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HE HEARD THE WARRIOR’S cry and chuckled, rowing the black kayak behind an open boathouse on the opposite side of the river. Twilight keeping him in the shadows, out of sight, invisible, just like all his adventures up and down the inlets from York and Kittery all the way to Berwick and Sommersworth. He rowed farther, watching the shoreline for any sign of police beyond the lone figure receding with each stroke. His car was close to two miles upstream and he rowed with powerful strokes, moving silently with the tide, like he planned. His precious trinket bound in a plastic bag under the forward bay.
He had plans for this one, the clear coating was already set in the mold, just waiting for the pattern, the screaming lips, the pointed nose, the pale cheeks he would paint, and the blond hair he’d cut and put aside for the final mask.
He glanced behind him, thinking of the warrior in the woods who found the remains of his hunt and smiled.
Doesn’t dear Agent Williams know?
There’s no catching the wind.