Free The Crucifix Killer by Chris Carter

can do here tonight.’
    It was past midnight when Hunter turned his old Buick into Saturn Avenue with Templeton Street in South Los Angeles. The entire street was in desperate need of refurbishment with its ageing buildings and neglected lawns. Hunter parked in front of his six-floor apartment block and stared at it for a moment. Its once striking yellow color had now faded to unappealing pastel beige and he noticed that the light bulbs above the doorway had been broken again. Inside the small entrance hall the walls were dirty, the paint had peeled off and gang graffiti made up most of its decoration. Despite its terrible state, he felt comfortable in the building.
    Hunter lived alone; no wife, no kids and no girlfriend. He’d had his share of steady relationships, but his job had a way of taking its toll on them. The dangerous RHD lifestyle wasn’t easy to cope with and girlfriends always ended up asking for more than he was prepared to give. Hunter didn’t mind so much being alone any more. It was his defense mechanism. If you have no one, they can’t be torn away from your life.
    Hunter’s apartment was located on the third floor, number 313. The living room was oddly shaped and the furniture looked as if it had been donated by Goodwill. A couple of mismatched chairs and a beaten-up black leatherette sofa were placed against the far wall. To its right, a small badly scratched wooden desk with a laptop computer, a three-in-one printer and a small table lamp. Across the room a stylish glass bar looked totally out of place. It was the only piece of furniture Hunter had purchased brand new and from a trendy shop. It held several bottles of Hunter’s biggest passion – single malt Scotch whisky. The bottles were arranged in a peculiar way that only he understood.
    He closed the living-room door behind him, turned on the lights and moved the dimmer switch to the ‘low ’ setting. He needed a drink. After pouring himself a double dose from the twenty-year-old bottle of Talisker, he dropped a single cube of ice in the glass.
    He couldn’t shake the faceless woman’s image from his mind. Every time he closed his eyes he could still see the carving on the back of her neck; he could still smell the pungent odor from that room. Could this be happening again? Could this be the same killer? And if yes, why has he started killing again? The questions kept coming and Hunter knew the answers wouldn’t follow at the same speed. He stirred the ice cube once around the glass with his index finger and brought it to his lips. The sour, peppery taste of the Talisker relaxed him.
    Hunter was certain that this would be another sleepless night, but he needed to somehow rest. He turned on the lights in the bedroom and emptied his pockets onto the bedside table. Car keys, house keys, some pocket change and a small piece of paper that read Call me – Isabella. A smile played on his lips as he remembered the whole morning incident.
    ‘ I can’t believe I suggested she was a hooker to her face ,’ he thought and the smile turned to laughter. He liked her sense of humor and her wit. She had thrown his sarcasm straight back at him. She was certainly different from most of the dull women he met in bars. He checked his watch. The time was coming up to one in the morning – too late. Perhaps he’d call her some other time.
    He walked to the kitchen and pinned Isabella’s note on a corkboard next to the fridge, before making his way back into the bedroom ready to fight insomnia.
    From the parking lot, hiding in the shadows a dark figure avidly observed the flicker of lights coming from the third-floor apartment.

 
Eleven

    Hunter managed to doze off a few times during the night, but that was the best he could do. By five-thirty in the morning he was up and feeling like he’d been hit by a truck. Gritty eyes, dry mouth and a nagging headache that would be with him throughout the rest of the day – all the signs of a sleep hangover. He