CHAPTER EIGHT
"What’s going on?" Alison asked as she rushed into the room.
Derek took her by the arm and led her to the other side of the room, where Special Agent Hartley was coordinating the investigation and manhunt from the FBI offices in California.
"How are you doing?" Hartley asked Alison with a serious tone.
"I don't know," Alison said. "Is it true that you have him?"
"We think so," Hartley replied.
Alison knew better than to let the hope come through. They didn't have him yet. They could be close to having him or be right behind him, but until Mills was arrested, she couldn’t let her defenses down.
"He was spotted in Fresno," Hartley explained. "That was less than two hours ago. The federal marshals are closing in right now. It looks like he’s holed up in an abandoned warehouse, and they have the place surrounded."
"Do they know for sure that he’s in the warehouse?" Alison asked.
"We have it on good authority that he is," Hartley said.
That didn't confirm what Alison needed to know, nor did it put her mind at ease.
"They’re going in any minute, and if he’s in there, they’ll get him," Hartley said.
"And if he’s not in there?" Alison asked.
"We need to be patient," Derek said, his entire body tensed. "I know that’s a stupid thing to say, but we can't do anything from here. We just have to wait. They have him cornered, and he’ll be caught, one way or the other. He’ll be in custody soon."
Alison didn't care about the other officers and agents in the room. She pressed herself to Derek, and he immediately took her in his embrace. Alison pressed her face into his neck, his natural scent and familiar cologne comforting her at a time when that was next to impossible.
She had just come from the office with Detective Moore, who had moaned that it was never the first suspect.
Howard Mills wasn't their first suspect; he was the last one.
They knew he was the killer. He'd run when they interviewed him, and they'd discovered the mementos in his basement that he'd taken from each victim.
However, much like going to interview the very first suspect in a case, Alison didn't hold out hope just yet.
Mills had evaded them for twenty-two years and then escaped one of the biggest manhunts in US history for over two weeks.
Seeing was believing, and she wouldn’t believe they had Mills in custody until she saw it.
We’re getting close, Emma. I just hope this is it.
***
Howard Mills breathed quickly over and over, his heart racing as he crept toward the window.
It was dark outside, and even darker in the warehouse, so he knew they couldn’t see him at the window, but he still didn't dare look or stand up fully.
He slept over to the empty frame and stood up just enough to see out.
The flash of a beam across the ground wasn’t lifted at all, but he still sprang back as if he’d been spotted. He fell to the ground and turned to press his back to the cold concrete, gasping for air.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was never supposed to end like this.
He wasn’t supposed to be caught, but they’d somehow found him.
Not at the warehouse, that didn't matter now, but at his home. He’d lived his life for over twenty years, doing everything properly, and they still found him.
He didn't understand it, and it angered and frustrated him more than anything else could.
Howard beat the side of his head with his free hand, dislodging the tears in his eyes. He slumped forward and wept. He didn't weep for the women he’d killed or the people he’d deceived but for himself. He hadn’t considered himself selfish, but he knew now that he was.
All he wanted was to live as a free man, but that wasn’t possible now.
"Why did they come to the house!" he hissed. "If they had just left me alone, none of this would be happening."
Howard looked down at the hand that gripped the gun. He’d never owned a gun before. Not until a week ago, when he’d managed to find a place that would sell him one without the proper ID and checks. He didn't know why he’d bought the gun until now. He didn't know many things until now.
He’d run to the warehouse, hoping they wouldn’t follow, but those dogs! Those damn dogs!
As soon as he’d entered, not fifteen minutes ago, it felt like he’d stored all of his feelings and emotions in the warehouse, all of his memories in the darkness. It wasn’t until fifteen minutes ago that he began thinking about the life he’d lived.
There wasn’t any thought before about why he killed the women.
He could still remember each one, how they looked, how they smelled, what they said right before they died, and the same feeling that had come to him after each one.
It had been a relief. It was something he’d needed to do, and as soon as it was done, he was satiated for a time.
Five years.
It had always been five years before the urge came again, and it felt as normal as being hungry or thirsty.
The feeling appeared, and he knew what he needed to do to satisfy the urge.
He only had to kill someone, and he could continue living his life.
That had been the cycle for the past twenty-two years.
