CHAPTER FORTY
He’s tired. Tired and restless. Tired of being restless. Most of all, he’s tired of waiting. It’s almost midnight. Where the hell is she?
I have to go now. Can we continue this later?
What did she mean by “later”? Had he really expected her to contact him again tonight?
She’s interested. He’s sure of that. She’s just taking a page from his playbook andtreating him mean to keep him keen.Playing it cool, letting him dangle. He laughs. Before long, she’ll be the one dangling.
From the end of a rope.
Still, he’s frustrated. Frustrated and antsy. It’s been too long since his last “date.” The feel of Nadia’s neck inside his hands, of her taut flesh between his fingers, is starting to fade. He can barely recall the sound of her muffled squeals or the smell of her blood as it flowed from her wounds. The palm of his hand no longer vibrates with each thrilling thrust of the knife.
He should write a book:Serial Killing for Dummies: The Secret to Making a Woman Follow You Anywhere.It’s so simple, he’s amazed that so few men have figured it out. You don’t have to be rich; you don’t have to be famous; you don’t have to be funny; you don’t even have to be all that good-looking. The key is making the bitch feel as if she’s the only woman in the room, as if everything she says is interesting, her every opinion not only worth considering, but adopting. Women were desperate to be heard. So, all you had to do was make them think you were listening. If you could do that, you were home free.
He turns on the TV across from his bed, casually flipping through the channels. He settles on an old episode ofDateline:a conniving wife has paid some poor dope to off her husband for the insurance money. Of course the dumb bitch happened to take out a policy on her even dumber mate a scant two days before the murder, making her the obvious suspect and pretty much sealing her fate.
What is the matter with these people? Do they want to get caught? Do they not have the brains, the forethought, to realize such behavior might be considered, at the very least, suspicious? Can they not plan ahead, maybe take out the damn insurance policy a year or two in advance?
Of course, it takes both brains and patience to wait, to plan, to consider all the angles and consequences of one’s actions.
Which is why he’s decided against targeting Paige Hamilton’s mother and best friend. The last thing he wants to do is spook this little Wildflower, a flower he intends to rip from its delicate stem, then grind beneath his feet. No, now that contact has been reestablished, he needs to focus his energy, keep his eye on the prize, which means sticking to the game plan and being patient for another week.
In the meantime, there’s Audrey.
Probably not her real name, any more than Wildflower, which is fine with him. The more anonymous the better, at least to start out. He likes to save the good stuff for when they go on their real date, and he’s forcing her to reveal the most intimate details of her life in the vain hope of postponing her death. Too much too soon takes away from the overall experience.
He and Audrey started texting a few weeks ago, feeling each other out, dropping hints about their likes and dislikes. Of course, his likes are all made up, crafted to suit the situation. Audrey likes working out, so so does he. In fact, he almost never works out, other than lifting weights, which are more-or-less a necessity when dealing with dead bodies. And she loves sad movies and romance novels, so he said he’d devouredThe Notebook,although he’s never read it and only caught a few minutes of the wretched thing on TV, just enough to make him want to puke.
Killing Audrey will be not only a pleasure, he decides, but a service to mankind. Such pathetic tastes should not be permitted to continue unchecked.
Sorry I’ve been out of touch for the last week,he texts Audrey now. He suspects that even though it’s closing in on midnight, she’ll still be up, and that even though she’s all but given up on hearing from him again, she won’t be able to resist answering his text.I had a family emergency and had to go back to Madison. I wasn’t sure when, or even if I’d be back, and I didn’t think it fair to keep you hanging.
God, I’m good,he thinks.
Reach out, withdraw. Flatter, then disappear. Abandon, then resurface. All part of his technique. He begins counting to ten, sensing Audrey’s fingers already hovering over her keyboard.
Her response comes at the count of nine.What happened?she asks.
My father had a heart attack,he answers.
My God. Is he okay?
Hopefully, but not out of the woods yet. I may have to go back to Wisconsin.
I’ll say a prayer for him.
Say one for yourself while you’re at it,he thinks.
That means a lot,he texts in response, counting to ten before adding:I was hoping we could maybe meet in person.
I’d like that.
He hears footsteps on the stairs and leans forward on his bed, listening.How about next Saturday night?
Perfect. Where should we meet?
He climbs off the bed and walks toward the door.Do you know Anthony’s Bar over on Boylston?