Chapter 10

After getting out of the shower, Hunter ran his dry hand through his wet hair. His hair was still wet. He closed his eyes and made an effort to concentrate. The mirror in the bathroom was covered in a mist caused by the steam. The surface was riven by streams of wetness that made their way to a puddle not far from the sink. After giving the mirror a cursory glance and wiping it down with the palm of his hand, he walked away. He was worn out and worked up to the point where he couldn't face himself just now. He then went into the bedroom after grabbing a towel, tying it around his waist, and reaching for it. He turned on a lamp before making himself comfortable in a chair that was located close to the bed and was adjacent to a little table. Because of the light, the shadows were pushed to the farthest reaches of the room.

While he was looking down at the images that were scattered around the tabletop, he reached over and retrieved the bottle of liquor that he had left on the floor next to the bed the previous night. He was aware that it was false courage. But having guts wasn't the only thing that Hunter was looking for. More than anything else, he wanted a little warmth to relieve the pounding in his head, as well as in his left hand, and he hoped that this would prevent any dreams from occurring. Before picking up one of the photographs, he sat down and had a long, hearty drink.

The first victim was... He glanced at the blond student's gory mess, which was once a lovely young woman who had been around nineteen years old, extremely outgoing, very lively, and quite athletic. He had a knife stuck in his stomach. He then picked up another bottle of liquor while simultaneously flipping the photo over.

The second victim's body was found on the complete opposite side of the city from where the body of the first victim had been found, but it appeared to be the same bloody mess as the first victim's. The second victim had been a teenager. It did not appear that the two women knew each other or had any connection to one another.

The third victim was the same bloody mess, but this time it was an elderly man who was living on the streets. There has been no discovery of a link between the fatalities.

Additional victims of varying sizes, ages, hair colors, and genders, including both men and women. There was only one thing that they appeared to share in common, and that was their murderer. And the deceased person was found tonight?

There was no way to know for sure until the autopsy report came back, but it was possible that this one had been slain in combination with the other two that were discovered behind the Midnight Pub a few nights earlier. As of this moment, he was unable to identify any connection between the other two deaths, except than the fact that all three bodies were discovered in the same location. No connection. Zero motivation. Nothing.

After tossing the photograph to the side, Hunter reached for another drink and slammed the bottle down on the table. He need some evidence, such as a fingerprint, a name, or a description of the potential offender.

Suddenly, he found himself thinking of Autumn Herrera. She was undeniably connected to the murders, but he could not for the life of him fathom how that connection existed. She gave off an appearance of being overly neat and needy. She had an incredible amount of knowledge and played the game quite well, leaving Hunter to question his previous preconceptions about what she was like. Assailant, witness, or perhaps a confidential informant?

But what about her physical prowess? She had broken one of his fingers without even breaking a sweat, which was quite a feat considering the severity of the injury. Definitely unusual. To say nothing of being aggravating, this is just plain weird. And excruciating, the thought crossed his mind as he looked at his hurting hand.

A picture of Autumn Herrera appeared in the forefront of his consciousness at that very moment. Blonde hair that is long and wavy, gorgeous skin... In a second, he saw her, with slash marks extending across her pale cheekbones and a slit across her throat, with her jugular spewing red heat. Hunter took another sip from his beverage of choice and then closed his eyes.

Outside the room's window, the city was bustling with activity. Vehicles zoomed by in a hurry. On the night breeze, there was a cacophony of voices to be heard. The noise from the television could be heard coming from an apartment that was nearby. The sound of a siren wailed, and although it was faint at first, it quickly grew to be as loud as his father's screams had been on that fatal night.

Hunter pounded his fist on the table in an angry display. The bottle of booze was knocked over and fell on its side. The liquid spread, soaking the photographs, discoloring the tabletop, and flowing over his fingers, all of which served to remind him of... There had been a tremendous amount of blood; it appeared to be everywhere, seeping from behind the locker door and inching its way closer to him. He tried to move away from the spill by inching back in his seat, but the wine followed him, dripping over the edge of the table and running in icy rivulets down his skin. That had been his pair of shoes all those years ago. Because the blood had spread, his white shoes were now a scarlet color. The screaming had reached a crescendo at this point.

"Dad!" Hunter had sobbed, pressing his body against the door and pounding on it with his fists while he did so. A steady stream of blood emerged from beneath. "Dad! Could you kindly open the door?"

There was no response, just the sound of someone choking on the screams. He continued to pound on the door. He scurried backwards as a violent rumble suddenly erupted around him, sounding like the crackling of thunder. It was his father's name that was dying on his suddenly thick lips as he splattered in the blood after slipping, crashing into the floor, and splattering in the blood. The floor began to tilt, the room began to shake, and the wood began to break. The door blasted open. Death pounced on him, a flash of smooth hair that stroked the hairs on his arms as it passed over him. Hunter slammed his eyes shut in response to the hot breath that was blowing in his face. He yelled, "No! Daaaaaaaaaad!"

When Hunter stood up from his chair, the table began to shake, and a drop of vodka fell to the ground below. He wiped the sweat from his abdomen and his thighs, yanking the wet towel off of him as if it, too, had been stained with blood rather than alcohol. He shook violently as he turned toward the bedroom and climbed into bed. He trembled like an addict who has gone far too long without getting their fix. However, the one thing his body need more of was sleep. Nope, terror caused him to shake all over. The terror of a boy who had witnessed the murder of his father and subsequently caught a sight of the perpetrator. A boy who had grown up to become a man who had spent time in and out of homes for troubled children and who had repeatedly told the same tale about the circumstances surrounding the murder of his father and the identity of the perpetrator. But no one had paid attention, and now he was tormented by the same nightmare, being pursued by a recollection from his earlier life.

No more... Hunter told himself as he looked around the rundown flat he had rented on the second floor of a rundown building in a slum neighborhood. Because he had so much experience tracking down murderers, he was well aware that individuals on the street spoke with one another. That is, to the appropriate individuals. Someone who belongs to them. In addition to this, he was not one to indulge in luxuries, despite the fact that his fortune would have allowed him to do so had he choose to do so. He wasn't at all. He lived in the moment, waiting for a calm that never materialized in his life. If only we had enough money to buy peace.

Hunter felt resentment toward himself for his inability to forget what had happened, and he rubbed his face with his thin fingers. He ought to have done it. He'd been through enough therapy sessions and had enough nightmares to rid himself of the memories once and for all. But nothing was of any use. Nothing at all, other than the excitement of the search. He struggled to get into some jeans, a t-shirt, and a pair of shoes that had seen better days. His injured hand sent a steady ache up the length of his arm, which reminded him of Autumn Herrera and her outrageous proposition that the killer was loose somewhere in the streets. His injured hand sent a steady ache up the length of his arm.

There is no chance of getting any sleep tonight. In the preceding few months, he had gotten so few hours of uninterrupted sleep that he could probably count them on the hands of two hands. This particular murderer caused him more trouble than any other killer ever had before. This killer brought back far too many unpleasant memories for him. The victims continued to torment him, appearing as gory faces and voices from the afterlife, pleading with him for help. He was well aware that he would not be able to rest easy until he discovered who had committed the murder.

That is, up until he met Autumn Herrera. She was the keeper of the answers. She was familiar with the murderer. Who knows? Maybe she was the one who did it. Despite the fact that his common sense told him that was an absurd notion, he was unable to shake the idea from his head.

He stepped outside and as he opened the door to his car, he heard a cry out in the distance. Almost a scream. He spun around. It was pitch black in the alley behind him. No one was there. The scream appeared to be coming from a long way away, but it's possible that he was just imagining things.