For now, p.8
For Now, page 8
"Fine," she finally said, her tone clipped and terse. "But don't think we're done here. I've got my eye on you."
As Anton rummaged through the box, Morgan remained vigilant, watching his every move like a hawk. Her mind raced with possibilities, trying to piece together the fragments of information she had gathered so far. But no matter how hard she tried, the puzzle remained frustratingly incomplete.
"Here," Anton said at last, holding out a file with trembling hands. "Gretchen Smith's file."
***
The sun had begun its descent as Morgan and Derik sat in the car parked outside the denture clinic. A faint orange glow washed over the dashboard, casting shadows on the pages of Gretchen's file spread across Morgan's lap. She opened Gretchen's file, her eyes hungrily consuming every word on the pages.
"Listen to this," she said, tapping an entry with her finger. "Gretchen had implants fitted a few months ago.”
"Which means whoever removed them knew what they were doing," Derik added, his brows furrowed in thought. "They'd need specialized equipment to do it without causing serious damage."
"Exactly." Morgan chewed on her lower lip, the gears in her mind turning rapidly. "So our killer has access to that kind of equipment. Maybe they're a dentist or an oral surgeon?"
"Could be," Derik agreed, his eyes locked onto hers. "But we should consider other possibilities as well. Anyone could buy that kind of equipment online these days. It's a lead, but not a guarantee."
"True," Morgan admitted, her frustration mounting. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the steering wheel, trying to keep her anger at bay. "But it's better than nothing. We need to follow up on this." Morgan's gaze flicked back to the file, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the information. "The dentist who fitted Gretchen's implants was a guy named Tom Orchard," she said, tapping the name with her finger. "I think we should look into him." She took a deep breath, trying to still the storm of frustration and anger that threatened to consume her.
“Agreed,” Derik said. "We can't afford to overlook anything, especially now that there's been a second victim."
Morgan nodded, her grip on the steering wheel tightening once again. Her thoughts whirred like a tornado, scattering fragments of the case around in her mind. The teeth, the sandbox, the zoo, and now this Tom Orchard – all pieces in a macabre jigsaw puzzle that refused to fit together.
She sighed, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle into her bones. She needed a break, a moment to step back and reassess everything they had learned so far. But with each passing second, the pressure continued to mount, a relentless force driving her forward. She had to keep moving, had to find the answers before someone else got hurt. But she hadn't even taken the time to eat today. It felt like a lifetime ago she'd been walking Skunk on the beach, only to come across Mary's body. Then she'd been searching through Lorenzo's clinic, interrogating Skipper, then finding Lorenzo in that squatter house... and now, already, another body had dropped. It was too much for one day, and Morgan's head spun, her brain struggling to process all the information.
"Hey," Derik said, breaking the silence, and Morgan glanced over to see a hesitant look on his face. "You were a bit harsh back there with the perp, don't you think?"
Morgan bristled at Derik's comment, her anger flaring up again. "What, you think I should have gone easy on him?" she snapped. "He's hiding something, I know it. And if he has anything to do with Gretchen's death, then he deserves whatever's coming to him."
"I'm not saying you should let him off the hook," Derik replied, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "But maybe try a different approach. Build some rapport with him. Gain his trust. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, you know."
Morgan scoffed. "You know me, Derik. I'm 'honey' when I need to be. I didn't think the guy was going to break his ankle, and he's the one who ran off."
"True, I just think we handled this one poorly. Now a perp is hurt, and if he's truly innocent, then we could get in shit. We need to be more tactful."
"I didn't ask for a lecture."
"I know," Derik replied, his tone placating. "But I just want to make sure we don't let our emotions get the best of us. This case is already taking a toll on all of us, and we need to be careful."
Morgan let out a deep sigh, her fingers drumming nervously against the steering wheel. She knew Derik was right. They couldn't afford to make any mistakes, not with a killer on the loose. But the pressure was mounting, and she could feel herself cracking under the weight of it all.
