Sunday, July 21, 2:00 P.M.
SANTA FE SAINT CLAIMS FOURTH VICTIM.
Scourge Teodori prowled his studio apartment, digging his fingers into his wavy black hair, pulling it until his scalp burned. Afternoon light swept in through the big kitchen window, and a shadow dogged his steps across a polished maple floor that smelled faintly of lemon oil. While he lapped the room, he ruminated on the article in the day-old Gazette.
With his Fourth victim, The Saint has grown careless. A source close to the Santa Fe District Attorney’s Office revealed new clues found at the scene may soon lead to an arrest.
That was yesterday. But today, there’d been no further mention of the Saint. New clues? Grown careless? Scourge prowled and perseverated. His sneakers squish-squished. The refrigerator rumbled. In one corner of his apartment stood a single bed, covers pulled coin-bounce tight, a white sheet folded down to cuff a navy blue spread. A thin pillow in a freshly ironed case lay flat above the sheet cuff. The white of the pillowcase was beginning to dim, and he added a bottle of bleach to his mental grocery list. He considered sitting on the bed, but the thought of mussing the covers made his throat itch. Carefully, he lifted the pillow and removed the book that lay beneath his head while he slept. He kept the book under his pillow night after night, wishing he could absorb its lessons by dream osmosis.
Carrying the book beneath one arm, he made his way to the kitchen, where he pulled a shake out of the freezer and set it on the counter to thaw for an afternoon snack. The shake was his own special blend: egg yolk, barley, whey, a garlic clove, two teaspoons of soy sauce, and a block of tofu. As always, he recited the ingredients to keep the recipe safe in his memory. Like crossword puzzles, memorization was good exercise for the brain. He liked to avoid writing things down whenever possible. He wasn’t lazy, and he admired that quality in himself . . . and in others. For example, suppose a waiter took his order without writing it down—he would give that waiter an extra tip because he respected servers who were not hebetudinous. Hebetudinous, meaning: slacker, was on his list of vocabulary words for the day.
Hebetudinous, perseveration, imperious—all good words to have in your hip pocket.
Before taking a seat at the table, he went to his calendar, marked a black X over today’s date, and counted the days until the fifteenth of August.
In exactly twenty-four days, he would fulfill his destiny.
Once seated, he placed the book on the table next to the newspaper and squared the corners of both. His gaze ricocheted back and forth between the book and the newspaper. Both called to him with an intensity that made his eyes water and his stomach churn. First, he traced the raised gold letters of the book title with his index finger, then dragged that same finger over the smooth, cool newsprint.
. . . New clues found at the scene may soon lead to an arrest.
His pulse thudded relentlessly in his ears like footsteps following him down a dark alley. The air in the kitchen grew thin and unsatisfying. He inhaled a sharp, lemon-scented breath. Of course, the article might be a bluff, one of those planted stories used to draw out a criminal and trick him into making a mistake. It was a well-known fact the cops often used the media as part of their strategy to catch a killer, or even as a temporary means of mollifying the public in high-profile cases—like this one. He heaved out a breath, loosening his constricted chest, but on the inhale, his lungs clamped down again.
With only twenty-four days remaining until The Big Kill, he made the sign of the cross and vowed not to let anything or anyone stop him. But . . . suppose the story wasn’t a trick. Suppose the cops really did have evidence that would lead them to his door.
Why leave those damn beads?
The voice was scratching at him again, and the footsteps were thudding in his ear.
Those beads are going to get us caught.
“Shut up.” A spasmodic cough followed his words, and he pounded his chest with his fist. He’d heard all the arguments, and they were not without merit, but he would not get caught. He needed the rosaries. He had to help his victims get into heaven, the way they were helping him get into hell. He wasn’t so cruel as to chance leaving the poor souls in limbo.
By the book. He tapped the book, his blueprint to hell, with his forefinger.
That’s how this must be done. His targets were a means to an end, part of a carefully-thought-out plan, only . . . he didn’t intend to wind up hanged. The book was to be admired and emulated but not copied without thought. Certain necessary corrections, adjustments to the course outlined therein were in order. Unlike Perry, Scourge would get it right. Perry had tried to commit the perfect crime.
Scourge would actually do it.
He’d rewrite the book’s ending, live to a ripe old age, and make the most of enjoying life as a free man on earth—because there would be no reward for him in heaven. There would be no heaven, period.
Not for someone like him.
He pulled his hair until his scalp burned to life again.
I am not a shadow.
His friend, the voice in his head, was wrong about the rosaries. Scourge would not be caught. He’d studied the book long and hard, and he knew all the mistakes that had been made in the past. He wouldn’t repeat those mistakes. He wouldn’t take on The Big Kill until he’d mastered the art of the small kill. He’d already succeeded with four practice victims, one for each Donovan, and he wasn’t done perfecting his technique. He’d not be caught unprepared.
He’d not be caught, period.
He’d found another one to practice on now. She didn’t fit the profile, but so much the better for throwing the police off course. Not that the authorities had a clue how he selected his victims. They had no idea that what tied his victims together was the book. The cops were too focused on the rosaries to figure things out. His chest puffed up.
No bullshit police-planted headline was going to alter his course.
No voice was going to tell him how to handle his business.
Twenty-four more days.
His breathing grew easy. Rising from the kitchen table, he placed the book under his arm and carried it to the bed, slipped it back under the pillow. Then he pulled open the nightstand drawer, where a pamphlet lay beside a black velvet bag. At the first touch of velvet against his fingertips, his pulse began to pound in his ears again. Turning his palm up, he stared at the blue veins snaking beneath his white skin. He could see the black blood whooshing inside them. His head went light, and he flexed his hand open and shut until his head cleared. He grabbed the pamphlet and unfolded it. Inside was a headshot of a young woman with sad green eyes and long, flaming hair. She wore clear gloss over tempting red lips.
Open to new patients. Accepting most insurance plans. Call for a free initial consultation. Faith Clancy, MD. Psychiatrist.
His breath hissed out through his teeth. He didn’t need a shrink, and he considered it an insult that his doctor had given him the pamphlet and suggested he call one instead of testing his blood for toxins as he’d requested. He only kept the pamphlet because he liked imagining the reasons for the sadness in the woman’s eyes and because he liked looking at her picture. Last night, he’d dreamt about her red mouth. He swallowed with difficulty and passed his hot palm over his hardening dick.
He might not need a shrink, but he did need more practice.
Practice makes perfect.
Just this once, he would indulge his urges and practice on someone who could give him pleasure. He dropped the brochure, then lifted the velvet bag and pulled its drawstring open, allowing the contents to fall into his hand.
Pop, pop, pop.
Electricity shot through his palm and up his arm as he curled his hand around the beads.
Good.
He had plenty of rosaries.