26

The rider had never seen a winter this savage.

Another storm was coming. He stood at the window and watched the clouds roll over the mountains in the distance—leaden gray and ominous, portents of cold and wind and blinding snow.

The chatter in town blamed the extreme weather on La Niña, something to do with cooler ocean temperatures, though the science didn’t matter so much to the rider. What mattered was what he could see through his windows. Another storm was coming. He would hunt again.

They’d found the last girl only a few days ago. The rider had heard snippets when he went into town for groceries; a rancher had turned her up on the edge of his property. Nobody had known the girl’s name; as far as anyone could tell, she was another drunk Indian. There was speculation she was a prostitute.

The rider knew he should be cautious in the aftermath. He knew even one dead woman would attract attention. People would be more alert. The prey would be wary. He would be better off waiting, letting the interest die down.

But the talk of the dead girl had aroused the rider’s instincts. It had reminded him of the way the girl had fought beneath him, the fear in her eyes as she’d died. The way she’d screamed uselessly, her voice drowned by the wind.

The rider had let her scream. Let her struggle, flail, fight, wear herself out. Waited until she was exhausted, staring up at him, the fight gone, and then he’d taken his turn.

The girl didn’t die easy, but she died all the same. She’d fought again, at the end, as he choked the life from her. Tried to scream again. Didn’t matter.

No one was listening to her.

The rider watched the gathering clouds a few minutes longer before he turned away. He felt stifled, tamed, gelded, cooped up in his cabin, nothing to do but pace and imagine, replay how he’d punished the woman, how he’d taught her for teasing, lying, manipulating. He’d waited as long as he was able, but he would explode if he didn’t find another kill soon.

There were preparations to make; he would have to leave soon, come down off the mountain before the blizzard hit, catch a train and let chance and the weather decide his next victim. He was eager.

As he crossed the small cabin, the rider’s gaze fell on the wooden chest on his table. It was medium-sized, the equivalent of two shoe boxes. Its predecessor had been a woman’s jewelry case, but the rider had quickly outgrown it. Inside the chest were the memories he’d accumulated, the souvenirs he’d taken from his prey.

The chest never failed to entice him, no matter his hurry. The rider opened the lid, studied the contents: jewelry, scraps of clothing, photographs. A love letter. The rider preferred objects of obvious value to his victims. He liked to watch their eyes widen as he took their totems from them, and he liked to assure them that he would cherish each item long after its owner was gone.

There were engagement rings in the box, all heartbreakingly modest. Photographs of parents and favorite pets. Kelly-Anne’s amethyst pendant. A silver dollar—lucky, its owner had claimed, a gift from her stepfather. The rider hoped his luck would be better than hers.

He kept all but one of his souvenirs in the chest. The girl from the first snow, the train hopper in Moyie Springs, the rider kept her fancy knife with him, as a weapon, and also a reminder. The girl had cut him with her knife. She’d hurt him. But the rider had prevailed in the end, as he always did.

The rider knew it was foolish to hold on to so many incriminating tokens. Anyone who found the chest could easily trace the contents. Still, he couldn’t resist. Couldn’t help but feel proud of the collection he’d amassed, triumphant.

He could still see the faces of the girls at their lockers, whispering to one another and sneaking looks in his direction, their voices carrying, mocking him, all because he’d had the gall to ask the prettiest of them to the dance. Making fun of his stutter, the tear in his shirt. Standing before him, a buffet in short skirts and tight sweaters, teasing him with their bodies, tempting him, delighting in refusing him.

All the rider had ever wanted was to be loving to women, but their behavior had only ever earned his disgust. He’d been nice to women, smiled, listened to them. Opened doors, held out chairs, paid for countless dinners. Tolerated every annoyance, jumped through every hoop placed before him, and still no woman had ever returned his affection. No woman had ever treated him with anything but cruelty.

The storm was moving closer, the distant peaks across the valley now vanished in the clouds. The rider closed the chest, carried it across the cabin to the worn rug by his bed. He pulled up a corner of the rug, loosened a floorboard underneath. Tucked the chest into the cavity below, beside his insurance policies—an unregistered pistol and a thousand dollars in twenty-dollar bills.

The rider took the money. Took the pistol. Replaced the loose floorboard and covered it with the rug. He set the money and the pistol on the bed, walked to his wardrobe, and began choosing his camouflage. He would have to dress warmly, he knew. The storm would bring bitter cold.