The Last Call: First Edition

By Mark Goodrick

In the gripping thriller, "The Last Call," Agent Alex Morgan confronts a relentless predator, Jacob Mercer, whose macabre masterpiece threatens everything Morgan holds dear. As secrets unravel and alliances are tested, Morgan navigates a treacherous path of betrayal, vengeance, and redemption. With the stakes higher than ever, Morgan mu

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page88 LLC
• Release date: Mar 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798887644752

Mark Goodrick

Mark Goodrick is an American author, originally from Muscatine, Iowa. Currently calling Tolar, Texas his home, with wife Jennifer. Mark draws inspiration from various sources, such as personal experiences, observations of the world around him, conversations with others, books, current events, and even dreams. Mark's storytelling prowess shines in genres ranging from horror, crime thriller, and paranormal.Other works: House of Evil

Book preview

Chapter 1

The First Call

F

BI Agent Alex

Morgan stepped out of the police car, feeling the crisp air nip at the edges of his worn leather jacket. The night was dark, and he could just barely make out the shapes of old buildings around him. A light snow was falling, making everything look peaceful and tranquil. He tugged his collar up to protect his neck from the cold wind that blew through the deserted alleyway as he approached an empty storefront. His boots crunched on the frozen ground, echoing in the silence. The only other sound was the soft whisper of snowflakes landing on his collar and shoulders. He pulled out a small notebook from his pocket and flipped it open, jotting down some notes about the scene while glancing around for any suspicious activity.

The ally was narrow, with dumpsters lining one side and a rust chain-link fence on the other. Graffiti covered most surfaces, including some discarded shipping containers that were now home to squatters or worse. Trash blew lazily in the wind, creating a wet slap against the dumpsters every now and then.

Havenwood, Louisiana normally a quiet town, suddenly held its breath under the dim glow of the streetlights. There was something off about this night.

The crime scene, tucked away in the narrow alley, felt like a secret the town had been keeping. The yellow tape whispered of a mystery Morgan was about to unravel. As he approached, a buzz from his phone sent a chill down Morgan’s spine—a mysterious message hinting at a game about to begin.

As Morgan answered the phone, Jacob Mercer’s distorted voice breaks through. Instead of immediately revealing the cryptic clue, Mercer starts with a chilling introduction.

Agent Morgan, Mercer’s voice hissed through the phone, each word laced with an unsettling calmness. I am the orchestrator of shadows, the conductor of chaos. You may call me Mercer. Mercer continued, The first call echoes in the silence. Will you listen, Agent?

A puzzle, a challenge. Morgan’s furrowed brow gave away the subtle unease, but years of experience masked it well. The atmosphere crackled with an impending storm, and the words on the phone were a dark prelude.

Colleagues, a mix of respect and wariness in their nods, approached the seasoned detective. Morgan, a figure of authority with a troubled history, faced the first victim—a lifeless body frozen in a moment that shattered the town’s illusion of peace.

In that moment, Havenwood transformed. The tranquility shattered, revealing a hidden darkness. As Morgan stared at the scene, a whispered promise lingered—this was just the beginning.

Chapter 2

One Step Behind

T

he dim glow

of the precinct’s fluorescent lights cast an almost spectral aura over the sparsely furnished room, where Agent Alex Morgan sat with a stoney expression carved into his features. Across from him, Agent Sarah Reynolds shifted uncomfortably, her gaze flickering between the erratic dance of shadows on the walls and the phone that lay silent between them.

Damn lights, Morgan grumbled, his voice low and gravelly as he glanced up at the flickering overhead with disdain. Gives this place the charm of a haunted house.

Reynolds gave a half-hearted chuckle, her nerves too frayed for genuine humor. "Wouldn’t be surprised if we see a ghost at this point," she said, trying to mask the tremor in her voice.

Let’s just hope it’s not the ghost of Mercer’s next victim haunting us, Morgan shot back, his eyes returning to the silent phone. The tension was palpable, the quiet anticipation hanging heavy like the smoke from Morgan’s discarded cigarette in the ashtray.

