Chapter 5
He didn't give her a chance to scream. Clamping her mouth with a powerful hand, he fastened the other at the base of her skull, pressing against it hard. The force of his grip made her eyes bulge, filling them with fear.
Afterwards, he smoked a cigarette, thinking about the girl he'd just met.
If she'd come by tomorrow, she would have missed him; it was his last Saturday; he'd finished the demolition contract he was working on, and he was pleased about that. Never stay too long in one place.
He couldn't explain it, but he had just known there would be one more. Things happen in threes. Was he really to blame if the Devil sent them his way?
He'd already committed the girl to his memory. Blessed with photographic recall, everything stayed in his head. He never took trophies from the women he killed, and although he left nothing behind, he had taken something from a man two weeks earlier. It didn't matter; he could have found it left behind on the beach, or at a jumble sale. How would they find you, if you told no one, and left no trace? They'd have to catch you in the act.
He took a long last draw on the butt of his cigarette and then flicked it into the water.
At the edge, she waited for him.
Stooping, he picked the body up in one smooth, effortless movement, and heaved her over his shoulder, he then squatted to gather her possessions with his free hand. Now he was ready to take her beyond and into the woods. Her lifeless arms trailed limply down his back.
A scraping of pebbles close behind stopped him dead.
What the . . . !?
The man dropped her roughly to the ground, turning and looking in the direction of the sound in one fluid movement.
A small boy had slipped over on the rocks. Stunned, he lay still for a moment before rolling over onto his feet and scurrying for cover.
Not quick enough, kid . . . I've seen you! You've given me no choice, but to get rid of you. This is going to be easy. With his last victim's body left unattended out in the open, the last thing he needed was a chase.
"Comin' to getcha," the killer mumbled and started towards him.
Bruce hurried, scraping across the shale until he reached the cover of the low scrub that grew in patches along the bank. After fifty yards, the bushes ran into a huge boulder - a dead end. He had to make a choice, run, or gamble on staying put. He was in two minds, and one of them didn't seem like the mind of a seven-year-old. An inner voice told him to stay still. The urge to move gnawed at his legs, making them twitchy. His ragged breathing deprived him of oxygen, and left him close to panic. He wondered if his parents or grandfather would find him in time.
He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. Stay put!
Where are you, Dad? He remembered taking the car for repairs with his father one Saturday morning. The mechanic wore the same style of clothes the man looking for him now was wearing; a garage suit covered in grease, black where it should have been blue. The garage man kept a guard dog, which escaped while Bruce played in the storage area behind the workshop. Freed from its cage, the enraged animal attacked a group of people who'd called in to view cars. In the chaos and confusion that followed, it evaded capture, and then it saw Bruce. The dog advanced on him, emitting a low growl; it seemed wary of him. The boy closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. His hand closing over his seashell, he pulled it from his pocket and held it out for protection. Where are you, Dad?
