I Am Death

Sixty-nine

Hunter managed only three and a half hours of sleep before his brain was fully awake again. He kept his eyes shut for another minute or two, hoping, willing, but deep inside he knew that it was a futile exercise. No matter how hard he wished, no matter how tightly he squeezed his eyes, sleep would not come back.

Finally giving up, he rolled over in bed and opened his eyes. Unorganized thoughts collided against each other inside his head, creating an undecipherable mess that only served to confuse him more. He breathed out a leaden breath, swung his feet off the bed and sat at its edge, giving his eyes a chance to get rid of the stupor of sleep. He checked the digital clock by his bed — 4:55 a.m.

In the bathroom, Hunter washed his face and brushed his teeth before regarding himself in the mirror just above the washbasin for an instant. He looked exhausted. His eyes were half bloodshot and the circles under them were starting to look like badly applied makeup.

Entering his living room, and without even thinking about it, he checked the floor by the front door.

Nothing.

No envelopes.

He shook his head as he considered the silliness of what he’d just done.

But was it really? he heard the little voice at the back of his mind ask. The killer had done it once, and there was nothing to keep him from doing it again. In his entire career as an RHD detective, Hunter had never dealt with a more unpredictable predator.

He crossed the living room and entered the kitchen. After pouring himself a glass of water from the tap, he pulled open the fridge door and looked inside. Its emptiness made him chuckle. All he had was the still-untouched energy drink, a couple of apples and three dried-up slices of pizza — hot pepperoni. The beef jerk pieces were all gone, but cold pizza was probably Hunter’s favorite breakfast. He had practically lived on it throughout his college years.

He grabbed a pizza slice and walked back into his living room. Once again, he checked the floor by his front door.

Nothing.

‘OK, Robert, you’re going to have to stop doing this,’ he said to himself as he took a bite of his pizza. To him, it actually tasted better than when it was piping hot.

He walked up to the window and peeked outside, searching for nothing at all. He lived in a quiet corner of Huntingdon Park and, as far as he could see, the streets still looked dead.

He had another bite of his pizza and turned away from the window. On the table by his small bar was a photocopy of the killer’s third note. He’d read it so many times that he could probably recite it backwards, word for word.

He checked the clock on the wall — 5:11 a.m.

Hunter finished eating his pizza slice, went back into the kitchen and grabbed a second one. On his way back, he checked the floor again.

Nothing.

He cursed himself for his paranoia and paused by the note. He decided not to sit down. From his standing position, he read it again a couple of times. Just like before, nothing stood out.

He concentrated on the last part of the note.

He paused.

Hunter was sure that it wasn’t an attempt at being funny or sarcastic.

He read the whole thing one more time.

Zilch. He could think of nothing.

Hunter gave up.

As he looked away from the note and in the direction of his bar, his gaze grazed the last few lines. It was as if, for some reason, his brain decided to mix up the words and the letters in a peculiar way. For a split second he saw something that made him freeze in place.

‘What the hell?’

Hunter stared at it again, his breathing calm, his eyes searching for what he had just seen.

Nothing.

‘Where is it?’ he breathed out, trying again, willing his eyes to find it.

He couldn’t see it.

Had he imagined it?

Hunter looked away, blinked a couple of times and then looked back at the note.

Not there.

Maybe he had imagined it.

He did it again, but this time he only allowed his gaze to just scrape over the letters.

His breathing caught in his throat.

There it was.