The Hunter Inside (4 page)

This task took him five
minutes to complete, and by the time he went inside his nerves were shot to
pieces. Five minutes seemed like five hours to Wayans, as he struggled with the
mental image of a monstrous man jumping from behind the bushes outside his
home, covered in blood from previous victims and heading straight for him with
a blood-soaked knife.

But it was broad daylight,
and there were things that Paul Wayans didn’t know.

Once back inside the house
with the door locked, he grabbed the telephone and dialed 911.

‘911 Emergency,’ came the
reply from the other end of the line.

‘Erm… hello… yes…’ His
words were stuttered and his breathing was fast. ‘Can I please speak to
somebody in the homicide team, someone with the authority to deal with a very
serious matter? I’m talking FBI.’

‘Please hold the line while
I put you through.’

The line went dead for two
minutes and then, just as Paul was beginning to wonder if he had been
disconnected, a voice came from the other end.

‘Hello, you’re speaking to
Special Agent Art Cassidy of the FBI homicide team. What can I do for you?’

Paul Wayans’ continued to
stammer, as he explained to Art Cassidy the events of the six months leading up
to this day, and the fear and danger that prompted him to make the call.

He told Cassidy how the
letters had been coming intermittently for those six months, remembering as
best he could the foul items of mail that he had discarded through an
unwillingness to believe they were anything more than a practical joke.

By now he was wishing he
had gone to the police earlier, maybe he could have stopped this foul murder
from happening.

But he hadn’t. Art Cassidy
spoke,

‘Okay. Paul was it? Paul, I
want you to stay in the house and wait for me to get somebody to call you back
in not too long a time. Is that okay with you?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Paul Wayans
could not believe his ears. ‘Did you not hear me talking for the last five
minutes? I tell you that I’ve received a photograph of a corpse and you tell me
somebody will call me back. What is this?’

‘Now Paul, stay calm, it
won’t take long.’

‘Are you trying
not
to help me here? How do you expect me to stay calm when I call your people and
ask you to do your job, only to be told I have to wait? Excuse me for being a
little nervous but hey, if your life was in danger, I expect you’d probably
feel the same way I do.’

‘My life is in danger
everyday, Mr. Wayans. I assure you I will be as quick as I possibly can in
passing on your details.’ With that the telephone started to emit a high
pitched ‘beeping’ sound, and Paul Wayans realized he had been disconnected.

‘Shit. The cheeky
sonofabitch,’ he exclaimed through clenched teeth, a bubble of spittle forming
at one corner of his mouth. He couldn’t believe the attitude of the FBI; he paid
his taxes like everybody else.

With nothing for him to do
except wait and see if whoever was stalking him managed to get there before the
police, Paul Wayans switched on the television set.

The only other option open
to him was to get in his car and drive. But where would he go? And how long
would he be running for if he did? He sat down and looked at the clock on the
fireplace. 10:30 AM.

Powerless, he picked up the
remote for the TV and began to flick through the almost endless amount of
channels that seemed to show nothing but re-runs, adverts and rubbish. He
settled on MTV. In a feeble attempt to take his mind off his gut-wrenching,
heart-punishing fear, he wondered why every household in America, and probably
the world, tuned in to MTV when there was nothing else on to amuse them. The
violent shaking that threatened to unhinge his joints kept the thoughts of his
stalker very fresh in his mind.

The most worried man in the
world could only sit and wait, listening to cheap pop tunes on the TV and
staring at the telephone, willing it to ring. He remained in the same position
for almost half an hour and was beginning to wonder if he’d dialed 922 and got
the people whose business it was not to give a damn, when it did the thing he
least expected it to do. It rang.

Paul snatched up the
receiver in his left hand. ‘Hello.’

‘Hello, Paul Wayans?’

‘Yes, Paul Wayans. What the
hell took you so long? I rang your people more than half an hour ago.’

‘Yes I’m sorry about that
Mr. Wayans. My people had to get in touch with me. I am Special Agent Sam
O’Neill of the FBI homicide team in New York. My people tell me that you have a
photograph of a corpse. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, that is correct. So
what took you so long when you had that information? Is murder not a serious enough
crime for you guys to get involved in nowadays?’ Paul’s anger was boiling over
and his lack of self-control was uncharacteristic. Since he had lost Marcie he
had always had to be careful. Losing his temper over anything, even trivial,
could result in an outpouring of the emotion that was pent up inside, and he
had chosen to try not to lose his temper, rather than have a psychiatrist
setting up camp inside his head. It was more difficult now than most other
times, as anger was the only thing that gave him any sense of control over his
situation.

A situation that was out of
his hands.

‘Mr. Wayans, you’re
obviously a little unstable at the moment and I think I can understand why. But
I have just returned from probably the same scene as you have in that photograph
of yours, judging by the description you gave to Special Agent Cassidy, and I
know how upsetting that can be. Do you know what I mean, Paul? Witnessing a
murder scene first hand is a lot more traumatic, don’t you think?’

‘Special Agent O’Neill, are
you trying to imply something?’ Paul was incredulous at the probing, possibly
accusatory statement the Special Agent had made.

‘What I want you to do,
Paul, is to stay put until we get there, don’t move so much as a muscle, okay?’

‘What about my safety?’ The
tone in the voice of the Special Agent was unnerving Paul Wayans, who feared
that he was already the prime suspect in this case, and although he knew that
they would find it impossible to prove any involvement on his part, he feared
that their willingness to believe the obvious scenario could (possibly fatally)
affect his safety.

Before he could protest any
further he was told that his safety was assured and the phone line was dead.
O’Neill statement was as good as saying ‘you’re not going to murder yourself,
are you?’ and the enormity of the situation began to hit Paul Wayans.