Any minute now, Morgan muttered, almost to himself, his jaw clenched tight enough to cause a dull ache. The darkness of the room seemed to creep closer with each passing second, as if the very shadows were alive and encroaching.

Alex, Reynolds started, her voice cutting through the stillness, you really think he’ll call? It’s been hours and—

He’ll call, Morgan interjected sharply, his certainty more for his own benefit than hers. Mercer enjoys the game too much not to.

The two of them sat there, bound by a shared tension that seemed to constrict tighter with each tick of the clock. The intermittent buzz of a faulty bulb above served as an unnerving metrodome of their waiting game. Morgan’s mind raced with the profiles, the crime scenes, the victims faces—all blurring together into a macabre tapestry only he could decipher.

Mercer is all about control, he mused aloud, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes never leaving the dormant phone. Every clue a breadcrumb leading us through his twisted labyrinth.

Feels like we’re always one step behind, Reynolds sighed, the edge of defeat creeping into her voice.

Only takes one step to get ahead, Morgan replied, his tone flat yet resolute. And when we do, this whole nightmare ends.

As the silence reclaimed its dominion over the room, Morgan felt the familiar burn of determination ignite within him. In this game of cat and mouse, he knew he couldn’t afford to be the latter. The killer was out there, weaving his web of death, and it was on them to cut through the silk strands before another got caught.

The precinct, with its flickering lights and oppressive atmosphere, became an island of anxious expectation—a beacon in the night that would lead them further into the heart of darkness.

The phone erupted into a shrill buzz that sliced through the heavy air of the precinct like a scalpel. Morgan’s hand, steady as a surgeon’s, snatched up the receiver in one fluid motion. He knew the voice on the other end belonged to death itself.

Agent Morgan, came the distorted whisper, chilling and soft like the caress of a snake. The second note awaits in the heart of Whispering Pines. Will you dance?

A cold prickling sensation crawled up Morgan’s spine—the kind that only Mercer’s voice could incite. The killer’s words hung in the room, malignant and mocking.

Whispering Pines, Morgan repeated, his mind churning with the implications. It wasn’t just a place; it was a promise of another twisted tableau waiting for them. Another display of Mercer’s perverse artistry.

Tick-tock, Alex, Mercer crooned, vowels stretching into a sinister lullaby, the clock is ticking.

Save the theatrics, Mercer, Morgan shot back, grip tightening around the receiver, knuckles turning white. We’re coming for you.

Ah, but which will it be? A waltz or a dirge? Mercer taunted before the line went dead, leaving only a dial tone to echo in its wake.

Damn him, Morgan whispered, slamming the receiver down. His mind was a swirling vortex of possibilities. Whispering Pines—a name he’d hoped never to hear fall from Mercer’s lips. It meant he was escalating, becoming more brazen with each life taken.

Alex? Reynolds’s voice cut through his thoughts, her eyes wide with concern and fear. But there was no time for consolation; every second wasted was a second Mercer gained.

Gear up, he commanded. We’re heading to Whispering Pines.

Another dance with the devil, she muttered under her breath as they both moved into action, their movements sharp and driven by a shared resolve to end Mercer’s reign of terror.

Whispering Pines, Morgan muttered, a cold draft sweeping through the crevices of his mind. A shiver ran down his spine as if the very name were etched in ice. Memories of past horrors in the godforsaken place clawed their way to the surface—a graveyard of cases, each headstone marked with Mercer’s unseen hand.

Let’s move, he barked, the urgency twisting inside him like barbed wire. His hands were steady as he holstered his weapon, but his heart thrummed an erratic rhythm.

Whispering Pines? Reynolds echoed, her voice a tremor of disbelief. That’s a long way from dead ends.

Long way from sanity too, Morgan quipped grimly, striding towards the door. He snatched his coat from the back of his chair, the leather creaking in protest. But then again, when did Mercer ever play by the rules?

Never took you for a dancer, Morgan. Reynolds’s attempt at humor was a thin veil over the tension that knotted the air.

