Chapter One - Blending In

A cool, autumn afternoon sky lay over the suburb of Fairview. In the nearby park, a man in his thirties chases after his young son, playing a game of run from the monster. An elderly lady places a dish of apple pie on the window sill to cool, while her grandkids eye the delicious pie greedily. A young woman, no older than nineteen or twenty, can be seen jogging around the neighbourhood, her slim and toned figure a symbol of her commitment to regular exercise. Across the street, a bunch of teenage boys eye the jogging girl and make snide comments about her appearance. All too common on a regular Sunday autumn afternoon. As brown and red leaves float about in the breeze, a black Mercedes quietly makes its way down the cobblestone street. Being a rather exclusive area, the locals pay little attention to the familiar look of the Mercedes vehicle, opting instead to focus on their more important matters. Inside the car, the driver smiles to himself as he watches the ignorant rich folk of the area dismissing his vehicle a turn of the head. Ignorant fools, he smirks to himself, adjusting his dark sunglasses. Turning his head to check the passing letterboxes, he momentarily takes his hands off the leather steering wheel to adjust his suit. Clutching at the unfamiliar feel of a business suit, he attempts to undo the top button, but to no avail. Stuck tight. Running his hands through his short, style-cut black hair, the driver pulls over to the side as he hears the familiar call of a transmission waiting. Pressing his finger to his ear, he mutters, “Yes?” “About time you picked up,” answeredan annoyed voice. The driver smirked to himself as he recognised the voice. “Ah, they didn’t mention that you would be my contact.” “Well, i am, so deal with it,” the sharp voice responded. “Have you got yourself in position?” “If you mean have i had enough of driving an expensive luxury car through a local neighbourhood full of pompous bastards, then yes, i am” the driver replied. Inhaling sharply, the voice on the other end hissed, “I swear to God almighty, once i get my hands on you... Chuckling, the driver turned to look out the window once more and spotted a blue Mazda pulling up into the driveway of a nearby house. “He’s home,” the driver sniped, pulling out a pair of binoculars from the glovebox. Zooming in, he could clearly see the familiar features of the man. “Okay,” the voice on the other end replied in a serious tone. “You know what you have to do.” “Right,” the driver answered, chucking the binoculars back into the glovebox. Opening the door of the car, he got out and made his way around to the boot of the car. Slipping his key into the lock, he gave it a quick twist and pulled the cover up. Lying in the trunk was an ornately decorated collection of knives and blades. Pulling out a medium-length serrated knife, he slipped it up his sleeve and quickly closed the boot cover. “James Matherson,” the voice droned. “Aged 42. Convicted felon, responsible for the death of four people. Was only convicted

on one of these murders, and given fifteen years in jail for supposed manslaughter.” “What evidence do you we have that he was responsible for the other three people’s deaths?” the driver muttered, as he stared at the closing garage door. “Evidence that he was present at the site of the other three murders, but was let off by the skill of an extremely persuasive lawyer,” came the response. “Managed to convince the jury that James worked as a gardner at two of the victim’s places, and used to collect the garbage from the third victim’s house twice a week”. “Then he must have gotten slack with the fourth victim,” the driver mused. “Indeed,” the voice agreed. “Must have been a spur of the moment kill. One moment, Lucy Cindwell was walking on the harbor, the next her body was washed up on shore, a single stab wound to the heart. Heck, her clothes were still intact for goodness sake!” “Hmm, because serial killers are always so courteous as to remove the fragments of clothing from their victims,” the driver replied. “Exactly,” the voice replied, missing the sarcasm. “How do we even know that he will kill again?” the driver asked, pulling out a makeshift phone and holding it up to his ear to avoid suspicion. “According to our records, James Matherson has recently created a profile on the social networking website Facebook, using the alias Luke Flinders, in order to converse with teenagers.” “That’s terrible,” the driver gasped. “What’s worse, is that Luke Flinders is actually the first victim that he was tried for, over twenty years ago.” “That bastard,” the driver growled, sitting down under a tree in the park. “Hmm,” the voice agreed. “In any case, we know that whatever he is planning to do, kidnap, rape, murder, he will be doing it soon.” “How can you be so sure?” the driver asked, staring up at the darkening sky and pretending to follow a pair of birds with his eyes. “According to our latest intel, James has organised for one of his networking friends, a Miss Samantha Robbins, to meet him down at the Fairview river this evening around 7:30.” “Hmm,” the driver mumbled, lifting himself off the grass. “Guess we don’t have much time then.” “Your best bet would be to wait until he leaves the house, then tail him to the meeting place,” the voice suggested. “In most cases, he will most likely be meeting the girl at a quiet and secluded area of the riverbank, where he will have the element of surprise on his - .” “No,” the driver said sternly, walking back onto the main park path. “I won’t give him an opportunity to scare or injure a perfectly innocent teenage girl. The last thing she needs is to be afraid of life and afraid of trusting someone.” “Hmm, so the stories are true about you,” the voice answered coolly. Growling, the driver, said “That’s low, Jules, even for you.”

“You’re right, Vince, i’m sorry,” Jules apologised. “That was out of line.” “Hmm,” Vince sighed. “Okay, you can do it your way. Just don’t fuck up,” Jules cautioned. “Contact me once you have finished. I’ll organise a rendezvous point for us to meet up at.” “Okay,” Vince growled, still hurting after Jules’ unexpected slur. “I’ll try to keep your car intact.” “You assho-“ Jules began, before Vincent disconnected the line. Rubbing his ear, Vince felt the familiar bulge of the inter- cranial transmitter pushing against the base of his inner ear. He remembered the first day he had gotten one of them, and how cool he had thought it was to call people in secret. Sighing to himself, he made his way out of the park and stood across the road and several houses up from James Matherson’shouse. Smirking under his breath, he whispered, “James Matherson, prepare for your audience with Lucifer.”