WHEN I FINALLY looked at the screen, I stared at the number from which Jasper had called. It was a 210 exchange, and I knew what that meant. He was in northern New Jersey. Near the river. He could be down the street. In my hotel.
I didn’t wait to find out. His words haunted me.
I’ll see you soon.
I flew from the edge of my bed, fumbling with the lock for only a moment. Sprinting down the hallway, I bumped a man rolling a bag in the opposite direction.
“Watch it,” the guy snapped.
I ignored him, pushing past two women to get into an elevator carriage that had just opened. One of them called me rude, but I didn’t apologize. I couldn’t speak. If they’d known what I knew, they wouldn’t have been able to either.
When the doors opened, I crossed the lobby quickly, heading straight out the entrance. Standing under a light, I looked up and down the street. No cabs sat outside the hotel, so I stepped onto the darkened sidewalk, staying close to the side of the building. At the corner, I saw one rolling toward the intersection. The light was off, but I made a move toward it. Then I noticed a small shadow in the back seat. Maybe it was a woman. Or a child. In the night, it could have been anyone. But I stopped, shuffling backward.
Whoever sat in that cab turned his head. He looked right at me. And I felt the Halo Killer’s eyes meet mine. Or at least, that’s what I convinced myself. Without a thought, I spun on my heels and darted back toward the hotel. The light above the entrance felt like fire on my skin. Exposed, vulnerable, I veered away, running down the sidewalk. I had certainly visited northern New Jersey, but the darkness made it seem like an alien world. Suddenly I was running through the thick humidity of a dangerous jungle, some predator at my heels.
I spent nearly an hour swerving down unfamiliar alleys and sidling along poorly lit streets. As I passed a shady bar, my head swiveled. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw another cab approaching, fast. I ducked inside the door of the bar, holding it open just a crack. The cab didn’t slow, but I swear I saw him in the back seat, again. Stalking me.
I slipped inside. The bartender and an older couple sitting across from him just stared at me. I let the door close behind me.
“You okay, buddy?”
“Yeah,” I said.
I just wanted to leave. But I couldn’t. He was out there. I was sure of it. Instead, I took a seat as far away from the other patrons as I could and fished my wallet out.
“Scotch with ice,” I said.
“Sure.”
As the guy fixed my drink, the couple lost interest. Slowly, my breathing returned to normal. He slid the Scotch across the oak surface, and I took a quick hit.
“You look familiar,” the guy said.
“Have you seen The Basement?” I asked with a sigh.
“Is that a band?”
My eyes narrowed. “No.”
“Huh. My name’s Brad.”
“Theo.”
“Have you been here before?”
“Nah,” I said.
“Damn. That’s going to drive me crazy. You live nearby?”
“No, I—”
“Oh, shit!” Brad said, drawing the interest of the couple again. “You’re that documentary guy.”
Annoyed, I said, “Um, yeah. The Basement.”
“From the news,” the guy said.
I froze. I swear the old guy slid closer, his face thirsty for drama. The inside of my mouth turned to sandpaper.
“The news?”
“Yeah,” Brad said. “That prison break in Maryland.”
“Delaware,” the old guy slurred.
“Right, Delaware. Dude, they’re looking for you.”
“Who is?”
“Like, everyone. The police.”
“Why?”
The guy laughed. “You don’t know why? That’s crazy, man. I guess that serial killer guy is after you.”
“That was on the news?”
Brad nodded, way too excited about everything. “They found some note he wrote. In his cell. It was all about you. They’re not saying what it said, exactly. But they said you need to go to the police, man. Like right away.”
The bartender jerked over to the television set and turned it on. The screen flashed to a news report already in progress. A young man stood outside the prison, microphone in hand.
A documentarian, known for his film The Basement, had recently visited the convicted serial killer. Authorities are asking Mr. Snyder to contact the Delaware State Police immediately. For his own safety.
Once again, the infamous Halo Killer is believed to be on the loose, somewhere in Sussex County, Delaware. Residents are asked to be vigilant but to avoid any confrontation.
“He might be coming here,” the old guy at the bar said.
“Oh, shit,” the bartender said through a throaty laugh. “Coming here? That’s fucking gnarly. But they just said he’s in Delaware.”
I got up off the stool, taking a step backward. “They’re wrong.”
“What?” the bartender asked. “You hear that! He might be here. You can stay, man. It’s cool. We’re not scared.”
Their heads pivoted like they were all watching a tennis match, from me to the TV and back.
“I gotta go,” I stammered, backing into a table.
Spinning, I hit the door, hard. It swung open far enough to slam into a stone planter. The glass panes rattled, echoing down the street.
“Dude,” Brad said from inside.
Then I was gone. In that moment, I realized I had only one chance to get out of this. I had to stop being the hunted. And be the hunter instead.