Guess we’re about to find out if I lead or follow, he grunted, the ghost of a smirk fleeting across his lips. The exchange felt like a lifeline amidst the crashing waves of impending chaos.

Then let’s not keep the music waiting, she replied, falling into step beside him.

The Precinct receded behind them, a fortress abandoned as they ventured into the belly of the beast. Morgan’s gaze was locked ahead, yet his mind churned with the somber dance that awaited them under the whispering pines.

Agent Reynolds’s footsteps echoed down the corridor, rapid and resolute as they chased after Morgan’s retreating form. She rounded the corner just in time to see him shove through the double doors marked ‘Exit,’ his silhouette briefly framed against the fleeting light from outside before the doors swung shut with a decisive thud.

Alex! she called out, pushing through the same doors into the cool night air. Her breath misted before her, mingling with the faint haze of her own rising concern.

Morgan didn’t break stride, his figure cutting through the parking lot toward his unmarked car. The metallic jingle of his keys punctuated the silence like a prosecutor’s final argument—sharp, unavoidable.

Talk to me, she urged, closing the distance between them. Mercer gave us a location?

Whispering Pines, he said curtly, unlocking the driver’s side door. The car chirped its compliance, yellow hazard lights blinking twice in the dark.

Damn it, that’s not just another pin on the map, Alex. Reynolds could feel the weight of every unsolved file bearing down upon them. It’s Mercer’s playground.

Exactly. Morgan’s voice was steel wrapped in velvet—smooth but unyielding. He slid into the driver’s seat, the leather groaning under his weight. HIs hand moved to the ignition, fingers hesitating for a heartbeat over the key.

Another town means another victim, she continued, her hand resting on the roof of the car, a barrier to his departure. Another family ripped apart.

Which is why we can’t waste time. Morgan’s eyes met hers through the open window, a glint of something fierce and unspoken flashing within their depths. He’s escalating, Sarah. Each clue, each call—it’s all part of his sick symphony.

Then we’re what? The desperate duet chasing the final note? There was an edge to her voice, the raggedness of fear laced with determination.

Or the ones who will silence it once and for all. Morgan turned the key, the engine purring to life beneath them. Get in.

She hesitated, the gravity of the situation settling upon her shoulders like a mantle. Every second lost was a step Mercer took to get ahead of them, each tick of the clock a reminder of the lives hanging in the balance.

Sarah! Morgan’s tone brokered no argument, snapping her decision into place.

With a nod, she slid into the passenger seat, her body language tight with resolve. As Morgan maneuvered the car out of the precinct lot, the night seemed to swallow them whole, an abyss eager for their descent.

Internally, Morgan grappled with the implications of the latest clue. Whispering Pines had been a tombstone in his career, the case that nearly broke him. And now, Mercer was leading them back there, to dance on the graves both literal and metaphorical.

Alex, Reynold’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. We’ll catch him. We have to.

Hope you’re right, he muttered, shifting gears as they merged onto the highway. Because I’m damn tired of this dance.

The cruiser’s tires hummed a monotonous death march against the asphalt as Detective Morgan steered it through the winding roads that led to Whispering Pines. The town, cloaked in night’s embrace, was a sleeping beast with secrets tangled in its fur. Moonlight painted the quaint houses and storefronts with a silvery sheen, an ethereal touch that belied the darkness waiting in its heart.

Looks peaceful, Reynolds observed, her voice a stark contrast to the quiet. Too peaceful

Peace is a luxury we can’t afford tonight, Morgan replied, eyes fixed on the road ahead. His grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening—a silent testament to the tension coiling within him.

As they neared the outskirts of Whispering Pines, the moon emerged from behind a bank of clouds, casting elongated shadows that danced across the cruiser’s hood. It was as if the very light that revealed their path also whispered of the horrors lurking just beyond sight.

Feels like we’re driving into a damn ghost story, Reynolds muttered, her gaze locked on the ominous tableau unfolding outside her window.

Every ghost has its tale, Morgan said, the hint of a grim smile tugging at his lips. Let’s just hope ours doesn’t end in a bloodbath.

