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THE GLINT OF RED HAIR on the bluff caught his attention and he brought the binoculars to his face, scoping out the ridge to their property. The boy leaned on the rock wall, with his back to the ocean, his jet-black hair shuffling in the wind, and his profile just as attractive as the front view he saw on television.
He would make a prize mask and perhaps he’d finally make enough to allow him to move on. He had been in this area far too long and the itch to move to new hunting grounds had started already, but he had to make this last mask.
He had to forever preserve that face.
His gaze moved to the wild red hair and a strange mix of excitement and anger washed over him like an untimed wave.
Was this another acquisition?
He waited until she turned toward the ocean and then he dropped the binoculars in disgust.
Now he understood the anger. She would learn not to flaunt herself to strangers and it gave him one more reason to preserve the boy’s face. A reminder that he was in control.
He glared at the property, and an unpleasant taste gathered in his mouth and he spit into the water. A tug on his fishing line drew his attention and he slowly turned the reel, expecting the tug to either release or draw the line taunt.
The line released, and he turned his attention back to the bluff. The climb from the water wasn’t that steep. He had climbed worse in his lifetime, but it could be a problem at night, not being able to see the footholds.
A land attack was out of the question. The property lining the road was blocked by a thick fence, along with hoards of reporters, and he didn’t want anything to derail his plans.
So, his only option happened to be his favorite. A water approach.
High tide didn’t give him any niches to dock a canoe, but he imagined low tide might garner different results. He pulled out the tide chart, studying it under the bright sunshine. He dropped the list into his pocket, pressing his lips together in irritation.
His preferred timing wasn’t going to work with the tides and he’d have to strike when the moon graced the night sky. The property was secluded enough, but the chances of being noticed on the water were higher than if there was no moon. He pressed his shoulder blades together, scratching the imaginary itch just under the surface.
Unease took hold and for the first time in all his years, he wondered about his motives.
He brought the binoculars to his eyes once again and studied the boy. When the boy turned toward the water, his breath caught in his throat. A bandage covered the boy’s right cheek surrounded by a spreading tattoo of black and blue. Disgust and anger roiled in his stomach. The perfect face ruined, and he knew the answer. He wanted that face cast in a deathly scream.
Snarling, he lowered the binoculars, but something that flashed in the viewer made him bring them back to his face. He scanned the area just to the left of the steep bluff until his focus landed on what he thought he saw. A jagged path cut through the thick brush, twisting down the hill and ending with a wooden ladder that dipped behind a big jetty of rocks.
A smile surfaced and he focused back on his fishing line, reeling it in and packing the rod away before he turned the boat back toward the river.
Whistling, he began his mental preparation for the acquisition.