The Executioner

Thirty-Eight

Hunter sat in silence staring out of the window as Garcia sped down Hollywood Freeway. Night had already fallen over Los Angeles, and with it came rain. Not your typical, heavy Californian downpour, but a steady, annoying English-type drizzle. The sky was covered by gray clouds. The wet weather would go on for hours.

Hunter was softly massaging between his eyebrows with his index finger, focusing his attention on the raindrops on the passenger’s window. His thoughts were tangled in a tight cluster, and he was trying hard to unwind them. In the space of half an hour, the whole complexion of the case had changed. Now that they knew about the priest’s dream, the idea of the killer being ritualistic took a knock. Hunter was certain that what happened a few days ago inside the Seven Saints church was not a ritual. The killer had simply acted out Father Fabian’s nightmare, but why?

Garcia’s attention was on the road, but he’d noticed his partner’s change in mood inside the interrogation room. Something that girl said had really got to Hunter.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Garcia asked tentatively.

‘Shoot,’ Hunter said without breaking his stare.

‘Who’s Helen?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Monica, the-’ Garcia searched for the correct word ‘-psychic girl we just talked to. She said something about Helen and it not being your fault. Who’s Helen?’

Hunter closed his eyes.

Garcia knew better than to push for an answer. He allowed the silence to stretch.

‘My mother,’ Hunter finally replied, returning his attention to the window. ‘Helen was my mother.’

He’d only been seven when it happened, but the memories crowding his mind now were still fresh.