Fat chance with Mercer on the loose. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the belt across her chest like a shackle rather than a safeguard.

Morgan’s mind raced with the possibilities of what they would find in Whispering Pines—the images of past carnage blending with the fear of what new atrocities awaited discovery. The killer’s words echoed in his head, a macabre invitation: Will you dance?

Alex? Reynolds’s voice broke through his reverie. You’re clenching the wheel like it owes you money.

Sorry, he exhaled, forcing his hands to relax. Just thinking about our last tango with Mercer.

Let’s hope this dance ends with us leading. Her attempt at humor did little to lighten the atmosphere. And maybe with Mercer in cuffs instead of us stepping over bodies.

Optimistic, Morgan noted, as the car crested a hill and descended toward the heart of the small town. The moon hung low now, bathing Whispering Pines in a glow that seemed almost otherworldly. It was a cruel beauty, one that highlighted the eerie stillness of the streets.

Too quiet, Reynolds said, voicing the thought that had taken root in Morgan’s mind.

Quiet before the storm. He felt the familiar itch beneath his skin, the adrenaline surging in anticipation of the chaos that was sure to come. Mercer’s playing his game, and this is his board.

Then let’s make damn sure we’re not just pawns, she retorted, her hand resting on the door handle, ready for action.

Checkmate’s the goal, Morgan agreed, parking the cruiser under the deceptive serenity of the moonlit sky. They stepped out into the cool air, the silence enveloping them like a shroud.

Whispering Pines, Reynolds breathed out, looking up at the sky, the stars obscured by the glaring brightness of the moon. Never thought I’d find myself praying for daylight.

Daylight or dark, Mercer doesn’t care. Morgan checked his weapon, the sound of the chambering round a comforting click in the quiet. And neither can we. Let’s move

Together, they moved toward the center of the town, the moonlight guiding their steps and casting their elongated shadows ahead, as if reaching out to touch the darkness that awaited them.

The yellow tape was a stark slash across the night, an unwelcome banner that heralded another tableau of horror in Whispering Pines. Agent Morgan ducked under it, his eyes immediately scanning the scene. The ghost of Havenwood lingered like a specter over the grim arrangement of the body.

Jesus, Reynolds muttered beside him, her voice barely above a whisper as if scared to wake the dead.

Deja vu, Morgan replied tersely, his gaze fixed on the contorted figure sprawled beneath the skeletal frame of an old oak tree. It was posed similarly to the victim in Havenwood, right down to the arms splayed out in a twisted imitation of a macabre dance.

Same M.O.? Reynolds asked, her flashlight beam hopping across the grass, highlighting the dew like droplets of blood.

Looks like it. Morgan’s jaw tensed, muscles working as he crouched near the lifeless form. Mercer’s got a signature alright."

Victim’s a woman, mid-thirties… She trailed off, her professional mask slipping for a moment to reveal the strain beneath.

Any ID? He didn’t take his eyes from the corpse; a story was written there, one he needed to decipher.

Nothing yet. Wallet’s missing, jewelry gone.

Mercer’s not interested in robbery, Morgan said, his mind churning. Patterns played at the edge of his thoughts, elusive and mocking. There’s a message here.

Same as Havenwood, then. But what’s he telling us?

Morgan stood, circling the crime scene, his every step deliberate. Moonlight washed over the scene, casting long shadows that seemed to reach towards them with silent accusation.

Whispering Pines, he murmured, almost to himself. Havenwood. Forests. Seclusion. Isolation.

Is that the connection? Reynolds followed his gaze, trying to pierce the veil of night that held its secrets tight.

Could be, Morgan conceded, but his frown deepened. The victims themselves were different as day and night—one a young man, the other this woman. Their lives didn’t intersect; their worlds were poles apart. Yet here they were, bound by death in a grotesque mimicry of life.

Two dancers waiting for the music to start. Or has it already begun? Sarah mused darkly, stepping back from the body.

Mercer’s conducting this symphony, Morgan said, his voice low and edged with anger. And he’s damn sure we hear every note.

