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“Hello?” asked a middle-aged blonde woman with rollers in her hair. She was wrapped in a satin dressing gown. Ella could smell her freshly painted nails.
“We’re looking for Mason Price. This is his address?”
The woman scratched her face with a single finger, a red stain trailing in its wake. “Yeah. That’s my son. Why? Who are you?”
Son, Ella thought. She’d only said to herself an hour ago that this unsub could still be living with his parents. The criteria ticked itself off one by one.
Ella flashed her badge. “FBI. I’m Agent Dark and this is Agent Ripley. We need to talk to your son.”
The woman arched backward, closing the door a few inches. “FBI? What’s going on? Is Mason in trouble?”
“Maybe,” Ripley jumped in. “Where is he?”
The mother fixed her stare on Ella, leaned her head back and shouted, “Mason. Get out here.” She asked the agents again, “Can you tell me what you think he’s done?”
Ella stepped inside, willing the mother out of the way. If Mason was about to be faced with the consequences of his actions, she doubted someone of his disposition would come quietly. His crimes screamed cowardly, so the most likely outcome was that Mason would run, hide, and figure out his next move where the cops couldn’t find him. Young killers always ran, but they tended to confess once they were in chains.
“Hold up,” the mother said. “You can’t just barge in here.”
Ripley said, “I’m afraid we can. Please tell us where Mason is because he doesn’t seem to be coming.”
“Basement,” the mother said. “Entrance is in the hallway.”
Of course the basement.Ella kept her thoughts to herself as she navigated the spacious house by geographical instinct. Through a gray-patterned living room and into the hallway, she pulled open one of two doors and was greeted by a descending staircase and the sudden eruption of music. Blast-beats, power chords, gargling vocals – all at an unnecessary volume.
Ella’s stomach knotted up. Her heart sank like a stone, because sudden noise was an attempt at distraction and distraction meant you needed to act fast. Ripley appeared beside her, no doubt equally familiar with the notion of perpetrator diversions. She smacked Ella on the shoulder as she passed and yelled, “Quick, he’s trying to cover his ass.” Ripley was first down the stairs, Ella two steps behind.
Sound was a mask. Sound drowned out a person’s intentions, like flushing a toilet to conceal a conversation. Deafening music was the biggest mask of all. In this case, it was a last ditch effort to cover tracks.
Because as they reached the foot of the stairs, Ella saw Mason Price’s lower half hanging out of the basement window.
“Stop!” Ella screamed. “FBI!”
A pair of legs writhed and struggled through a thin, rectangular window, kicking at the wall for leverage. Both agents crossed the room in leaps, but Ripley was first at the escapee’s legs. She clawed away while Ella took in the basement room at a glance: desk, gaming computer, piles of dirty clothing. Nothing noticeable, nothing substantial. A bland room that suggested no discernable character or personality. A room that suggested its dweller was impressionable and simple, the kind of person that could be molded into a monster by online misogyny groups.
The kind of person who could be their unsub.
Ripley’s attempts to pull Mason back into the room were in vain, and Ella saw the last of the suspect’s lower half slither out into the free world. Ripley pursued, but Ella had other ideas. Shespedacross the room,her footsteps echoing offthe thickwalls asshemade her wayback up the stairs.Assherushed past thequivering mother, shecould seethe lostand helpless look in her eyes.Ellawanted to reach out and offer some kind of comfort, butsheknew that nothingshecould say would makeadifference right now. There was no easy way to tell a parent that their child was wanted for murder.
Ella went through the house, out of the front door, and round to the yard. Mason already had a ten-second head start, so the only way to catch him now was with a lucky collision. Someone of Mason’s temperament would run into the street, out in the open. Space gave the illusion of safety. Space was a labyrinth of hiding places. When cowards fled, they always aimed for lower ground, higher scope.
The back garden came into view. Among the waves of grass was a fast-moving blur, a smudge of black on green. It hurtled towards Ella, not slowing down, not changing direction. Ella reached for her pistol, but even her quick draw wouldn’t be speedy enough to halt this man.
She braced herself, tensed every muscle in her body, and met the fleeing suspect head on.
Her shoulder collided with his ribs, knocking the wind out of her lungs, and probably knocking a few of Mason’s bones loose too. The pair got entangled in a knot that tied in midair and became unstuck as they crashed into the hard concrete. Ella grabbed the upper hand as gravity decided it was she who took pole position, and as she fought to keep Mason Price still, she finally got her first look at the man who could very well have claimed three innocent lives.
Baggy black t-shirt. Oversized jeans. Floppy black hair greased with long-dried gel. Mason was a skateboard kid from a previous era, and he was only a trench coat away from assuming the clichéd school shooter look.
“I didn’t do anything,” Mason shouted in Ella’s face. She had him by the wrists, one knee in his stomach. There was a chance he could kick at her with his legs and make another dash, but the position was as symbolic as it was efficient. It told Mason that it didn’t matter where he ran, they knew his face, they knew his address. He couldn’t escape anywhere they couldn’t find him.
“No? Then why are you running?”
Mason shook his head from side to side, not wanting to look his aggressor in the eye. Ella thought it was funny how perps still tried to maintain their pride in the face of overwhelming odds. A conundrum of the human condition.
“Because I made amistake,” Mason snapped.
“Three times,” Ella said.
