The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

So far, there had been nothing in the news about any unusual murders in his area. Feeling a bit ghoulish, she had gone online and checked the local obituaries, but they were generally useless. Most of them were maddeningly vague in regards to the cause of death. Phrases like “passed peacefully in her sleep” or “accepted into the arms of the Lord” provided no useful information, and were particularly unhelpful when the person was well under fifty. One listing did sadden her, though. It was an entry for a colleague that she worked with a few companies back and mostly lost contact with. The cause, Sabrina surmised based on the request at the end of the listing, must have been from some kind of cancer.

Sinking back in her chair, Sabrina felt an even deeper sense of melancholy and frustration now. If he was out there murdering people—and, so far, there was no conclusive evidence that he truly was—she had absolutely no idea how he might be doing it. She doubted that it would be anything violent: a knife attack or shooting.

What then? she wondered, feeling like she should know the answer. And who?

She glanced at the chat list on the screen and saw that Samantha was still offline.

Probably with a client . . .

Sabrina found that only mildly frustrating, as she doubted that Samantha had any more insight than she did right then.

Still, she wished, it’d be nice to have someone to talk to.

She stared down at her phone again, resisting the urge to toss it against a bulkhead.

Why the hell won’t he answer me?

Turning to look out the porthole, she wondered what she would say to him if he did.

HEY, WHAT ARE YOU PLANNING TO DO WITH THOSE GYM BAGS?

YOU KNOW WHAT.

She jumped, the phone nearly tumbling to the deck when it vibrated in her hand. Looking down at it, she forced herself to breathe, to take slow and steady breaths.

That would have been just eight sorts of creepy . . .

It was, in fact, a message from one of her work colleagues in California. He was asking her if she would be so kind as to check her work e-mail as he was, once again, having issues with the team based out of Taiwan.

Sabrina sighed, and then paused.

California.

Chewing lightly on her lower lip, Sabrina considered the idea further. Bringing another person into this would mean having to divulge some of the background. In this case, she was convinced that a little knowledge might truly be a dangerous thing.

Checking her work messages would distract her, for certain. It would also be equally likely to enrage her—not a particularly conducive frame of mind for what she was dealing with on the other front.

Still . . .

She was in the process of switching computers when Samantha popped up online. It took nearly all of Sabrina’s control not to pounce the moment her chat window became active. Then, she waited. After nearly three minutes during which Samantha did not contact her, Sabrina’s fingers began to itch. She held them poised above the keyboard, hesitating only because “Where the hell have you been?” seemed like an impolite way to open a conversation—even with Samantha.

ANY NEWS?

Sabrina sighed. Even knowing that it was unrealistic to expect that Samantha might have discovered something before she did, Sabrina still felt a deep twinge of disappointment.

NOTHING. HE’S STILL NOT ANSWERING MY TEXTS.

A long delay followed before Samantha’s response appeared on the screen. It showed that she was typing, but Sabrina suspected she kept editing, or kept delaying on sending, her reply.

IS IT TIME TO CALL THE POLICE?

Sabrina sagged at her desk. She had been wondering the same thing, but also recognized that she was deeply in denial about it—for several reasons.

AND TELL THEM WHAT?

She stared at the words, hoping that they did not come across as sarcastic as they appeared. They, in fact, represented her heartfelt, agonized plea for help, for advice—for any guidance of what to do next.

Samantha response came quickly. Sabrina relaxed slightly as she read it, relieved that her tone had not been misinterpreted.

I DON’T KNOW. STILL.

CAN I CALL YOU?

A moment passed before Samantha answered.

SURE.

Sabrina clicked on the camera symbol in the chat window. The modulating trill of the connection being established sounded from the speakers. Her screen flickered and Samantha’s face appeared. Even given the uneven quality of the image, it looked like Samantha had slept as badly she had.

“Hi,” Sabriina said, feeling that her usual bright “Good morning!” seemed out of place here.

“Hi,” Samantha replied flatly.

Her expression was similar to ones that Sabrina had often seen on individuals who suffered from migraines. As far as Sabrina could remember, Samantha did not.

“You look like shit,” Sabrina said, unable to stop the thought before she voiced it aloud.

“I feel like it,” Samantha replied drily. “It’s a matched set.”

“Didn’t sleep?”

“Not really.”

Sabrina frowned. She had managed a few hours of mostly fitful sleep. Although she had awakened reasonably, she knew that she would pay for it later in the afternoon.

“So,” Sabrina said, going back to their original subject, deciding that she really had nothing useful to add to the current one. “What are we going to do?”

Samantha visibly sighed. “You know what Alex thinks.”

Sabrina stared back at her numbly. Despite what Samantha’s partner had said, she could not see them going to the police without facing ridicule.

We have no evidence—no proof . . . of anything.

“We need to find him,” she said, with a certainty that told her that every part of her being believed it.

Samantha stared back at her for several long moments. Finally, she nodded wearily.

“Do you even know where to begin to look?”

“No,” Sabrina admitted, but feeling more hopeful than she had during the past few days. “But I know someone who might be able to help us out.”

#

John awoke to the shrill cadence of his alarm. That it had switched to that tone told him that he had managed to sleep through its first cycle. He turned and looked at the clock, blinking several times in order to get his eyes to focus. His mind was slow in doing the math, but it finally determined that he had slept nearly fourteen hours.

Damn, he thought tiredly.

He had more than three hours before he needed to report to his next shift at work. That was plenty of time to eat, shower, and dress. Despite the events of the day before, the company had made no change in his work schedule. Tempted as he was to turn over and try to go back to sleep, he roused himself, reminding himself that he had the next day off.

You can sleep all day if you want to, he told himself. And then, with less confidence, added: You just need to make it through the day.