The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [16]
The hiding place smells like some musty box I once opened when I was looking for his cigarettes. It’s strong and kind of burns my nose. It’s small and dark, but it’s mine. He doesn’t know I have it, which means he can’t find me here. And if he can’t find me, he can’t hurt me. I can think here, I can breathe here (well, except for the smell) without him yelling. I sit in the darkness, alone with myself, where no one can hurt me. Where HE can’t hurt me.
But I watch him. I watch everything he does through little holes in the walls. I watch him bring home the whores, I watch what he does to them before dragging them upstairs to his bedroom. Sometimes I even hear what they’re saying, but most of the time I just see. I see what he does.
But I really don’t have to see. I already know. I know because he does the same things to me.
He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the childhood memories from his mind. He’d have to do more of this. It was very liberating, and very . . . stimulating. He glanced at the clock on his screen and realized he was late. He closed the laptop’s lid, grabbed the tie, and ran down the steps to his car. He was at the evil bitch’s house pretty fast, but then again he was daydreaming about what he’d written and wasn’t paying attention to the time.
He’d only been here once, a drive-by to see if the site was a suitable location for his work. An artist must survey his setting to make sure it can inspire him, bring the creative juices to boil at just the right moment. Timing was so crucial. But for this type of art, the creative part came only after the evil was purged. Only then could the brilliance be fully expressed.
He parked a block away, down a side street, and huffed it toward the house. In suit and tie, he wouldn’t attract attention walking around the neighborhood. And if anyone did question him, he’d pull out his FBI shield and they’d slink away, properly silenced.
He approached the side yard, looking for signs of a security system: magnetic trips on the window sill, wire tape, or even the obnoxious “Protected by” placard stuck in the dirt by the front door. As if a stupid alarm is really going to protect them from someone who wanted to do something evil. Evil—they don’t know what evil is!
He stood by the back door and knocked lightly. Listened for a barking dog. Nothing. Very good. He did another walk-around of the perimeter, then stopped at the front door, which was shielded from the street by a dense shrub that stretched ten feet high toward the eave. He gave one last knock and a ring of the doorbell, then decided no one was home. He slipped on latex gloves, removed a lock-pick kit from his pocket, chose the proper tools.
A couple minutes later, he was standing in the hallway, taking in the décor. Not bad, but not as elaborate as the last bitch’s place. Couple of fabric sofas with a horrid floral print, an old GE television in the corner in a melamine entertainment cabinet, and an area rug on the wood floor. House must’ve been about thirty, forty years old. Bad taste was a lot older than that.
He made his way into the master bedroom and looked around, in the dresser and night table drawers. No condoms, no thick, heavy watches, no Sports Illustrated magazines. No aftershave or musky cologne. Only women’s clothing in the closet. Bottom line: no boyfriend or male figure to worry about.
On the way out of the room, he pressed on the mattress. New and firm, perfect for his work. An artist required the proper media, or the result would be unacceptable. But first things first. Purge the evil.
He moved into the kitchen and checked the drawers: four steak knives. He removed one and examined it. Sufficiently sharp. It would do nicely. He replaced it and turned his attention to the refrigerator . . . always a valuable resource. It told so much about people. Not just what’s inside, but what’s outside. Mounted with magnets were a series of snapshots, all showing the bitch of