Ana Maria parked just where I told her, the darkest spot in the park, away from any streetlights. She gets out of her car and looks around, unaware that Anderson has pulled his car along 8th and is walking this way. Nor is she aware that I crouch under this pine tree, ski mask pulled tight, waiting for her to walk close enough to grab her.
Anderson is gaining, running into the park toward where Ana Maria makes her way closer, yet too far to yell a warning. For the briefest moment, I entertain the notion that I will kill him. Then toss that great idea aside. I like my life the way it is. I don’t want to complicate it by killing again and having the entire weight of law enforcement come down on me, looking for the Five Point Killer. I don’t want to explain I was right in killing those men. All I want to do is get Ana Maria off her crusade to find me.
Ana Maria walks toward the Botanic Gardens. Just like I told her. “I’ll tell you just who killed Butch Spangler that night,” I reassured her when I called. “But come alone,” I repeated. “I don’t want to get drawn into court testifying against the killer.” I thought that was a nice touch. A convincing touch. No one wants to go to court, especially if they have to look over their shoulder for some psycho.
Ana Maria is near, now twenty yards along the path.
I squat behind the tree, legs trembling with the anticipation of what terror she’ll soon be feeling.
She doesn’t know that I won’t hurt her. This time. If she drops the special.
Ten yards. She picks her way carefully in the dark.
Five yards.
She stops, looking my way, her hand going into her purse. I cautiously look down at my white garb that blends with the snow, wondering what could have set her off. Then I realize she saw nothing. She heard nothing. It’s that damned woman’s intuition again, and I just have to wait it out.
After a full minute, she resumes along the trail.
I crouch. Legs drawn tight against my chest.
Waiting.
And I pounce.