Prologue
THREE YEARS AGO
MIAMI-DADE COUNTY
Op-Ed columnist Pamela Moore passed away today after a violent home invasion left her for dead. Pamela was…”
The reporter droned on, sensationalizing Pamela’s redeemable qualities while shoving all her faults, misgivings, and mistakes into a closet of obscurity. But it was a fine representation of Pamela’s real life: she had spun perspectives to make a headline. More than that, she had been so obtuse that she had painted his family as idyllic.
She knew nothing!
His heart was thumping in his ears, his mind replaying the reporter’s words: left her for dead.
As if he’d done that on purpose.
He clenched his fists and focused on his breathing, on slowing his heart rate. Sometimes he wondered why he put himself through watching the video over and over. The incident had taken place just over three years ago.
Still, he settled into his chair to journey back in time. To listen to what the newspeople had said about his victim, her masked assailant, and what had looked like a home invasion gone horribly wrong. It reminded him of what he’d done right and where he’d failed.
Pamela’s fiancé came on the screen. He was the picture of calm put-togetherness in his pressed suit, standing in front of the camera with a microphone to his lips. He, too, was singing her praises and calling for justice.
But poor Pamela. There would be no justice for her. Her case was as cold now as her body in the ground.
He focused on the TV again and listened.
“Sadly, police have no suspects at this time but say the man who did this is considered to be especially dangerous. They don’t believe that robbery was the motive, and they warn women to remain vigilant.”
Her confirmed death and the reporter calling him especially dangerous were takeaways he rather enjoyed. He leaned forward, a smile playing on his lips as he stopped the recording and rewound the VHS tape. He was determined to dwell on the good that came with the botched murder of Pamela. He’d learned from his mistakes and his second murder had gone much better. While they say practice makes perfect, he didn’t greedily indulge. No, he only took out those he deemed worthy of his attention. It was enough to quiet the darkness inside him. But there were times that the burning need to take a life was all-consuming. He called that side of him the Night.
It was an authentic part of himself, having lingered in the background for some time, calling out to him, taunting him to listen to its petitions. And now, as a man of thirty-seven, he was no longer afraid or leery of this facet of himself. He entertained the blood-filled fantasies of the Night when it was prudent, and no more would he be robbed of the fulfillment that came with taking someone’s last breath. His preferred killing method assured that now.
The VCR whined down to a thunk. He got up from his recliner and ejected the tape. He returned it to its cardboard sleeve and put it back under a floorboard near the TV set. It was safe there.
He laced up his boots and headed out to the shed—where he was holding his latest victim. The Night purred within him, yearning to be satisfied. His heartbeat pulsed beneath his skin, anticipating what was to come.
He reached the shed and entered. The woman was naked and fixed into a guillotine that he’d crafted with his own hands. The woodworking skills his dad had taught him turned out to be useful after all. The blade was suspended and ready to be called into action. There’d be no escape for her; any movement would upset the delicate balance of the apparatus. Ah, yes, he’d finally concocted the perfect murder weapon, one his victims couldn’t come back from.
He creeped closer to her, the floorboards creaking under his steps.
Her long, straight hair cascaded from the crown of her head around her face. She cried out in dry, heaving sobs, “Please…no.” As if she knew what was coming.
He ignored her pathetic protest, went over to his tripod, clipped his cell phone into place, and started recording.
“Smile for the camera.” He swiped her hair back, and she arched her head up the small amount the restraint around her neck would allow.
Terror streaked through her eyes. “Please…don’t…do…this.” Her mouth gaped open and shut, open and shut.
“You know why you’re here,” he said.
She wept, but it came out weak and pitiful, lacking conviction—merely gasps for breaths and hiccups in her throat. “I… Please forgive me.”
He smiled. She was right on schedule: three days out here and she’d lost her fight to live, hope extinguished and her survival instinct gone. This was when they became boring to him. He much preferred when they clung to hope without reason.
And now, there she was, requesting absolution. But he was neither a priest nor a redeemer.
“We’ll start on the count of three,” he said in a singsong voice. The Night pulsed beneath his skin with a heartbeat of its own.
“No, no, please!” the woman screamed.
It pierced his ears, but he smiled, moving into position next to her. “One…” He reached out for the chain that suspended the blade. “Th—” His phone rang. His body quaked, the tremors of the Night snaking through him.
He grabbed a roll of duct tape from a nearby utility shelf and slapped a piece across her mouth. He normally didn’t have to worry about their screams out there, but he wanted to answer this call. The ringtone told him it was his girlfriend, Roxanne. She fit into his life plan—at least for now—and he didn’t want to mess things up with her.
He kept his eyes on the woman as he answered his phone. “Hey, sweetie.”
He listened as his girlfriend prattled on about their plans for the following evening—dinner, then a movie. Nothing new there. She said maybe dancing afterward, but they’d never make it to a club. She’d be ready for bed by ten, and he’d tuck her in. She was as predictable as drying paint and about as exciting. But she played along with his sexual fantasies without contention, and she’d do anything to make him happy.
“You’ll pick me up? My place at six o’clock?” she asked.
“I can do that. I’m looking forward to spending some time with you.”
“Love you,” Roxanne told him.
“Love you, too.” He hung up, smiling, and let the expression carry for his victim to see. He set up his cell phone to record again and walked toward the woman. “Let’s pick up where we left off, shall we?”
She was screaming behind the tape and bucking her head wildly. She was clearly trying to slide back, as if she could worm her way out of the guillotine.
Yes, fight. It makes it so much more fun…
“One,” he roared above her. “Two…” He wound the chain around his fingers. With a flick of his wrist, he released it. “Three.”
He smiled at the camera as the woman’s head fell to the floor and rolled. It settled faceup, her eyes looking right at him. He’d heard that the mind went on living for minutes after decapitation.
He got down next to her head, swept some hair out of her face. He then put his hands over her eyes and lowered her lids. “Sleep well.”