He was now hunted, victim,
and suspect.

All that he could do was to
sit down and stare at the television set in disbelief. His racing mind meant he
wasn’t aware of what was even on the TV screen, but from his mien he could have
been watching CNN and being told of a nuclear attack on America. His fear and
incredulity were etched onto his face in a grimace that tequila drinkers often
wore.

The teenage driven drone of
Britney Spears was enough to bring him out of his daze, and he switched off the
television set. He was finding it hard to believe that the morning’s events
were actually real. It was like a lucid dream. Even more, he was finding it
impossible to accept the suspicion of the police that he was involved in this
terrible crime. Surely they would see that he was sane and incapable of such an
act when they spoke to him. Only a raving madman could subject another human to
such a depraved attack. Then they would help him, wouldn’t they?

Forty minutes passed before
he heard the car pull up outside his house. As he looked out of the window, two
men got out of the car and approached his front door. Both wore long jackets,
which were sensible for the temperature, even if the temperature wasn’t
sensible for the time of year. Both also wore stern looks on their faces.

As the two men reached the
door of the house, Paul opened it. ‘Please, come inside.’ His nerves had been
tugged at and nearly torn from his body in the time it had taken since he had
opened the letter.

He was determined to show
these two men that he was sane and not capable of doing what he had seen in the
photograph now laying on the table in his lounge.

The smaller of the two men
picked up the photograph, holding it by the edge and studying it intently
before handing it to the other man who also studied it intricately, holding it
close to his eyes to gain the best possible view. Both men wore latex gloves.

It was the smaller man who
then addressed Paul as the other slipped the photograph inside a clear plastic
bag. ‘I am Special Agent Pat Forsby of the FBI. This is Special Agent Jim Ryan.
I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to accompany us, Mr. Wayans.’

‘What? Where to?’ Paul was
shocked that they were not asking questions or trying to gain an insight into
his character, they seemed to be going about their work as a laborer would,
happy to follow orders, and not too worried about fairness or quality of
service.

‘We have a helicopter
waiting that will take you-’ Paul interrupted at this point; keen to stir some
recognition of the injustice of the situation. He was an innocent man.

‘You can’t just take
somebody who has done nothing wrong and fly them off in a helicopter to god
knows where.’ His earlier feelings of vulnerability and loneliness were by now
returning and replacing the anger, and Paul felt like he was being caught up in
a storm that would be too strong for him. He felt he was to be dragged along by
it, incapable of escape.

‘Mr. Wayans, we don’t
really know what to think at this moment. What I do know is that we have a
corpse in Atlantic Beach. The other thing I know is that you are in possession
of a photograph of the crime scene. Strangely, our men at the scene have
informed us that the bloodstains on the bed where the victim lay bound are in
fact ink stains. Also, the coroner has done a preliminary examination and
estimates that the body may have laid there for four days. The man’s friend has
confirmed that he never reached her. This man, Mr. Wayans, has been killed in
somebody else’s home and we haven’t yet been able to establish when the body
was placed back in his own home. Do you understand what I am trying to say?
This man could have been killed any time since Friday, and he could have been
killed in many places, including Stamford.’

He knew there was no use in
arguing. This man was obviously very determined – he was not going to take no
for an answer, so he reluctantly locked up the house and got into the car with
the two Special Agents.

He was forced to sit next
to Special Agent Forsby, a man whom he disliked after being in his company for
only five minutes. As Special Agent Ryan pulled out of the driveway, Paul
thought of Bristow.

‘Wait,’ he yelped, ‘what
about my cat?’ as though it were his ticket into heaven.

‘Don’t worry about that Mr.
Wayans,’ Forsby sneered as he turned the wheel suddenly and viciously, ‘it’s
been taken care of.’

A laugh escaped him and
Paul sat back in his seat with a demoralized thud, his mouth agape. He could
not believe this final twist. They had ran over the cat on their way out of his
driveway, and the laugh that accompanied the thud that signaled the death of
his closest companion told him that it had been no accident.

Paul Wayans watched his
house shrink in size as they drove away from it.
How can all of this be
happening?
he wondered. But there were no answers for Paul Wayans to
receive or give that day. What he didn’t know was that this was only the
beginning of his ordeal.

Paul Wayans still had an
awful lot to face.

It was 10:45 AM by the time Sandy
Myers got to take her break. The diner was unusually busy for a Wednesday
morning. It seemed like a Saturday morning, and it was only the earlier episode
with the twins that made her absolutely positively sure that it was a weekday.
Her days were a whirl of activity at the moment.

By the time she’d arrived
at the school with the two reluctant kids in tow they were twenty minutes late.
She had arrived at work thirty-five minutes late and was already exhausted by
the time she started clearing the always-messy tables and serving the
always-impatient customers.

At 10:45 Sandy was ready
for her break. Despite her intention of leaving the diner to do some quick
grocery shopping, she could do no more than get a cup of coffee from the
machine and slouch down on the table provided for staff at the rear of the
diner. She was so tired lately and the boys had been playing up something
rotten. Joe found it difficult to spend the amount of quality time that he
should with the boys because of his long working hours. He worked as a teacher,
working days at Jude Rassell High School and evenings (four a week) at Highview
College. They had no other choice but to work every hour they could. The bills
kept on pouring in and they always had to be paid.

She had taken the job in
the diner six months ago. The main reason for her doing so was the future of
the children. The money that Joe was making was paying their way and enabling
them to keep up a pretty good standard of life, but the bills seemed to swallow
most of it up every month, and they were afraid that their kids would not have
any college money.