He stood in the shadows of the trees, just beyond the shoulder of the road, watching the cars file past in the dark. The need pounding within his veins was so precise, the demands so certain, that his hands were beginning to shake. He rubbed his palms together, hoping to ease the tension, knowing that any such relief would be temporary, at best.
He whimpered imperceptibly at his pathetic plight.
If the voices had been clearer—they usually were so much clearer—this last-minute distress, this chaos would not be necessary.
What to do, what to do?
Frustrated by his lack of direction, he chewed distractedly on a gritty fingernail.
What would be the telling sign?
The voices had been dull tonight. He had heard them, but only barely. They had teased him along, taunting him, but offering no clues.
Where to look? Where to begin?
How would he know the one?
He began to sweat, the churning in his stomach growing worse for his plight and the buzzing in his head increasing with each moment that he remained indecisive.
A red car. He heard the pronouncement clearly, though it was little more than a whisper on the wind.
Tonight she’ll be driving a red car.
Calming slightly now that he knew, he regained his focus, the sudden flow of strength rippling through him. Now he need only decide on where to seek her.
The all-night convenience store less than fifty yards to his left—situated just off the interstate—had served nicely in the past. He could sit in that little wooded grove at the edge of the parking lot and wait for her to come, wait all night, if necessary. He’d watch for her to pull off the highway and into one of the parking places in the lot. Then, when she went into the store to buy a pack of cigarettes or a cool drink and perhaps a snack to tide her over until she reached her destination, he’d slip from the darkness and follow, ever so nonchalantly. He’d have to be very clever, of course, to get close enough to see if she was really the one he’d been waiting for without calling any attention to himself.
It was always a personal challenge to see just how close he could get and still pretend not to notice her at all.
If she wasn’t the one, then he’d leave and she’d be safe, at least for that night, and from him. Then he’d go back to his car and wait for the right one. Some nights he waited longer than others, but never had he waited in vain.
If she was the one, he wouldn’t stare, he’d give no sign that he recognized her for who she really was. No, no, he was far too smart for that. He’d make a quick purchase and leave before she did. Once outside, he’d slip alongside her car and pretend to pick up something he’d dropped, and with the long, thin sharp blade he pulled from his boot, he’d slit her tire. Then he’d get back into his dark little nondescript car and he’d wait for her.
He’d follow her—at a distance of course—until the tire went flat. If he sliced it just right, it would hold until just about the time she reached that section where the road narrowed and the woods began in earnest. She’d be forced to pull over and within less than a minute, he’d pull over behind her.
She’d turn anxiously as she watched him approach from behind, her heart beating with uncertainty as he grew larger in her side-view mirror.
Chances were that she’d trust him. It had been his good fortune to be blessed with the face of a cherub and a most sincere smile. They almost always trusted him. Especially when he put the blinking red light on the top of his car.
He’d stride up slowly, purposefully, as if this was something he did every day, giving the appearance of searching the car with his flashlight before shining it on the flat tire.
He’d offer his help, offer her the use of his cell phone, which he’d pull out of the deep pocket of his tan shirt.
Of course, if she refused his help, or if she had her own cell phone, he’d be forced to smash out the window with the flashlight, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He hated to begin a relationship with violence. It threw off the rhythm and darkened his mood.
His favorite times were the ones when he’d been able to slip unnoticed into the backseat of her car while she was inside shopping. Once she resumed her journey, he’d let her drive on for a while, giving the hypnotic cadence of the journey time to lull her, and giving him time to savor the moment, to anticipate what would come. To learn the scent of her.
Perhaps she’d turn on the radio and sing along. He loved it when they did that, loved hearing the voice sing a favorite tune. Once he’d even taped it, taped her singing softly to a Fleetwood Mac song on the tiny recorder he had tucked into his jacket pocket. Later, he had taped her screams, and it had given him infinite joy to have played that tape. That the same voice could vary so had fascinated him. But he’d inadvertently erased the screaming part when he’d tried to re-record the tape so that he could listen to both her screams and her singing at the same time, an unfortunate error that still upset him to recall.
But so few women left their cars unlocked anymore—what had happened to trust, he lamented—that he’d been forced to come up with a different plan.
Still, the taking would be easy.
It was always so easy.
Once, of course, the voices told you how to spot the right one.
Last week, the one had blond hair. The week before, she had been wearing black boots. The clues changed constantly—who knew how many disguises she had, how many ways she knew to trick you? You had to find her, and when you did, she had to be reminded of all the times she had tricked you in the past.
And then she would have to be punished.
Again and again and again …