The Executioner

Eighty-Six

Hunter covered the twenty-five miles between Beverly Hills and South Gate in record time. Mollie had told him she’d be waiting in a coffee shop called Café Kashmir in Tweedy Boulevard. Hunter didn’t need the address; he knew the place.

After parking his Buick just outside, Hunter entered the café. At 10:35 p.m., it surprised him how busy it was. Even more surprising was that all of the customers seemed to be younger than twenty-five. Mollie was sitting at a round table by a terracotta-brick wall adorned with several oil paintings – a young artist’s exposition. A small rucksack sat by her feet.

‘Hello,’ he said, smiling as he joined her. She tried to mirror it but failed. The sleepless night and apprehension showed on her face. Telltale dark circles. Bloodshot eyes. Flushed cheeks. She closed the notebook she was scribbling on and put it away.

‘You write?’

Mollie looked embarrassed. ‘Ah, it’s nothing. Children’s stories.’

Hunter sat down. ‘When I was young I dreamed of becoming a writer someday.’

‘Really?’

‘I loved reading so much that it seemed only natural.’

Mollie looked at her rucksack where she’d just stuffed her notebook. ‘Me too.’

‘Were you thinking of going away?’

‘I made a mistake coming to Los Angeles.’ Her voice was firm, but it lacked conviction.

‘Do you think if you’d gone someplace else you would’ve avoided the visions?’ Hunter asked.

No answer. No eye contact.

Hunter let the moment pass. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said, turning to look at the cake display on the counter. ‘I’d love some cheesecake or something. How about you?’

Mollie looked unsure.

‘C’mon. I feel really guilty eating cake by myself. Just to keep me company. What do you say? How about a slice of that chocolate one?’ He pointed to a chocolate gateau on the top shelf of the display.

She hesitated for an instant before nodding. ‘OK.’

‘Hot chocolate?’ He gestured towards the empty mug on the table.

‘Yes.’

A minute later Hunter returned with two slices of cake, a coffee and a hot chocolate. As Mollie stirred her drink, Hunter noticed that her fingernails had been chewed to the nail beds.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, fidgeting with her teaspoon.

‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.’

‘The woman I talked to. I didn’t know she was a reporter. She said she was working with you. I never told her I was a psychic. You’ve gotta believe me.’

‘I believe you, and it’s not your fault,’ he replied in a serene tone. ‘Unfortunately, this city is full of people who will do anything to try and get ahead. I’m the one who’s sorry for exposing you like that. I should’ve known better.’

Hunter retrieved a brand-new cell phone from his pocket and handed it to Mollie. He explained that his and Garcia’s number were already programmed into it and the phone had the latest GPS chip. It was the easiest way for them to keep in contact. She promised never to turn it off.

‘The photo in the paper,’ she said after a short silence. ‘I’m scared someone might recognize me.’

Hunter picked up on her fear. ‘And maybe tell your father?’

Unconsciously, she ran her right hand over her left arm.

‘Did he do that to you?’

She looked up with questioning eyes.

‘The broken arm?’ Hunter nodded at her arm.

‘How did you know?’

‘Just observation, really,’ he said with a subtle head shake.

She looked at her arm and at the minor irregular curvature just past her elbow. When she spoke, her voice carried a mixture of anger and sadness. ‘He beat me up almost every day.’

Hunter listened while Mollie told him about the beatings. The broken arm and fingers. And the never-ending hate her father had for her, simply because she was born a girl. She told him how much she missed her mother and how her father blamed her for her death. She still never told Hunter about the sexual abuse. She didn’t have to.

Hunter clenched his hands as he thought of the many psychological scars and how they’d affect Mollie for the rest of her life.

‘I know you’re scared, Mollie. But running away isn’t the answer. It never is.’

‘It’s the only answer I have,’ she shot back. ‘You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know what it’s been like.’ Her voice urgent. ‘My father will never give up.’

‘I’m not trying to tell you what to do, Mollie,’ Hunter said in an even voice.

‘So don’t.’

Hunter regarded her. Her reaction had been generated by fear, not anger. The same fear that made her run away and kept her running. The same fear that seemed to fuel her existence.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you angry.’

Mollie took a deep breath and looked down at her mug. A whole minute passed before Hunter spoke.

‘You sounded very worried on the phone, Mollie. Did something happen?’

‘I had another vision,’ she announced quickly and in a steady voice.

Hunter leaned forward.

‘After I saw my picture in the paper this morning I panicked. I wanted to run away again.’ She pointed to the rucksack at her feet. ‘I made it all the way to the Greyhound Bus Station.’

‘Where would you go?’

Mollie coughed a laugh. ‘Anywhere the little money I had could take me. I didn’t care. I just wanted to get away from here.’

‘And the vision changed your mind?’ Hunter asked.

Mollie nodded and started fidgeting with the teaspoon again. ‘It happened while I was at the station, trying to decide where to go.’

‘What did you see?’

Her eyes met his and Hunter saw fear.

‘The visions, since they came back, are very different from the ones I had when I was younger.’

‘You said they’re now in the first person and sometimes they aren’t silent anymore.’ Hunter nodded.

‘What I saw today wasn’t a person or a place or anything like that. It didn’t play like a film. But I know it was something very important to the killer.’

Hunter waited.

‘I saw a date.’

He craned his neck. ‘What date?’

Mollie took a deep breath and shuddered. ‘New Year’s Day.’