Then let’s turn the volume up on him, she responded, a fire kindling in her eyes despite the chill of the night.

Agreed, Morgan took one last sweeping look at the crime scene, the wheels in his head spinning faster. There had to be a rhythm, a reason behind the killer’s choice of stage and players.

Let’s canvas the area, talk to the locals. Someone must’ve seen or heard something. His tone signaled the shift from observer to hunter.

Right behind you, boss. Reynolds nodded, her hand instinctively resting on her gun.

Morgan and Reynolds, their minds still wrestling with the crime scene they just visited and collected evidence from, hurried back to their cruiser. As Morgan started the engine, the low hum of the vehicle seemed to echo the tension in the air. Just as they settled in, the police radio crackled to life, a dispassionate voice delivering grim news.

All units, we’ve got a report of two bodies found at 42 Maple Street. Possible homicide. Over.

Morgan’s jaw tightened, a terse curse escaping his lips. He turned to Reynolds, his eyes reflecting the weight of the situation. Fuck, let’s go. The urgency in his voice mirrored the escalating stakes of their investigation. Without wasting a moment, he accelerated the cruiser, its tires screeching as they peeled out of their current location, racing towards the new crime scene that awaited them at 42 Maple Street.

They moved through the night, each step taking them deeper into the mystery that Jacob Mercer had laid out for them. With every clue that eluded them, Morgan’s resolve tightened. He would find the pattern, the key that would unlock the dance of death Mercer had choreographed. And when he did, the final curtain would fall.

The shattered glass crunched under Agent Morgan’s boots as he surveyed the dimly lit living room of the latest crime scene in Whispering Pines. Agent Reynolds followed closely, her breath visible in the cold air, misting with each exhalation like a spectral warning.

Same M.O., she whispered, gesturing to the meticulous arrangement of objects around the corpses. It’s almost surgical.

Except surgeons save lives, Morgan grunted, his eyes scanning the grotesque scenery. A pair of bodies was positioned mid-waltz, their faces frozen in silent screams, hands locked in an eternal embrace. He crouched, examining the intricate lacing of the woman’s shoes—double knotted with care that mocked their grim fate.

Every knot, every fold…it’s a message, Morgan mused aloud, voice barely louder than the hum of the fluorescent lights above. His gaze traced the curve of the man’s bowtie, tied with precision that belied the chaos of death.

His calling card, Reynolds added, her finger hovering over the note pinned to the man’s chest but not touching it. He wants us to read it, to try and understand.

Understand? Morgan scoffed, standing upright again, his shadow looming over the scene. This isn’t about understanding; it’s about control. The detective stepped back, his mind churning with the implications of Mercer’s audacity. He choreographs these scenes like a maestro, each one more elaborate than the last.

Speaking of elaborate, Reynolds said, pointing toward the fireplace mantel where a single, blood-red rose lay beside a framed photograph knocked askew. That wasn’t at Havenwood.

Morgan approached, his hand encased in a latex glove reaching for the photograph. It was an image of Whispering Pines’ main street, innocent and unassuming, yet now tainted by the horror that had unfolded within its borders. He’s weaving a narrative, Sarah. And we’re merely characters in his sick story.

Characters who will rewrite the ending, she replied defiantly, her own gloves snapping against her wrists as she prepared to collect the flower.

Damn right, he muttered, his jaw clenching. The killer’s game was escalating, the clues were becoming both clearer and more obscure, guiding them through a macabre dance they were desperate to end.

Let’s bag and tag everything, Morgan instructed, the urgency clear in his brisk motions. Every fiber, every print. Mercer’s slipping up; he has to be.

Optimism, from you? I’m shocked, Reynolds quipped, though her humor couldn’t dispel the gravity of their task.

Call it what you want, Morgan replied, his eyes never leaving the morbid scene. But I call it a hunt. And the prey just left fresh tracks.

Then let’s follow them, she said, determination etched into her features as she worked alongside him, each piece of evidence collected another step closer to the killer’s undoing.

