He had been born superior to others.
At the tender age of five, he knew that already. In kindergarten, he was smarter. In elementary school, more cunning. Other kids cried when they got hurt or because they didn’t want to leave their mothers dropping them off at school. He never did. His intellect was too strong for that. Emotions were secondary.
Now, thirteen hours after he’d had to kill, he celebrated his success as he ate a roast beef and cheese sandwich for lunch. The police had questioned him twice last night — along with everyone else — but with so many people around, so many possible suspects on the tour and working locally, the interview had been less than thorough. Within two minutes he’d outwitted the slow detective.
They found the gun, of course. He knew they would. It could never be traced to him. They had not found the elbow-length glove he’d worn when he pulled the trigger. He knew all about blow-back — microscopic particles emitted from a gun when it was fired. Just in case the police decided to test the hands of everyone in the vicinity for gun residue, he’d slipped on the glove before the murder, then thrown it underneath a row of seats on the arena’s first tier after the encore. With all the fans milling around, no one noticed, and he knew the arena would soon be cleaned while the police concentrated on containing the backstage area.
The job was done. It had taken far too many days to plan. Still, when the timing was right, it was brilliantly executed. Naturally.
But deep within him, jealousy burned on.
He took another huge bite of his sandwich. A swig of Coke.
For a while he had denied the jealousy, or at least tried to call it by another name. How could a man as superior as he be weighted down by such an inferior emotion? As time passed and the feeling grew stronger, he realized what an asset it could be. Emotions aren’t weak in themselves; it’s all in how they’re handled. He would stoke the fire of his jealousy, keep it burning bright, as he protected the Special One.
He finished the sandwich and wiped his mouth and fingers with a napkin. Then he laced his hands and cracked every knuckle. How good it sounded, the popping of his bones. Made him feel so alive.
A yawn sagged his mouth open. Last night’s adrenaline rush had afforded him little sleep. But no time to rest now.
He had duties to perform.