CHAPTER

ONE

BOSTON - 1995

The tongue, crisp, pulls against the dry lips and powdery roof of the mouth. Jack’s skin is slick, spotted with sweat. The seat creaks when he shifts his legs. Uncomfortable, he moves farther down the row, closer to the aisle, where he can get a better look at the parade of potential victims. He will choose carefully, with one requirement in mind—he must be homosexual.

The video flickers, dims, and then brightens, hazy through a film of smoke. He places his right thumb on the pulse in his left wrist. Ninety-two beats per minute. Elevated, but not out of control. For a time, he ignores the sexual dance on the screen and the hover of men behind him, as time drifts like a boat on heated summer swells. He gorges on the sexual heat rising within him. His arms and legs tingle in anticipation of the deathly dance he has choreographed.

An acrid mix of smoke, disinfectant, and sex digs into his nostrils, and the smell awakens him to the screen where two men, naked and aroused, bend over a woman. The sexual abandonment goes on around him; grunts and moans of orgiastic pleasure.

A man, early twenties he guesses, eases into the seat next to him. He avoids any contact as the man eyes him, and a cold wall grows between them.

It’s no surprise that a man would cruise him. Jack’s been told he’s handsome—a bit rough trade—but with that label he attracts a certain crowd. He can charm sex from almost anyone, like coaxing a genie from a bottle. Women want him. He’s had his share. He desires them and responds to their bodies. But men want him too“—a feeling different from being wanted by a woman. An anxious rigidity tears at his body when he’s with a man. It is draining for him to have sex with men, but he goes through hell for the click in the head that brings him peace. He can smell the men in the theater. He longs to touch them as blue electric waves of sexual arousal over him.

The other man, dark and thin, freezes, unsure of his next move. He looks away for a moment, shifts in his chair as if he is about to leave, but changes his mind. The young man reaches for Jack and rests his fingers on Jack’s right leg. He rubs his hand up and down Jack’s thigh.

Jack must be cautious, certain that this prey is what he wants. “Not now,” Jack says. His gaze never leaves the screen as he pushes the man’s hand away. Bundles of nerve endings fire in unison.

The young man grunts, rises from the seat, and vanishes into the murk.

Men shuffle in the aisles. Some scurry around Jack. The seats squeak three rows in front of him. He watches the bobbing heads and hears the shallow moans of ecstasy.

Ten minutes later, the dark man passes near him ready to try again.

A good sign. This man is unfazed by rejection, willing to take a risk. Jack shifts, unbuckles his belt, and pushes his jeans down to his knees.

The man stares at the naked feast before him.

Sitting, legs apart, hands molded to his thighs, Jack is a giant, but the man who kneels before him is scum. Scum services him; scum knows its place on the dirty floor. The reel of hate rolls in Jack’s mind: the dirt and filth and guilt and shame. This forbidden attraction electrifies his senses—a craving so seductive he can only follow where he is led, puppet-like and numb. Long ago, he attempted to understand the prickly emotions that swamped him. But recently, like an addict, he succumbed to his cravings.

Jack offers no resistance as the man separates his legs with a gentle push from his palms. He shivers at his touch. The rough caress of his genitals shocks him into a vacant, dry world outside his body. A memory washes over him. He remembers the child he once was and despises him. He commands his mind to shut the fuck up.

Jack’s hands tighten over the man’s head and he pushes it with force into his crotch. In the flickering light, he memorizes the face, the eyes that somehow glitter when they look at him, the clothes of the man who kneels before him. Jack could kill him now—pull the knife from his jean’s pocket and slash it across the neck, the jugular blood spilling frothy and dark, but the risk is too great, the scream too loud, the death struggle too violent.

Instead, he will wait until the time is right, ease through the sex and coddle intimacy for the sake of the kill.

In the alley, Jack peers over the wooden fence. The city is still, mostly asleep, but this is the house he seeks. This is the address of the man who is a threat; the man who should keep his nose out of other people’s business.

Inside, two men move in front of the courtyard door. The light behind them throws soft shadows. What if they were stripped of this protection: the walls, the door, the curtains gone? What surprises Jack would have in store for him, the one he seeks. The other might have to be disposed of too—but he is insignificant collateral damage—a small glitch in his plan.

The lights go dark, the door swings open, and a face peers into the courtyard.

Jack ducks below the fence.

“Who’s there? I know you’re out there.”

The voice. Jack remembers it. He crouches and then scurries like a rat down the alley. When he stops under a streetlight two blocks away, he looks at his hands, spits into them, and rubs.

Blood is plentiful when you carve like a butcher.

He must wear stronger gloves next time.