And Mason fired.
Melissa leaned to the side; Della was hunkered close to the floor.
The bullet hit the killer dead center in the forehead. While Melissa shrieked and cried with relief, the Midnight Slasher fell without a whimper.
* * *
The killer was dead. The reign of the Midnight Slasher had come to an end.
The wrap-up and the paperwork had just begun.
Naturally, there was chaos at first as other agents and police rushed in. The medical examiner and forensics arrived, and officers held the press at bay. Melissa’s parents were called, but before she raced down to meet them, she fell hysterically into the arms of Della Hamilton and then Mason, telling them, “Oh, my God, thank you, thank you! Thank you, both. You saved my life!”
Mason assured her he was grateful she was alive, as did Della Hamilton.
Gideon Grimsby stood by the whole time, arms crossed over his chest, a proud look on his face. Well, the ghost did like helping.
Mason saw Della Hamilton manage a wave and a nod and mouthed the words, “Thank you,” to Gideon at one point. Gideon smiled and nodded in return.
Mason turned in his firearm as necessary and was surprised to hear that a counselor was waiting to see him in the city. His Glock would be returned in the morning.
Things never happened that fast. He knew something was going on.
Mason was hailed by the waiting officers and agents, and he knew everyone was relieved a serial killer’s spree had come to an end. He wished he could feel celebratory, and he knew he had carried out the only feasible action. But he didn’t feel celebratory, just weary.
Of course, it had been just minutes before midnight when they’d taken down the slasher. With all the aftermath, it was the next day before anyone left the bayou country. And because of where they were, the press had finally arrived, but thankfully, by then the action was over and officers arranged to maintain the crime scene. People had a right to know what was going on but keeping details of such an event within ranks might prove to be extremely important.
He was ordered back to the city and the office before Della Hamilton finished a discussion with a member of the forensic team.
He didn’t see her again until they were finishing the last of the paperwork on the case and by then everyone involved was about to keel over.
Sleep was in order. When he was finally able to return to his hotel, he had no trouble crashing down into a sound sleep—despite the fact that dawn had arrived long ago and the sun was shining brightly beyond the heavy drapes that covered his windows.
He woke in the middle of the afternoon. An evening left in NOLA, time to finish up any necessary business, and then a flight back to the DC area in the morning.
Luckily, they’d been so far back in the bayou country the media hadn’t seen any of the takedown. And when asked, he assured the local powers that be he didn’t want his name seen anywhere, which was the right policy as known field agents could be at risk.
A press release saying the Bureau had rescued the Slasher’s latest victim and the man had been killed in the operation was just fine with Mason. He wondered if Della Hamilton was going to want more recognition.
She didn’t.
Mason was out on Royal Street, trying to decide on a restaurant for dinner, when he looked into a shop front and saw a TV screen showing the news.
The takedown had been perceived just as he’d hoped—a joint effort by the FBI and local authorities.
A lot of his friends at the local FBI offices and police precincts he’d come to know in NOLA had wanted to get together that night. And while he truly enjoyed a lot of the camaraderie and understood the feelings of many that a celebration was in order, he just wanted to be on his own that night.
He felt as if he needed to shake something off.
He decided then to go over to Magazine Street for dinner and hopefully some soothing music at one of its many restaurants. He was surprised when Gideon slid into a seat beside him there; he’d been nursing a scotch and listening to some great jazz, something that helped still his mind.
“You are a strange bird,” Gideon told him.
“Why?”
“That fellow stole the greatest gift from so many—the gift of life. Mason, you stopped him.”
“With your help, for which I’m grateful—”
“And the help of Della Hamilton. I hung around her awhile earlier. She’s something, huh? As they say in your time, that girl has balls! Wait, she can’t, can she. Guts? Would that be right? She has guts!”
“She saw you in a flash,” Mason said. “And by the way, I am glad I brought a killer down. I’m just tired of... I took his life. I guess I hate killing.”
“But you love saving.”
Mason shrugged. “I will always act in the best interests of the victim. Let’s listen to the music, huh?”
“Sure. There’s a meeting tomorrow morning. Some bigwig with the Bureau is coming down tonight. He’s coming specifically to see you—”
“Why? Wait a minute. Last I heard, I run by the NOLA office, pick up another agent to drop me and bring the car back for the next guy who needs it. How did you hear that? I’ll be heading back to DC tomorrow.”
“Maybe not,” Gideon told him. “I heard Della talking to someone on the phone when she left the offices. She was going out, but that call changed things and she didn’t. She decided she’d better get some sleep. You were busy tonight,” Gideon told him, grinning. “You don’t interrupt a counseling session, and then it was a long day! You were supposed to have some dinner, some downtime... You’ll be informed. Apparently, this is...big. A couple of people are heading down from Washington just to discuss this with you.”
“And they informed another agent before me—about my assignment?” Mason asked.
“I’m guessing it involves her,” Gideon said with a shrug. “And that would be a darned good thing. You couldn’t do better, from what I saw.”
“She was good, yes. But—”
Mason groaned. Strange. He’d wanted this job; he’d worked hard for this job. But after his years in the military, now he was wondering why. He was good at what he did. He was a good investigator—largely because of a lot of help from the dead. But he was also good at killing.
And it just seemed to be weighing down on him lately.
“Damn you, man!” Gideon said. His accent—which he had largely lost during the many years since his death—came back strong when he was angry. “There is a seventeen-year-old girl alive and in the arms of her family because of you.”
“And Special Agent Hamilton, of course—or mainly,” Mason said dryly.