Their movements were methodical, mirroring the precision of the crime scene itself. It was a message, a challenge from Jacob Mercer—a challenge Morgan intended to accept.

Morgan’s cell rang, he answered dutifully.

Shadows meet echoes, Agent Morgan, The voice hissed through the phone, a distorted whisper that slithered into the room, making even the shadows seem to recoil. Will you find the harmony?

Morgan’s fingers tightened around the receiver, knuckles bleaching white as Mercer’s words set a sinister waltz spinning in his mind. He glanced at Reynolds, whose pen had ceased its dance across her notepad, her eyes wide with anticipation.

Harmony in chaos, Mercer? Morgan’s response was a growl, the words clipped and cold. You’re out of tune if you think we won’t catch you.

Ah, but the music is all about the tension before the resolve, the killer crooned. Will you be sharp enough, or will you fall flat?

The line went dead, leaving a charged silence in its wake. Morgan threw the phone into his pocket, a surge of adrenaline igniting his veins like wildfire. He paced, the image of Whispering Pines flashing behind his eyes, each step echoing Mercer’s invitation.

Shadows meet echoes, he mused aloud, his mind racing through the maze of Mercer’s psyche. An acoustic phenomenon? A physical location?

Or a metaphor, Reynolds interjected, her brow furrowed in thought. He loves his games, doesn’t he?

Too much, Morgan spat, the taste of the puzzle bitter on his tongue. He could almost feel Mercer’s delight, the thrill of the chase palpable even from afar.

Think, Alex, he commanded himself silently. Where does sound play tricks? Where does light falter?

An auditorium? A cave? Hell, an underpass at night? Reynolds offered, trying to piece together the riddle.

Maybe, Morgan acknowledged, but his gut churned with the sense that it was something more, something they were missing.

Meet echoes, he repeated to himself. The words felt heavy, loaded with a significance he couldn’t quite grasp. Mercer’s mind is a twisted symphony, each call another note in his sick sonata.

Then we’ll be the crescendo he doesn’t expect, Reynolds declared, her determination a stark contrast to the weight of dread that clung to the dimly lit precinct.

Right. He fixed her with a look that brokered no argument. We need to comb through every word, every crime scene photo again. Anything that remotely fits the profile of ‘shadows meet echoes.’

Whatever this ‘harmony’ is, he wants us to see it, to understand it, Morgan muttered, the profiler part of him dissecting the killer’s taunt for deeper meaning. And I’ll be damned if I let this psychopath conduct the play.

Let’s go to it then, Reynolds said, rolling up her sleeves. This bastard’s overture ends now.

Ends with him behind bars, Morgan added, his voice a fierce whisper. They shared a nod, and the silent agreement that echoed between them was louder than any siren—the hunt was on, and Jacob Mercer’s twisted game was nearing its final, deadly crescendo.

The car door slammed with a finality that echoed in the empty street, its sound merging with the distant hoot of an owl. Agent Morgan and Agent Reynolds stood side by side on the gravel, their silhouettes casting long shadows under the waxing moon.

Another riddle, Morgan spat, his breath visible in the cold night air. He’s playing us like pawns on his sick chessboard.

Then let’s not be predictable, Reynolds replied, her voice as steel as the service weapon at her hip. They walked briskly to their unmarked cruiser, determination etched in their hurried steps.

Morgan slipped behind the wheel, the leather groaning beneath him. His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, as he revved the engine to life. The crime scene at Whispering Pines had been a picture of horror—blood spattered like grotesque art, the victim’s eyes wide open in silent scream.

Patterns, he muttered, windshield wipers batting away the mist that crept up from nowhere. What are we missing?

Shadows meet echoes, Reynolds pondered aloud, her gaze fixed on the blurry road ahead. It’s too damn cryptic.

Everything he does is intentional, Morgan growled, the profiler in him dissecting every word Mercer had whispered into their lives. There’s a message in madness.

The car hummed along the darkened highway, the only light coming from the dashboard and the occasional flicker of a streetlamp as they passed. Each mile brought them closer to the precinct, but further into uncertainty.