"I need a break," she muttered, her voice barely audible. It wasn't often that Morgan admitted she needed to take a step back, but now was one of those times. She was exhausted, and her brain felt scrambled.
Just then, Derik's cell phone rang, jolting both of them out of their thoughts. He glanced at the screen before answering, his brow furrowing with concern. "It's Mueller," he warned Morgan, lowering his voice as he picked up the call.
Morgan tried not to eavesdrop, focusing instead on the file in her hands. But when she heard her own name spoken by Derik, she couldn't help but listen in.
"Mueller wants to talk to you," Derik said, covering the phone's microphone with his hand.
"Me?" Morgan asked, feeling a sudden knot in her stomach. "What about?"
"I don't know, but it doesn't sound good."
With a deep breath, Morgan started the car and pulled away from the clinic, already dreading the confrontation that awaited them at the FBI headquarters. As they drove, she couldn't shake the feeling that their fragile progress was about to be shattered, leaving them once again grasping at straws in the dark.
CHAPTER TEN
The sound of metal scraping against bone filled the dimly lit room as he hunched over his latest trophy, meticulously carving away at it with a chisel. He hummed to himself, a lighthearted tune that juxtaposed the gruesome nature of his task. It always fascinated him how delicate the human body could be, even after death. In these quiet moments, he felt a sense of connection to his victims, an intimacy that he never experienced in life.
"Ah, there we go," he whispered, admiring his handiwork as he brushed away the bone dust from the now-perfectly smooth surface. A wicked grin spread across his face. This particular trophy was special to him - it had put up quite a struggle, which only heightened the thrill of the hunt. The trophies, each one a tiny piece of his victims, were arranged neatly on shelves around the room, like the macabre collection of a demented curator.
Each one tells a story, he mused, running his fingers along the polished surfaces. A moment in time, forever preserved. His eyes flickered to the next victim in line, their photograph pinned to the wall, and his heart raced with anticipation.
As he continued with his morbid ritual, memories of her invaded his thoughts. She had been the first person to truly see him for who he was, recognizing the darkness lurking beneath the surface. Even back then, the seeds of his obsession with death had been planted - an insatiable curiosity that would eventually drive him down this twisted path.
"Such a shame you couldn't understand me," he muttered to the memory of the woman, feeling a pang of nostalgia. "But I've grown beyond you now."
The low hum of the fluorescent light overhead cast sickly shadows onto the concrete walls as he meticulously arranged his latest "trophies" on a cold metal table. His basement lair was devoid of any warmth or humanity, a reflection of the void within him. The air was damp and musty, clinging to the skin like an unwelcome embrace. But he thrived in this type of darkness. It was where he belonged.
"That was what you said, wasn't it, Mildred?"
A chill ran down his spine as he surveyed his surroundings. There were no family photos, no personal decorations that might offer a glimpse into the man behind the monster. Instead, his domain was characterized by its stark plainness, a blank canvas that seemed to mock him with its emptiness.
His eyes were drawn to an old wooden chest tucked away in a corner, a strange contrast to the clinical efficiency of the rest of the basement. Peering inside, he found a haphazard collection of peculiar items: locks of hair, antique keys, and scraps of fabric, each one holding a special significance known only to him.
And, of course, there were teeth.
Her teeth.
"Such beautiful reminders," he murmured, his fingertips caressing each item, feeling a connection to their history and the lives they had once touched.
It was the smell of lavender that brought it all back - the cloying scent that had filled the room. He remembered how her frail fingers wrapped around a cup of tea.
"Drink up, dear," she would coo, her voice cracked with age, yet warm and inviting. "It'll help soothe your nerves."
He remembered sitting at the kitchen table, barely able to meet her gaze as he clutched the steaming mug in his hands. The warmth seeped into his skin, but it did nothing to quell the tempest raging within him.
