
Martin’s eyes gleamed as if they had found the killer that had plagued the news for several weeks now. Santino scanned the surrounding area, wondering if the Reaper was out there now watching them and enjoying the show. They had timed the arrival of the local PD, firefighters, and FBI almost perfectly. It made him wonder how close to these cases they had been.
“What did the poem say?” Santino couldn’t help but ask. He would get a report on it later, but his mind was reeling with the fact that someone was hunting who he hunted and knew exactly who he was. It didn’t feel right—nothing about this did—but as he focused back on Martin, he remembered what the video in front of Chester’s lifeless body had been stuck on while he’d been upstairs.
“You like playing this game, don’t you? But you can’t tell anyone about our secret game.”
It was a message for him. He had no choice but to play this game with the Reaper, and he couldn’t let on what he knew—not that he would anyway. The Reaper would be his mark, not the FBI’s.
