Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
brETT
Jane Evangeline: Entry #8
Hudson stood me up tonight.
I suppose I should be irritated, but the only emotion I possess is an intense, all-consuming worry. What if the Madam found out about our correspondence? What if he’s hurt or worse?
I can’t even think about the story tonight. I’m just praying Hudson is still alive.
I don’t receive any contact with the Phantom for the rest of the week. Some small part of me has started to believe they did catch him—that he’s really sitting in a maximum-security cell awaiting his trial, and that's why I haven’t heard from him. That same part of me is also disappointed .
Not because I miss his creepy little games—no, that’s not it at all. It’s because my life has been so dull without them. I never realized how boring my life had become until last night when I opened my fortune cookie, hoping to find another message from Ghost.
Ghost. I crinkle my nose as the name sounds in my mind. That's another crazy thing I’ve started doing—referring to the Phantom by his name. Of course, it’s probably some kind of code name, but still.
It’s safe to say my mental state has seen better days.
I sigh, flipping through the thirty-thousandth stack of documents this morning. All of the TV shows make this job look so cool—don’t get me wrong, certain aspects are admittedly badass—but for the most part, my job is doing paperwork. Stacks and stacks of paperwork. I look at the clock on my phone, and another sigh threatens to break free when I see it’s only eleven. My God, will this day never end?
Placing down my pen, I stand from my chair and stretch my arms out wide, my lower back popping from being in the same hunched position for so long. Looking out, I realize almost everyone has filed out of the office for an early lunch, meaning I can continue my investigation.
After one last look to ensure no one is paying any attention to me, I head down to the archives room. As soon as I enter the mildew-scented room, a sneeze wracks through me, startling the mousy-haired woman sitting at the entry desk.
“Brett!” Marge coughs, holding a hand over her thick beaded sweater. After catching her breath, she reaches a sun-spotted hand up to her face, pushing her glasses back up her nose. “I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon. I haven’t gotten around to pulling those files you wanted.”
“That’s alright, Marge.” I smile kindly, tapping the oak desk with the tips of my fingers. “Mind if I head back there and take a look?”
Marge shrugs, her thick shoulder pads brushing the tips of her dangling gold earrings. “Suit yourself. Just be careful of some of those file cabinets. I almost had one fall on me last week.”
I nod, grateful for her lack of questions. Marge has been working the archives for longer than I’ve been alive. It’s a lonely job, and once, I asked her if it ever bothered her—being stuffed down in the basement, away from all sunlight and people. She just laughed in that deep croak of hers, like what I said was the funniest thing in the world.
“ Brett, ” she said. “ The best people in the world are the ones on the page . As long as I have my stories and a quiet place to read them, I’ll never be lonely.”
And that’s what Marge loves most in the world—sitting down here in the dark and reading on the bureau’s dime. It’s kind of ingenious, but I would never say it out loud.
“Thanks, Marge. I won’t be long,” I promise, grabbing the key she places on the counter.
She just shrugs, raising her newest book to eye level. “Don’t matter to me. Just lock up when you’re done.”
I nod, giving her a small smile and wave even though she’s no longer paying attention. I hasten to the end of the corridor, shoving the large iron key into the lock before shoving the security doors open. I’ve been down here at least twice this week, so I know my way by heart. I duck around several file cabinets leaning precariously off-center, making sure not to step on any of the random files littered across the ground.
When I come to the section where files on the old Phantoms reside, I breathe a sigh of relief. Every time I come down, I half expect them to be gone. Vanished from the face of the earth, like so much of the evidence through the years.
Maybe these files just aren’t important—or maybe the fact that they’re on physical paper has something to do with it. I’m more inclined to believe the former, considering I’ve found diddly squat that will help me with the Phantom investigation.
Really, it’s just my Phantom investigation, considering everyone in this office is convinced the case is shut. I’ve heard they DNA-matched the guy with the hair we found at that first crime scene, which makes no sense to me. I know what I saw in that basement. I know it was the Phantom, just like I know he’s still out there, biding his time.
I sigh as I plop down on the floor, pulling open the file I was poring over yesterday until someone came down to the archives, and I had to abandon my research. Listening for any sounds like last time, I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing I’m truly alone.