As he sat against the wall beneath the window on the upper floor of the warehouse, waiting for them to enter, he finally had clarity. He saw the truth that had always been there, standing in the corner, waiting to be acknowledged.
It was about power.
He had no power in his life. Not that he ever really craved some grand power over people. He had a good life, a dutiful wife who loved him and whom he loved in return. He had his own house, a car, and a good job with security. They’d had two beautiful children, and they’d grown into fine people.
It had never been enough. His job in security and locksmithing gave the illusion of power and a modicum of respect, but it was only an illusion.
As soon as he took off the uniform, he was no one.
Even to his wife, he was a regular guy. It had always been the best way to describe him—he was perfectly average.
The lack of power had always bubbled below the surface, and there had been no way to achieve real power in his daily life, so he had exerted the ultimate power over another.
He had ended their life. When he looked back at his very first victim, and then at the subsequent ones, he now understood how much he enjoyed it.
Even as he sat in the warehouse and waited for the end, he wouldn’t change a thing.
Howard had done something real with his life, and not many could claim that.
His chest heaved as his berating became more frantic, and the tears clouded his vision.
He brought the gun up and stuck it into his mouth, whimpering.
He tried to steady his breath as the tears flowed.
He removed the gun quickly and stuck the barrel under his chin.
He held his breath and closed his eyes tightly.
"Go! Go! Go!" the shouts came from down below.
Howard gritted his teeth, his jaw aching. His finger trembled on the trigger. He willed himself to do it, to become the final victim, but it was impossible. He had no problem ending the life of another, but he couldn’t take his own. Some invisible force wouldn’t let him.
"My life as a free man is over, but my life isn’t over."
Harold stood up, panting. He looked out the window to see a single beam of light down below. He heard the footsteps thundering through the lower level. Unintelligible shouts came from down below.
Howard wiped away the tears from his eyes and beat the side of his head again.
"Get it together!" he hissed. "Get it the heck together."
As soon as he uttered the words, he felt fright inside. If he was getting it together, what was he getting it together for? What was his exit plan?
Howard grabbed the collar of his t-shirt and pulled it up to fully wipe his eyes.
When he could see clearly, he looked out of the window toward the ground.
It looked high, but he was only one floor up.
He didn’t want to poke his head out of the window in case he was spotted.
He didn't know if they had snipers or people still in the trees, or how many of them there were.
He only knew there was one person outside.
That’s better odds. The ones who came in, the ones who are coming for me now, they’ll be trained. They’ll all have weapons, and there’ll be a lot more of them than one.
"Freeze, Mills!"
That’s exactly what he did, or more precisely, his heart. His heart stopped beating for a moment before it thundered like a war drum in his chest, and the faster his heart beat, the slower time seemed to pass. And then there was a thumping in his ears as everything else was drowned out.
He spun around on instinct to see who was there, not intending to fire his gun, but he did so anyway. One shot toward the figure in the doorway, hitting him square in the chest, and that instinct carried over to the escape route he had only just thought about, albeit briefly.
Howard heard shots, but couldn’t place where they came from. He only knew he was falling as he exited the building from the section floor. He saw the window as he fell from it, and he fired up toward the black rectangle.
The ground rushed up to meet him with a thud, knocking the wind from him. He’d held his breath so much recently that it didn't faze him. He fired up into the air again, then managed to get to his feet, shooting wildly. The ground burst to his right as someone fired at him.
Howard saw a man lying on the ground, the same man he’d seen from the window.
Howard ran. He ran and ran and ran, and a bullet whisked past his ear. He pointed his gun over his shoulder and shot until the bullets ran out, and he entered the tree line.
His chest stung, and he still couldn’t breathe properly. His arm had shooting pain that ran up and down it, and there was a warmth in his shoulder. Still, he pressed the trigger with no result.
An image flashed in his mind of the man lying on the ground outside the warehouse. Then a second image of the man he’d shot square in the chest.
He regretted those ones as he ran from the bullets and shots and dogs, grasping for a few more minutes of life. He regretted killing two men, but not because they were dead. The only regret was that they didn't bring the same relief that killing the women had brought him.
If I get out of this, I need to find more bullets. It doesn’t matter now how many I kill. Nothing matters anymore.