His confidence will be his downfall, Reynolds said, breaking the silence that had settled. He wants us to find the harmony? We’ll find it, alright.

Harmony in chaos, order in the disarray, Morgan mused, his mind racing through the images of both crime scenes. Havenwood, now Whispering Pines; each echo of violence was a note in Mercer’s twisted melody.

Two towns bathed in moonlight, four lives snuffed out, Reynolds murmured, her profile stoic against the passing glow of the night. What’s the connection?

Morgan’s grip on the wheel tightened. We’ll dig through every file, retrace every step. His voice was a blade, cutting through the darkness. We won’t rest until this son of a bitch is caged.

Agreed, she nodded sharply, her resolve unwavering.

They drove in companionable silence, the soft purr of the engine a cocoon around them, shielding them from the horrors they’d witnessed. Yet, it was a fragile barrier, one easily torn by the claws of the unsolved and hungry jaws of danger.

Every victim tells a story, Morgan finally said, the red and blue lights of the precinct looming ahead. And Mercer’s victims are screaming."

Then let’s give them a voice, Reynolds replied, her hand resting on the door handle as they pulled into the parking lot. Justice will be their requiem.

Morgan cut the engine, the sudden quiet a stark contrast to the cacophony of the crime scene. They stepped out into the night once more, the precinct’s fluorescent lights flickering like Morse code—calling them to action, summoning them to the fray.

"Let’s end this," Morgan said, his eyes reflecting the steely determination that matched Reynolds’s own. Together, they entered the building, the weight of the unsolved pushing them forward, the promise of justice fueling their relentless pursuit.

Chapter 3

Unveiling the Pattern

A

gent Alex Morgan

stared at the rain-slicked streets through the windshield of his unmarked police cruiser, fingers drumming on the steering wheel as he replayed the events of the night before. He could feel the chill that had crawled up his spine when he’d come face-to face with Jacob Mercer—the man responsible for the gruesome trail of bodies littering the city.

Morgan took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart, and turned up the volume on the radio. The news reporter’s voice crackled through the speakers, painting an all-too-familiar picture of another mutilated corpse found in a deserted alley.

Christ, he muttered under his breath, gripping the wheel tighter.

Alex, you okay? asked his partner Agent Sarah Reynolds, who sat in the passenger seat. She eyed him with concern, her brows furrowed.

Fine, he snapped, a little harsher than intended. He glanced at her apologetically but didn’t elaborate further. Reynolds nodded, respecting his need for silence.

As they cruised through the dark, rain-drenched streets, Morgan couldn’t help but reflect on his recent encounter with Mercer. The man was a ghost, always one step ahead, leaving behind only the grisly remnants of his sick symphony of death. Each scene had been meticulously orchestrated, as if taunting the detectives with his twisted genius.

Something’s gotta give, he whispered, as much to himself as to Sarah. We can’t keep chasing shadows.

Agreed, she replied solemnly. But we’ll catch him, Alex. You know we will.

Will we? he said, swallowing hard. Or are we just pawns in his game?

Enough of that talk, Sarah admonished gently. We’re not going to let him win. We’ve just got to be smarter, more resourceful. Remember, we’re the good guys.

Morgan let out a humorless chuckle. Good guys, huh? Feels like we’re losing.

Sometimes it feels that way, she admitted. But trust me, Alex—we’ll get him.

He nodded, trying to believe her words. The rain continued to fall, matching the rhythm of Morgan’s troubled thoughts as he grappled with the reality of his face-off with Jacob Mercer, and the looming darkness that threatened to consume them all.

The smell of blood and decay lingered in the air, thick and suffocating as Morgan stood in the warehouse, a grim monument to Mercer’s grisly handiwork. The bodies of his victims hung from meat hooks, their lifeless eyes staring accusingly at him.

Jesus Christ, Reynolds muttered, her face pale with horror. This is worse than anything we’ve seen before.

Morgan nodded in agreement, his stomach churning as he fought to keep his composure. This was beyond any nightmare he had ever imagined. He could feel the weight of the victims’ suffering bearing down on him, their silent cries for justice echoing through the cold, empty space.

