The Obsession(159)

While he found it tremendously satisfying, and knee-slappingly funny, he knew he couldn’t stay in the area much longer.

Getting too hot, he thought as he recorded the droning chief of police (asshat) and the media liaison from the FBI (arrogant bitch).

Time was cominghe could feel itto wind up the odyssey. Time to take Naomi for a ride, have some long conversations, a hell of a lot of fun.

Then end her.

After that, maybe he’d take his show on the road. Maybe up to Canada for the summer, down to Mexico for the winter.

Footloose, fancy-free. And plenty of targets to shoot when the mood struck. In memory of Naomi Bowes.

And one day he would write the story. He’d write a booknot for money. He’d have to wait until he settled somewhere. Like Argentina. He’d write and self-publish the book that rubbed everything he’d accomplished in the faces of the asshats and arrogant bitches.

He took notes on his tablet, took some pictures. He liked focusing in on Mason, he especially liked that.

Hey, over here, fuckhead. I’m going to kill your sister soon. I’ll rape her every way there is to rape first, then strangle her like your old man should have.

Maybe send old man Bowes a picture of her. There were ways to smuggle things inand he’d made a point of finding them. He thought that would be the whipped cream on top.

Yeah, he’d do that, and go one better. He’d publish all the pictures online, every one of the bitches he’d done. God bless the Internet.

Then everyone would know he’d outdone Bowes. Outdone them all. The Green River Killer, the Zodiac? They were nothing next to him.

Deliberately he threw out a question during the Q&A, wanting to draw eyes to him.

Look at me, look at me, look at me.

He would’ve asked a follow-up, but the ugly bitch beside him tossed a question out first.

Later he wrote up the story for the bullshit Daily Crime blog he freelanced for, working on his laptop in the pizzeria because most of the media types retreated to the motels or the coffee shop that looked out over the marina.

“Can I get you anything?”

He looked up, saw the pretty blonde he’d targeted and lost. He thought: You should be dead.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Ah, gotta get out of my head.” He offered a big smile. “Forgot where I was for a minute.”

“I can come back.”

“No, that’s okay. I could use a Coke, and, yeah, I could eat. How about the calzoneloaded.”

“Sure.”

She brought the drink in under two minutes. “Are you staying in the area?” she asked. “You’ve been in before.”

“For now, yeah. I’m a reporter.”

“Oh.” Her eyes went sad and blank.

“Sorry.” Immediately he coated himself in sympathy. “I guess you knew the . . . Donna Lanier. She worked here.”

“Yes.”

“I’m really sorry. If there’s anything you want to say, want me to write about her”

“No. No, thanks. Enjoy your Coke.”

When she scurried away, he had to hide the smile.

Maybe he’d snatch her up after all. Maybe he’d just circle back for her, then make Naomi watch while he did the little bitch with her tight ass and tight tits.

Can’t save this one, he imagined saying. Not like Ashley this time. And when I’m done with her, when I’m done with you, I’m going to pay your good friend Ashley a visit, too. Finish what your old man couldn’t.

He worked right through the calzone, putting together another piece on spec, and listening to the chatter around him.

Small towns, the same everywhere, he thought. If you wanted to know what went on, you just had to sit in the same place long enough.

He learned the mechanic was moving in with the photographer, into the big house on Point Bluff. He learned people were scared, and some of them impatient with the police.

Why hadn’t they caught him? they asked.

Because he’s smarter, better, more than they are, he wanted to answer.

He learned that some people speculated the killer lived in the national forest, like a survivalist.

And thought: No. He’s sitting right here, asshole.

He heard that Naomi’s new fuck buddy was playing at the bar on Friday night.

So he began to make his plans.



Lucas Spinner.” Mason tapped the photo on the kitchen counter again. “You’re sure, no bells?”

“Not even a muffled gong.” But she studied the faceyoung, a lot of disheveled brown hair, a beard that needed shaping. “Why do you keep coming back to him?”

“He had press credentials, a small paper in Ohio, visited Bowes six times between July 2003 and August 2004. Corresponded with him for another eighteen months afterward. Then he’s reported missing, presumed dead while covering a brush fire in California in 2006.”