"Thank you," he had mumbled, taking a gulp of the bitter tea. "You're so kind to me."
"Of course, dear," she replied, her clouded eyes studying him with concern. "I worry about you, you know? You've always seemed so...troubled."
His heart raced as he recalled those words, an echo of the truth that had been lurking within him for as long as he could remember.
"Troubled," he whispered to himself, his thoughts drifting back to the present. He glanced at the grisly trophies strewn about his workspace, the carvings he'd made out of teeth and bone.
"Each one of you," he murmured, caressing a lock of hair tied with a ribbon. "A part of my story, my journey to becoming who I am today."
He allowed himself a moment to revel in the memories of previous hunts - the exhilaration of stalking his prey, the rush of adrenaline as he closed in, and the ultimate satisfaction of claiming his prize. Those moments were what sustained him, driving him to continue down this twisted path.
Mildred never knew, he thought, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. She saw the darkness within me, but she could never have fathomed the depths of my depravity.
As the memories dissipated, leaving behind only the cold reality of his present existence, he steeled himself for the task ahead. There was no turning back now - he had embraced the monster within, and it consumed him completely.
And he had to admit, it was a fun game to play. Especially now that there was someone out there... someone looking for him.
His eyes scanned the dimly lit basement, pausing only for a moment on the peculiar collection of oddities that adorned his sanctuary. He had meticulously planned for this moment, savoring the anticipation of watching the FBI squirm like worms under his thumb.
"Agent Morgan Cross," he whispered, her name feeling like an incantation upon his lips.
His fingers danced across the newspaper clippings, photographs, and detailed notes he had amassed about her. Morgan Cross, the hardened forty-year-old agent who had spent time in prison after being framed for murder. She intrigued him – a puzzle piece that seemed to defy his ability to fully understand her. And in that enigma, he saw opportunity.
"Ten years," he mused, feeling the weight of those lost years pressing down on him. "What would it take to bring you crumbling down?"
He strode toward a large map pinned to the wall, marking every location where his victims had been found. The intricate web of lines and symbols etched into the surface were like an encoded message only he could decipher. His heart raced as he considered the impact his next move would have on not just Agent Cross, but the entire investigation.
"Chaos," he murmured, his voice barely audible even to himself. "A storm they'll never see coming."
He retrieved a small box from beneath a stack of books, its nondescript exterior betraying the explosive contents within. With each careful movement, he felt the power coursing through his veins – the thrill of knowing that he held their fates in his hands.
"Let them scramble in the darkness," he said, reveling in the image of confusion and fear that would grip the FBI once his plan was set in motion. "And when they least expect it, I'll strike. Isn't that right, Mildred?"
The rocking chair in the corner of the room creaked, but Mildred didn't answer. She never did, not anymore.
But he didn't need her.
He only needed to give into the darkness, and that was exactly what he would do.
The FBI had no idea what was coming for them next.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Morgan stood in Assistant Director Mueller's office, the dim light casting ominous shadows on his face as he glowered at her from behind his desk. She clenched her jaw, mentally preparing herself for the verbal lashing she knew was coming.
"Agent Cross," Mueller began, his voice low and even. "I heard about your little incident today. The perp you were looking into tripped, twisted his ankle, and now it turns out he has no connection to the crime. To top it all off, he might be suing."
Morgan tried to keep her expression neutral, but her mind raced. How did Mueller find out so quickly? She glanced down at her hands, remembering how she'd grasped the steering wheel with white-knuckled fury after Derik had relayed the news to her. Her heart pounded at the thought of him betraying her trust, but then again, Derik had seemed worried about getting in trouble too. There was a chance that he was just hearing it because Anton reported it.
"Assistant Director, I—" she started, but Mueller raised a hand to silence her.
"Save it, Cross. I don't need excuses. What I do need is for you to be more careful." He leaned back in his chair, studying her. "You're usually more methodical than this. What happened?"