Look at this, Reynolds said, pointing to a bloodstained note pinned to one of the corpses. Another damn message from Mercer.

Read it, Morgan ordered, his voice barely a whisper.

Your time is running out, Agent Morgan. Reynolds read aloud. The final act is upon us. Can you unravel my symphony before it reaches its crescendo?

Son of a bitch, Morgan spat, clenching his fists so hard that his knuckles turned white. He’s taunting us, Sarah. He knows we’re getting closer to catching him, but he keeps slipping through our fingers.

Then let’s make sure this is the last time he gets away, Reynolds replied, her eyes filled with determination. We’ll decipher his twisted messages and put an end to his sick game once and for all.

Damn right, we will, Morgan agreed, a steely resolve settling over him. But deep within, doubt gnawed at him like a ravenous beast. What if they were too late? What if Mercer’s grand finale was already in motion?

Mercer’s cryptic messages…We need to crack them, Morgan said, forcing himself to focus. There must be a pattern, something we’ve overlooked.

Okay, Reynolds said, her voice wavering slightly. Let’s go through them again. Maybe we’ll spot something new this time.

As they poured over the notes, Morgan couldn’t shake the feeling that they were missing something crucial, a key to Mercer’s twisted mind that would unlock the secrets of his dark symphony. He could almost hear the clock ticking, each second bringing them closer to the dreaded climax.

Time’s running out, he murmured, desperation creeping into his voice. We have to stop him, Sarah. We have to…

Alex, she interrupted gently, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. We will. We just need to keep searching for the answers. They’re there—we just need to find them.

He stared into her eyes, drawing strength from her unwavering faith in their ability to bring Mercer to justice. But as they returned to their grim task, Morgan couldn’t help but wonder if they were already too late to prevent the final, deadly note from being played.

Everybody, gather ‘round! Morgan barked as he strode into the precinct’s bustling conference room. The chatter of his fellow agents died down as they took their seats, eyes locked on him with an intensity that mirrored his own.

Alright, Morgan began, his voice terse and heavy with urgency. We need to discuss Mercer’s patterns, his behavior. His clock is ticking, and we’re running out of time.

He paused for a moment, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. He could see the tension in the faces around the table—drawn expressions, furrowed brows, the occasional nervous fidget. They all knew what was at stake, and the enormity of their task hung over them like a dark cloud.

Let’s start with the crime scenes, he said, clicking on the projector and displaying images of the gruesome murder sites they have visited. There’s something we’ve missed, some clue that will give us insight into this sick bastard’s mind.

Look at the way he stages the bodies, Reynolds chimed in, her finger tracing the outline of a mutilated corpse on the screen. It’s like he’s trying to create a twisted form of art. There has to be a method to his madness.

Right, Morgan replied, nodding in agreement. But what? What’s the connection between the victims, the locations, the manner of death?

Maybe it’s not about the victims themselves, Agent Ramirez suggested, his brow furrowing in thought. Maybe it’s about the message he wants to send or the image he wants to create.

Or maybe it’s a game to him, added Agent Thompson, her eyes narrowed with disgust. Maybe he enjoys watching us chase our tails while he stays one step ahead.

Morgan felt a cold shiver crawl up his spine at the thought. If this truly was a game to Mercer, just how far was he willing to go to ensure his victory? And what would that mean for Morgan and his team?

Whatever it is, Morgan said through gritted teeth, we need to figure it out. We need to get inside this sick fuck’s head and anticipate his next move.

Alright, Reynolds said, determined. Let’s go over everything again—every detail, no matter how small. There has to be something, some pattern or clue that we’ve overlooked.

As the team dove into their grim task, Morgan couldn’t help but feel that they were fighting a losing battle. But failure wasn’t an option; there were lives at stake, and he’d be damned if he let Mercer claim another victim.

Keep digging, he muttered to himself, his eyes scanning the gruesome images on the screen as he searched for answers. We’ll find you, Mercer. One way or another, we’ll find you.

The rain pattered against the window as Agent Morgan