It's on the third page. The story of a predator who has claimed his third and fourth victims. No rape, just an invasion and murder. They don't have any leads. He's smart. He wears a mask, likely stalks his targets, and he's athletic. He gets in and out of the neighborhoods on foot so he's gone before the cops are even called. His eyes are a striking blue or green.
I cover my mouth as acid works its way up my throat. Sheriff Ridgefield said it, Northern California is crawling with killers; dead bodies with no justice. It can't be much different down here.
But I look at the dates of the attacks, and I just know. And the choice I have to make becomes perfectly clear.
Blood. It's something I've never had to deal with before on a hunt. Now it's everywhere, in my hair, soaked into my clothes, in my fingernails. It's messy. A variable I don't like. But I've lost it. Ever since I left her, the urge has come back. And it's strong. I'm alone again. Unattached to humanity.
I'm angry that I've felt what it was like, to have it, that thing I craved, I stole—and now I'm back to where I started. She was my medication, she was my sanity. A missing cog in a machine that suddenly made it work without a squeak. And now it's gone and the whole fucking thing has gone haywire.
I tried to recreate the thrill of the hunt. But each time I go into a new home, it feels flat. I can’t get back what I’ve lost. And then I’m filled with that wrath that has to go somewhere, but I can’t keep cutting myself. I’d only do that to protect her. So it goes out, in a flurry of blood and screams until the house is as quiet as it was when I first breached it.
I know she still wants me. Before I let her go, there was always that doubt, that it was all a manipulation. That she was the one playing me. But the way her voice quivered on those calls when she asked me why I left, the way she filled me in on things, as if we're having a conversation, except her voice was pleading—for me to take her away, back to our little world—It is real.
But I can't go to her. I can't take her away again. This has to be a choice. She has to come to me. And if this is what I have to do to smoke her out, I'll do it.
This is my love letter to Vesper. I write it in their blood.
It's a sunny day in LA. The kind of sun that makes you smile when you rise. It's warmth gently heating you to your core, softly baking the skin. The day when I kill Sam.
I stuff my belongings into my bag, over the box of tokens, and leave my motel room, heading over to the nearest pay phone. I open the phone book, first to Ridgefield. There are seven listed. None with the first name Samuel. I flip over to the H's. No Hunter-Ridgefields, many Hunters, none with his name. The phone book is old, so I pick up the phone and dial the operator.
He could have hidden the listing or changed his name. But why would he? He has nothing to hide from. Only two people know his secret, and we share it with him.
The operator answers, uninterested in the magnitude of this inquiry. She doesn't understand what she's doing. Who I am. What I've been through. What I am about to do. She finds the one Samuel Hunter-Ridgefield in the directory and provides his number and address, not understanding this is a death sentence.
I stare at the address, written on my motel receipt, my hand trembling. From the moment he left me, I had imagined we might see each other again. But not like this.
The taxi leaves me a couple blocks away from the address at my request. I need the time to walk and build the nerve. I can't just step out of the car and onto his front door. It's a nice neighborhood, filled with families, and it builds my resolve. This monster lives among them and they don't even know it. They don't know he could be watching, waiting to bludgeon them to death like he has four other people since he has arrived. I caress the gun in my pocket, bearing a little bit of its weight so it doesn't make an imprint through my thin sweater.
I could still turn around and go to the police. There is still time to change this story. But it doesn't feel like a possibility. I am invested in every possible way. If I have to kill him—the little boy who was always different, with the stutter and scars, locked away by a crazed mother and a family with too much pride to admit imperfection—I won't drag him out there like a spectacle. I'll do it quickly. Mercifully.
My stomach roils when I see the number on the mailbox. 445. I stand on the path to the front of this quaint home, and stare at the door. I'm shaking everywhere, unable to stop the uncontrollable jitters. I can feel him, throwing off my equilibrium, pulling me out of my orbit.
I take one deep breath, and proceed to the door, my hand firmly gripping the small revolver.
I take each of the three steps up to the door carefully, as if they were made of thin ice and could crumble underneath me. Then I stand in front of the door, holding in the volcano of emotion that rumbles in my skull and chest, wanting to burst. I raise my fist to knock, and before I can, the door opens.