She forced herself to focus on Mueller's question and replied, "I didn't expect Anton to run off like that, sir. It wasn't my intention for him to get hurt."
"Intentions don't change outcomes, Agent Cross," Mueller said sharply. "Get it together. We can't afford any more screw-ups on this case."
Her face flushed with anger and frustration, Morgan nodded stiffly. "Understood, sir."
Assistant Director Mueller's gaze bore into Morgan, his steely eyes unyielding. "You need to be more careful, Cross," he stated firmly, leaning forward and placing his hands on the desk, the weight of his authority pressing down on her. "I'll handle the situation with Anton, but you can't just go barging into establishments in broad daylight with your gun drawn. Use some discretion."
Morgan clenched her jaw, her frustration threatening to spill over. She forced a measured breath through her nostrils and stared back at Mueller, her eyes defiant. "I'm doing my job, sir," she gritted out. "I didn't expect Anton to panic and run like that. It wasn't my fault he broke his ankle, and I resent the implication that it was."
Mueller held her gaze for a moment before sighing heavily, his expression softening ever so slightly. "Regardless of whose fault it is, we can't afford any more missteps like this. Keep it together, Cross," he said, his voice firm yet not unkind. Morgan had a long, tenuous relationship with Mueller, but somewhere along the line, they’d found some sort of understanding. And besides, Morgan didn't want Mueller hating her too much, not anymore. There was a time when she didn't care, but that was before she saw the photo of Mueller with a young version of her father. If her father really had been in the FBI, and the photo had been real, then Mueller knew him. And had been keeping it from her.
As far as Morgan knew, Mueller could be in on all of it. On framing her she went to prison. Part of her didn't believe that, but she also knew she couldn't trust anyone. And Mueller did enjoy chastising her.
"Something on your mind, Cross?" he pressed, his stern eyes boring into hers from across his desk.
Morgan hesitated for a moment, her heart racing. She knew she needed to tread carefully, but the thought of confronting Mueller about her father was too tempting to resist. "Actually, sir," she began, her voice steady. "There is something that's been weighing on my mind."
Mueller raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "Go on," he said, leaning back in his chair.
Morgan took a deep breath before continuing. "I was going through some old family photos recently and I found one of you with my father," she said, watching Mueller's expression closely. "From when you were both young."
Mueller's expression twisted. "Your father? Can I see this photo?"
"I don't have it on me, obviously," Morgan shot back. "I was very surprised and confused by it. You knew my father... and I had no idea."
"I didn't know either, Cross," Mueller said. "What was his name?"
"Christopher Cross," Morgan shot back.
If Mueller knew anything, he wasn't showing it. His expression remained a natural confusion, as though he truly didn't know who she was talking about. Morgan wondered if she'd just made a huge mistake.
"Do you have a photo of the man?" Mueller asked.
Morgan clammed up, realizing that maybe there was more to this than she realized. Was it possible her father had hidden his identity?
Did he change his name?
If Morgan showed a photo of him to Mueller, then... maybe it wouldn't go as she hoped. Maybe she'd be slipping up, letting Mueller know too much.
A knot formed in Morgan's stomach as she considered her options. She could show Mueller a photo of her father and risk exposing herself, or she could keep quiet and continue to investigate on her own. She decided to play it safe for now.
"I don't have a photo with me," she lied, hoping Mueller wouldn't press the issue. "But I'll try to find one and bring it to you as soon as possible."
Mueller seemed to accept her answer for now. "Alright," he said, leaning back in his chair. "It's possible him and I just met casually at some point. I'd have to see his face. Dallas can be a small town sometimes, you know."
Morgan nodded briskly, her mind already working on a plan to find a picture of her father that wouldn't expose too much. She doubted Mueller's explanation, but she knew she couldn't push too hard without risking her already tenuous position in the FBI. "Understood, sir," she said, forcing a smile. "I'll get on that right away."
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