Until Dark - Mariah Stewart [38]
Adam sought out a CSI and directed her down to the rocks to take samples of the pink water. Then taking a sample of water from the stream in a vial he borrowed from the investigator, Adam set out for the medical examiner’s lab.
Well, damn her. Damn her anyway. She shouldn’t have been there. It was her own fault. She shouldn’t have gotten in my way.
He stared at the live picture on his television while unconsciously rubbing his elbow where he’d scraped it on the rocks in the stream where he’d washed up after he’d dropped her there. The blood actually came out of his shirt quite nicely—he had soaked it good right away—and the jeans had washed up okay, too. It had been so convenient, having a source of running water right there.
Still, he didn’t like having his plans disrupted. It confused him, threw him off course. Made him lose control.
Things never turned out well when he lost control.
But what a lovely kink she’d thrown into the mix. She wasn’t his usual type, but he had to admit, change was good every once in a while.
And the television coverage had been outstanding, especially considering that this was, after all, a rural area and shouldn’t be expected to present the news with the same level of excellence that one would demand from the networks. But that little redhead from the station in Lancaster, well, she was a real pro, wasn’t she? He was tempted to write to the station to congratulate her on a job well done.
He chuckled out loud now and increased the volume as he watched the lead investigator from the FBI drone on and on about the case and what it all meant, then swelled with pride watching the lovely Kendra display her sketch. She’d done quite a good job. Perhaps a bit too good, he noted, not above giving credit where it was due. But it was only as he’d expected. After all, she was the best, wasn’t she?
Still, as accurate as the portrait was, did she not know him?
The news anchor spoiled his reflective mood commenting that this latest victim did not fit the established profile of the Soccer Mom Strangler.
The Soccer Mom Strangler!
Was he serious?
“Oh, this is too rich.”
That they had to give him a name, well, that’s what those media types did, wasn’t it?
The Boston Strangler. The Green River Killer.
The Soccer Mom Strangler.
It made a man proud.
And wasn’t it lovely? Wasn’t it fun, to have so many scrambling around? Sort of like a reverse game of Hide and Seek, where he was It, but instead of him doing the seeking, all the other players were out looking for him.
Of course, they’d never find him, of that he was certain.
Perhaps it might be time to think about raising the stakes a little. Give them all a little something to think about.
He leaned back in his chair, pondering the best way to do that.
He needn’t rush. He had all the time in the world. Something clever would come to him.
It always did.
He changed the channel but turned off the sound, though his eyes remained fixated on the screen upon which a commercial for some exotic piece of exercise equipment was being hawked by a woman wearing little more than a bikini. He barely saw her.
In his mind, a different kind of drama was playing out. As he stared at the screen, he visualized darker scenes that were running over and over and over in his head.
Karen Meyer coming down the path, taking her customary shortcut through the park to her cul-de-sac on the other side of the woods as he watched from behind a stand of laurel.
Would tonight be the night?
It is almost dusk. He hears her calling to someone from the top of the path. He peers out through the dense branches as much as he dares, straining to hear what the voices are saying. Someone is offering Karen a ride home. He holds his breath, waiting for her response.
“Thanks, but I’ll walk. I really need the exercise.”
He takes this as a sign, and readies himself.
Soft, steady footsteps on the graveled path, a stone tumbles ahead, kicked by the toe of her shoe. She is deep in thought, her brows knitted together.