Cracking open the file, I start reading the witness accounts of the Phantom from the eighties. A few of them mention some place called the Sanctum—apparently some mysterious organization that the Phantom hails from. Martha Gore mentioned the same place, so the coincidences are too great to be ignored by now .
Another account that interested me was from a woman named Ariel Smith. She claimed—similar to Martha—that men in white masks showed up at her door one day, offering to buy her toddler. She claims she slammed the door in their faces and called the police although no report was filed that day.
Maybe she was lying, but I don't think so. Her story is far too similar to Martha’s. She even called the white-masked men the same thing: Reapers. I shudder, contemplating the possibility that there are more men like the Phantom. That this thing goes far deeper than I could have ever imagined.
When I first got assigned to this case, I thought it would be a career maker. I thought someone at the top finally realized my potential and was giving me a chance to crack one of the biggest cases of the decade. Now, I’m starting to worry they had other motives. That they put me on this case because I'm inexperienced… because they thought I wouldn’t ask questions.
I shake that thought away. I’m probably just being paranoid. Even with the sleeping meds, my sleep has been fitful. Every morning I wake, it feels like I didn’t sleep at all, like my mind has refused to turn off even though my body has.
I heave a sigh, closing the file when a headache begins to build behind my eyes. The clock on my phone lets me know I’ve been down here for several hours already, meaning Jim is definitely wondering where I’ve been. Placing the file back on top of my stack, I rise and make my way out of the archives, locking the door just like Marge requested.
As I head out, I silently place the key on the counter, and Marge waves a hand in thanks, never taking her eyes from the page. I chuckle to myself as I take the elevator back to the main level, wishing for a moment I could be more like Marge. She seems pretty damn stress-free, and I’ve never seen dark circles under her eyes the way I do when I look into the mirror every morning.
Maybe I need a vacation.
“Brett! Where have you been?” Sure enough, Jim’s voice sounds across the room, sounding slightly peeved. “I’ve been trying to call you.”
“Sorry. I was down in the archives,” I say, shrugging nonchalantly. “No service.”
Jim scowls, crossing his arms as he pins me with an inquisitive glare. “Why were you down there? You’re supposed to be working on files from the Wade case.”
I nearly groan aloud. The Wade case is just some asshole with a medium-sized money-laundering operation. And while it’s disgraceful, the crime pales in comparison to a serial murderer running amok.
“Just some personal research.” I wave him off and take a seat at my desk. “I’ll get it done before I leave, don’t worry. Mr. Wade won’t be kept waiting.”
Jim stomps over to where I’m seated, hovering menacingly over my shoulder. “What personal research? Were you…?” He looks around to make sure no one is listening in. “Are you still looking into this Phantom shit? Haven’t you heard? The DNA matched—he’s our guy.”
“I heard,” I deadpan, refusing to say any more. I grab my pen and am about to return to my stack of paperwork when Jim slams his hand on top of mine.
“Brett,” he murmurs, the warmth of his breath tickling my neck. “You need to stop whatever you’re doing—now. You don’t know what you’re?—”
“Everything okay, Agent Peterson?”
Jim releases me immediately, standing straight and turning to face the chief. “Everything’s fine, sir. Just talking to my partner.”
“Ah, right.” He looks at where Jim’s hand rested just a moment ago. “Agent Evangeline. How are things with the Wade case? ”
I clear my throat. “Good, sir. Just wrapping things up.”
“Good,” he murmurs, gazing back and forth between the two of us skeptically. “Well, keep up the good work, you two. Glad we got this Phantom business all sorted out.”
“ Yes, sir.” Jim and I exchange glances as we parrot each other at the same time. I clear my throat once more, and say, “Absolutely, sir. Have a good one.”
“And you.” He nods, then takes his leave, his left foot shuffling slightly with each step.
I look back at Jim, who has decided he can’t even look at me now. “Jim. What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head, a muscle in the side of his jaw twitching. “You just don’t know when to leave it the hell alone, do you?”
I jerk back, shocked at his outburst. “Jim, I told you, I dropped the Phantom thing. He’s been caught—end of story.”
“Then why the hell are you lurking around the archives? Explain that to me.”
Well, shit. “Personal research. I told you already.”
