The concern in John’s face grew.
‘Your task was to understand your daughter. To help her control and comprehend the gift she’d been given. Who do you think gave her that gift in the first place, John? The devil doesn’t have that power.’
Another head whoosh. Hunter could feel the blood running down his arm. He could hear it dripping onto the floor and he felt his legs starting to lose their strength. He knew he didn’t have much time left.
‘She cursed her mother,’ John shot back with rage. ‘She told her she would die.’
‘No, she didn’t. She tried to prevent it, and if you had listened to her your wife would be here now. Don’t you see, John? Hidden in Mollie’s gift is the ability to help people. She can help prevent some people from suffering, but she can’t do it alone. She needs others to listen to her.’
‘Like you did?’
‘Yes, like I did. She was crying out for your help. And she still is. All she needed was your support, your understanding. Your task was to see beyond the masquerade. To overcome your own prejudice and find good in what you thought was evil.’
John shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He looked uncomfortable, doubtful of his actions. His grip on the gun slackened a fraction and Hunter ventured a new step forward, but John snapped back as if waking up from a dream.
‘NO.’ His shout was full of anger. ‘I followed the task as it was given to me. She has to die. Like all the others had to die.’
Others? Hunter thought.
‘They had to die so I could find the devil child.’
And suddenly it dawned on Hunter. The blond girl in the living room – on her knees – her throat slit open. Claire Anderson – her throat slit open. The girls in the paper. Hunter read it so quickly he’d forgotten about them. They were all brunettes. They were all around Mollie’s age. And they all had been found naked, on their knees, hands tied in a prayer position with their throats cut open. John Woods had been in LA for days searching for Mollie. His frustration and anger exploding inside him as he failed to locate her. He projected his hatred onto girls that looked like her. He was killing Mollie over and over again. But more than that, John did believe his daughter was special, that she could sense other people’s suffering. He knew she was a good person. He knew she would always try to help. He killed those girls not only because they looked like Mollie, but so Mollie would sense it. He was flushing her out. John Woods was the Slasher.
‘And die she will,’ John said, lifting his gun. ‘And so will you.’
Hunter saw the determination in John’s eyes as he tightened his finger around the trigger.
Game over.
Hundred and Forty-One
The thunderous gunshot was muffled by the torrential rain that drummed the windows. The wall behind him was splashed with blood, bits of flesh and skin. The air was instantly filled with the smell of cordite.
Hunter’s body slumped forward, but in a last charge of strength he managed to hold onto the wall with his good arm. The combination of the loss of blood and the adrenalin of the moment gave him an incredible headrush and he lost his balance for an instant. As his eyes regained focus, he saw John Woods fall to his knees. Blood dripping from the gunshot wound in his right hand that’d obliterated three of his fingers. His mouth was half open, his eyes staring up in horror. Only then Hunter saw her. Mollie was holding Hunter’s gun John had kicked to the side. He saw her cock the hammer, ready for a second shot.
‘Mollie, don’t,’ Hunter called, dashing forward – both of his palms facing her in a wait gesture. ‘Don’t do it.’
She was shaking. Tears streaming down her face. ‘He killed Su… Susan. He was going to kill you.’
‘I understand, Mollie. But this time it’s really over. Let me deal with this.’
From the floor, John Woods let out an animalistic grunt before vomiting explosively. The pain of lost fingers, broken bones, torn ligaments and the loss of blood proving too much for him.
‘He raped me so many times.’ There was no anger in her voice, only pain. Mollie’s gaze flipped back to Hunter. ‘I’m so scared.’
‘I know, honey.’ Hunter’s voice was tender and concerned. ‘But there’s nothing for you to be scared of anymore. It’s really over, I promise you. He won’t ever hurt anyone else.’
There was a sudden rush of footsteps along the corridor.
‘Drop the gun. Drop it now,’ two LAPD officers shouted. Their aims fixed on Mollie.
‘Hold on.’ Hunter turned and faced them with his hands up in surrender, putting his body between their guns and Mollie. ‘I’m Homicide Special Detective Robert Hunter.’ He gestured towards the badge on his belt. ‘This situation is under control. Lower your weapons.’
The officers exchanged anxious looks. ‘It doesn’t look under control to me, sir,’ one of them replied.
‘This is how I control my situations.’
Both policemen frowned.
‘Keep him under watch.’ Hunter nodded in John’s direction. ‘He’s the Slasher killer you guys have been looking for.’
‘What?’
‘You’ll probably find a knife on him with blood traces from all the Slasher’s victims.’ Hunter tilted his head sadly. ‘Unfortunately, there’s another victim in the living room.’
After a quick hesitation their guns moved their aim onto John Woods.
As Hunter spun around and faced Mollie again, he heard one of the officers radioing in the surprising news and requesting an ambulance.
‘C’mon, Mollie,’ Hunter whispered, stepping closer, grabbing a towel from the floor and offering it to her.
The tense moment between them seemed to last a lifetime.
She uncocked the gun and placed it in his hand. ‘You’re the only one who’s ever believed me. You’re the only one I trust.’
With tears in her eyes she hugged him.
Hundred and Forty-Two
Christmas Day
Garcia opened the door wearing the tackiest sweater Hunter had ever seen – a purple, red, pink and lime-green furry monstrosity that looked at least two sizes too big. His nose was bandaged as if he’d been through a nose job. Dark bruises under both of his eyes.
‘Whoa.’ Hunter jumped back pointing at Garcia’s sweater. ‘Does that thing bite?’
‘I know, I know.’ Garcia put on a face. ‘My mother knitted it for me. She brought it over this morning. I have to wear it or else she’ll be upset.’
‘She’s punishing you, that’s what she’s doing.’
‘Yeah, probably. Come in,’ Garcia said, showing him into the apartment. The Christmas tree in the far corner of the room was alive with flickering lights and decorations. Soft, old-fashioned seasonal music and a rainbow of mouth-watering smells warmed the room.
‘How’s the arm?’ Garcia asked.
‘Still hurts, but nothing I can’t handle. I have to give the gym a miss for a few months, though.’
‘And that’s what worries you the most, isn’t it?’
Hunter shrugged. ‘How’s the nose?’
‘Broken. I’ll have to give up head-butting for a few months,’ he teased. ‘I heard you got a call from the mayor, and it wasn’t to talk about his wife.’
An indifferent shrug this time.
‘You’re flavor of the month, Robert. You’re in everyone’s good books, including Captain Blake and Chief Collins. Two serial killers in one night? That’s gotta be a new record. Did you hear they finally found James Reed?’
Hunter nodded.
‘We were right; he never left Los Angeles County. His lover lives in Ranchos Palos Verdes. We couldn’t find the car because it was in her garage. How’s Mollie?’
‘She’s OK, considering. She’s been sedated for the past two days.’
‘What’s gonna happen to her?’