Seconds to Live(67)

The man was a well-groomed windbag who needed the air taken from his sails. But how?

Pictures of Dena Miller and Missy Green popped onto the left side of the screen. Across the chief’s uniformed chest, a phone number was displayed.

“We’re setting up a tip hotline,” Chief Horner said. “If anyone has any information regarding the murders of Missy Green or Dena Miller, they can call the number on the bottom of the screen.”

A hotline? How perfect. The hotline was going to get a tip they’d have to follow. He booted up his computer and began looking for the perfect location. He called up Google Maps and considered rural locations on the outskirts of town. There were plenty of abandoned buildings. But the police would be wary, and he wanted them more comfortable.

It had to be somewhere innocuous. Somewhere they’d never see him coming. Right in the middle of town should work. But how to find an empty house? Houses for sale or rent? Many would be empty.

He searched a real estate website for properties in the area and found several possibilities. He printed off a short list. Several might work for his fuck-off gesture to Chief Horner.

Tomorrow, he’d make time for a quick reconnoiter of the locations. Then he could set his trap. He didn’t have time to make an elaborate plan. Simplicity often was the best option.

Now it was time to get back to business. He’d already chosen Number Three, and he didn’t want to keep her waiting.

The empty cell called. He was bored. He needed her tonight.

A short time later, he cruised down the street, following her slender figure as she disappeared into the apartment. Now that was a strong woman. Not physically. Her body was slim. But there was nothing weak about her spirit. She didn’t let stumbling blocks hold her back. She would continue to push forward until she’d reached her objective.

Beauty only got a woman so far in life. He admired her determination. He designed each test to suit the individual. This one would take some extra consideration.

Dena had been a disappointment. She’d snapped even faster than Missy. Instead of proving her resilience, she’d caved immediately. After all she’d been through, he’d expected so much more from her.

How could he have judged her so poorly? She’d rallied from a physical challenge in the past, and it hadn’t been the torture that had broken her. With Dena, the game had been mental.

She’d had plans. She’d had hope. Once he’d taken that away, she’d wilted like a thirsty daisy.

Dena had proven that mental and emotional strength were as important as physical resilience. He needed someone who had faced life-long challenges and had overcome them.

A light in the apartment turned on. Through the window, he watched her rummage through a kitchen drawer.

Someone like her. Yes. She would be next.

Turning off the dome light, he got out of the car. The street was empty and dark in both directions. His shoes scraped on the concrete steps. He peered through the kitchen window but couldn’t see her.

Where was she?

His fingers closed on the hypodermic needle in his pocket. He’d slipped roofies into Missy’s coffee when she’d set it on a table to use the ladies’ room. Then he’d followed her at a discrete distance through the church parking lot. She’d collapsed, and he’d been right there. He’d put her in the passenger seat of his car as if she were sleeping. The drugs had worked well. She’d remained unconscious through the drive back to his place. But he didn’t have that opportunity this time.

His initial success had made him cocky. He’d surprised Dena in her shower. He’d punched her in the head and tossed her into his trunk. Considering that she’d escaped, and he’d had to track her through the woods in the rain for hours, that hadn’t been the best method. As much fun as it had been to see her terror, he didn’t intend to repeat himself.

What would have happened if she’d escaped? She would have been able to identify him. That couldn’t happen again.

But this one would be easier. He would keep it simple. A paralytic would keep her immobile long enough for him to transport her to his facility. He moved to the door and inserted his lock-picking tools. The mechanism gave after less than a minute. His practice was paying off.

He opened the door and slipped inside, then tugged the mask over his face. The small kitchen and living room were empty. He could hear someone in the bedroom, opening and closing drawers. He pulled the syringe from his pocket.

His blood hummed as he approached the bedroom door. Her footsteps sounded on the carpet. With two fingers, he eased the door open a few more inches and peered through the crack at the hinges.

She was searching through a dresser drawer, totally focused on her task. Rather than rush her, he waited.