Jim scoffs. “I talked to Marge, Brett. She said you’ve been down there for hours poring over old Phantom files. Asking if she knows anything about the Sanctum.”
“So?” I grumble. “Like I said, it’s personal research.”
“Research that will get you killed, ” Jim says, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes dart nervously around the room before he leans in, his lips hovering just above my ear. “Drop it, Brett—I mean it. Especially this Sanctum bullshit. Just… drop it, okay?”
When he pulls back, his hazel eyes have a worried look. A look that has my stomach flipping. “Okay, Jim.” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’ll drop it. For you.”
“Thank you, Brett.” He smiles, some of that worry from earlier dissipating from his face. “It’s for your own good. You’ll thank me later.”
I smile despite the unease in my gut as Jim turns and heads back to his desk.
He doesn’t realize that I’ve never been good at doing things that are good for me. I’m not going to start now.
The rest of the workday goes by without incident. I refrain from looking at Jim and asking questions about the Sanctum, and in turn, he pretends I cease to exist. I’m not sure why he’s so angry that I’ve been looking into things. After all, he was the one who taught me to always look deeper.
At around six, I pack up and head out to my car. I’m often the last one to leave the office—especially when we’re not working on an active case—so I’m used to watching my surroundings when I walk to my car. The headquarters are not stationed in the nicest part of the city, and even if the sun weren’t starting to set, I would be wary of my surroundings.
Except today, I’m distracted. I can’t stop thinking about the Sanctum, and why everyone refuses to talk about it. With the way people have been acting, I’m starting to think this organization is actually real—that all the things I’ve heard are real. And if that’s the case…
I suck in a deep breath, my knees going weak at the thought of what they've been doing in Moriton for the past century. Horrible, disgusting, evil things. And no one seems to want to stop them except for me.
I’m brought out of my thoughts as a scuffing sound breaks out close behind me. I wheel around, my hand circling my service weapons holstered at my hip. I scan the dimly lit parking garage but see nothing. I start to turn back when, again, that same scccrape sounds behind me. Like someone is dragging a tire iron across the ground.
“Who’s there?” I demand, pulling the weapon from the holster and flicking off the safety. “Come out with your hands in the air!”
A high-pitched, cackling laugh reverberates off the concrete walls. “Hear that, Tate? She wants us to surrender ourselves.” His voice rises in pitch as he says the last part, mocking my voice. I take a step back, holding my gun in front of me.
“Fucking asswipe,” I grumble, scanning the shadows for the two figures. At least, I hope there are only two.
“I don’t know, Xander, she seems pretty serious. Maybe we should—I’m scared.”
Their laughter peels out, making me clench my weapon that much tighter. “I’m done playing around. Show yourselves.”
“ Show yourselves.”
I whip around, my heart hammering in my ears. That was right over my shoulder. “Where the fuck are you?” I demand, backing up another step and making a wide arc with the tip of my gun. “I swear to God, if you come close, I will?—”
“You’ll what? ”
I whirl around, my chest heaving with panicked breaths. That voice… it sounded like a fucking demon. No man sounds like that. Not unless he has … My eyes go wide. Not unless he has a voice mod like the Phantom. A laugh sounds out close behind me, and I whirl around once more.
“I think she’s figured it out, Tate,” Xander coos. His steps ring out seemingly from all around me, and I jerk this way and that, trying to find the source.
“Over here, babe.”
I fire a shot, and the bullet hits one of the concrete pilings, sending pieces of rubble flying through the air.
“Ooh. Almost got me.”
I fire another shot, and it sounds like it hits something this time. Or someone.
“Dammit. She fucking shot my pinky!” A higher-pitched voice—Tate’s—screams out, eliciting a nasty chuckle from the one called Xander.
“Nice shot! Been wanting to do that myself for a while.” He laughs at his partner's pained curses, just before the pair go deadly silent again. “You’re still going to pay for that, babe. It’s personal now.”
There is a flurry of steps, and the gun is knocked from my hand. I curse, lunging to where it skidded across the ground, but a pair of strong arms grabs me around my middle, holding me back.
“Let me go, you fuck!” I scream, sending the heel of my foot back into my captor’s knee. However, I can't get good momentum with the angle he’s holding me at, so all it does is knock him slightly off balance.
