“That, Detective, would be an excellent idea.” She slid into the Caddy’s interior and knew that she’d have to face Norm Metzger and Tom Fink and all their questions. Metzger had seen her with Reed. Hence she’d have to endure the third degree, but so be it.
She’d do whatever she had to to help bring Simone’s killer to jus
tice.
Now is the time.
Everything is in place.
The Survivor glanced at the unmoving body on his floor. Not dead. Just out cold. Death would come soon. Around his room, television screens flickered with images of Peltier Cemetery. The police and FBI had been there en masse. He knew. Just as he knew they would be. Looking in the other direction.
That had been earlier today and the stations had been replaying the footage over and over again. He was pleased. At least the media was finally taking notice. Giving him the proper respect.
Two of the televisions were playing DVDs. His favorites. The two with which he could identify most closely. Rambo filled one screen and he noticed Sylvester Stallone in the title role, silently eluding the army, and on another screen, a sleeker avenger, Neo, in The Matrix.
He, too, was an avenger. A seeker of justice. A victim of the system and one who would right the wrongs cast upon him.
Turning his attention from the screens, he crossed the small room and ended up at his dresser. With the glimmering blue light from the screens as a backdrop, he saw his face reflected harshly in the cracked mirror. He’d aged so much in the past few weeks, he was nearly unrecognizable to himself. Which, he decided, was good. For he wouldn’t be easily recognized by others. With or without his elaborate disguises.
Besides, it was time to unmask himself.
To face the world.
To make his ultimate point.
He glanced down at the stained top of the bureau and remembered how that blood had been spilled, how this dark spot in the wood had become sacred to him. Delicately, he touched one drop, then another, using a swirling motion, feeling the oak finish and the blood, once hot, that had pooled there. It was almost as if it pulsed beneath his fingertips. Faster and faster he rubbed the stain. Sharp images of the past, of spraying blood and shrieks and dying rushed through his head.
So much blood.
So much pain.
Twelve-year-old screams resounded in his ears, echoing eerily, urging him on.
Closing his eyes, he mentally focused on his mission.
All the recent killings were only practice.
Now was the time for the coup de grâce.
The clues he’d sent had been a smoke screen. There had been enough truth in the notes to keep the cops interested, but also to throw them off. They were busy protecting and offering surveillance to the remaining jurors in the trial, but they were wasting their time, disbursing manpower to remote locations.
He smiled. Rubbing the bloodstains gave him strength.
Power. Reminded him of his purpose.
Now.
Tonight.
It had to be done.
For the first time in a dozen years, he unlocked the top drawer. His eyes remained closed, his heart pounding rapidly, his pulse leaping in anticipation as he pulled. The old drawer stuck, but he yanked harder and it squeaked open.
Gingerly, he reached inside.
His fingers encountered the long leather sheath and he unbuckled it eagerly, suddenly anxious, knowing the end was so close. He had to force himself to slow down, extracting as much pleasure as possible as he slid the hunting knife from its case.
Then he opened his eyes.