“Damn, she’s got some fight in her,” Tate chuckles, holding me to his chest with one arm while his other slips beneath my shirt. “Can’t we have some fun with her before we finish the job?”
Xander scoffs. “Do whatever you want, man, just finish her when you’re done. I’ll be over here.”
Xander’s footsteps recede into the distance, and I fight desperately against Tate’s hold. No. This cannot be happening. I am not about to be fucking raped and murdered. I’m not.
Even with all my struggling, Tate doesn’t seem to break a sweat as he pulls me to the ground. He straddles my waist, holding my arms above my head with one hand while he undoes the button of my pants.
“ Get the fuck off me!” I snarl, kicking and thrashing with all my might. Tate just chuckles, leaning down to my neck where he licks me from collarbone to jaw. My skin shudders with repulsion, and I try to buck him off one last time.
Tate’s lips come close to my ear, and bile rises in my throat as his hot breath fans the shell of my ear. “You’re mine now, little one. I’m going to enjoy this sweet little pussy before I slit your throat. How’s that sound?”
I snap my eyes shut, making one last ditch effort to nail him in the balls. That’s when something warm spatters across my face. When I open my eyes, Tate is trying to breathe through the deep red gash above his Adam’s apple. A disgusting gurgling noise accompanies each labored breath as I scramble back on my hands, unable to take my eyes off the sight in front of me.
“There are faster ways to kill someone, but I wanted him to suffer for you.”
My heart tries to beat out of its cage as I look around the shadows, desperate to find where that voice is coming from. It’s deeper than Xander’s, and there’s no way Tate could speak with his throat cut. So then…
“Ghost,” I whisper, staring hard at the shadows. “Why… why…”
“I told you that I mean you no harm, Brett. It’s up to you to decide whether I’m telling the truth.” That chilling voice thunders off the walls, and goose bumps rise along my uncovered arms. “Although, considering the circumstances, you would be a bit of an idiot to think otherwise.”
Fucking. Asshole. “I’m sorry, it’s just a little hard to believe a literal serial killer means no harm.”
A disturbing chuckle crackles through that mask of his. “Still looking at things in black and white, I see. The bureau really did you a disservice, darling.”
“Stop fucking calling me that!” I snap, inching closer to my service weapon. It occurs to me I haven’t heard from Xander in a moment, and I need to be armed in case either of these assholes decides to make a move.
“If you’re worried about the Disposer, he’s been dealt with,” Ghost murmurs, taking the words from my mouth. “It’s just you and me. Darling. ”
I grit my teeth, my hand closing around the handle of the gun. Disposer? Is that Xander’s title or something? “Not for long, asshole.”
“What’s that?”
“I said…” I take a deep breath, then aim the tip of the barrel at those shadows where I’m positive the voice is coming from. “ Not for fucking long.”
I fire once. Twice. I listen for the sound of them hitting flesh, but to my dismay, I’m met with the telltale clang of them hitting the concrete pillars like earlier.
“You’re angry with me.”
“You’re damn right I’m angry!” I snap, firing off two more shots to the left and the right. Where the fuck is he?
“I see.”
If I didn’t know who I was talking to, I would think he sounded almost… sad. I shake away the thought, remembering the monster he is. He doesn’t feel anything. He kills people without remorse, without care. He needs to be dealt with.
And apparently, I’m the only one who can.
“Why don’t you just do it already?” I demand, shifting the tip of the barrel slightly.
“Do what?”
“Kill me. I saw how you took out those other guys—you should have no problem.” That’s it, Brett. Draw him out to the light. If you can see him, you can kill him.
There’s a pause, almost as if he’s contemplating my proposal. “No. No, I don’t think I will.”
“ Why?” I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to fire blindly into the shadows. I only have a few bullets left, so I can’t waste them. “Why are you toying with me? Why don’t you just make your move already? ”
A small chuckle bounces off the walls, adding more fire to my fury. “Oh, darling Brett. I already have.”
There’s a scoff at three o’clock, and I empty the chamber at the place I’m sure he’s standing. However, my bullets fail to hit home, and a second later, I know I’m alone.
He’s gone.