The last customer of the day was leaving. Charles Durbin smiled at the pretty blonde as she loaded her six-year-old golden retriever into the back of a station wagon. He waved as the blonde got behind the wheel and drove away.
“That one would do nicely. She’s pretty and clean. Maybe I should consider her before I leave. But not now; I’m previously committed. And a gentleman doesn’t cheat on his lady,” Durbin proclaimed to an empty house. He locked the front door and finished cleaning the grooming area.
In the kitchen, he poured chilled chardonnay into a pewter-stemmed glass. He hummed along with the melancholy refrain from a new Sting CD as he slowly climbed the wide wooden stairs for a well-earned shower.
The last few days had been exhilarating but exhausting. He had forced himself to keep up his work schedule. He knew the police would be looking for anyone who failed to show up for work or left town unexpectedly. A least that is what he had read. Whether the police in Missoula would be knowledgeable enough to make that type of inquiry, he doubted, but he was not one to take any chances.
He leaned against the tile in the shower. The music and the sound of the water lulled him into a mild trance. The hot water beat against his back as he recalled his night with Marie-Justine. He moved his hands along his thighs. His excitement increased as he focused on his silent approach.
He remembered coming up behind her in the dark. He recalled the look of terror on her face as she turned to find him already upon her. At first she seemed confused. Then there was a hint of recognition followed by fear. The beauty of her eyes when she realized his intent.
He had swiftly moved against her, spinning her around, putting his gloved hand under her chin and raising her head for the noose. Her face… her face… He closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly, straining to recall her face.
All he could see was the face of Dr. Kimba.
The spell was broken.
Dr. Kimba had spoiled his conquest. He had ruined the images of his victory. Dr. Kimba’s pathetic, emaciated face and his bony hands, with their paper-thin skin, were all that Durbin could see.
“What right does that quack have to interfere with the memories of my achievement?” Durbin screamed in the tile and glass enclosure. “It was because of him that I rushed to her too soon. It could have been so magnificent.” Durbin reached down and took hold of himself, exerting pressure to the point of pain. “She should have been brought here, where we could have taken time to enjoy the moment fully.” He released his grasp. “My work is not finished. I will conquer again, and this time, there will be no Dr. Kimba—no one to interfere with my mind, my victory.”
Durbin folded the damp towel and hung it on a heated rack. He brushed his short brown hair and then posed in the nude in front of the mirror. He was pleased with what he saw.
He walked across the highly polished, blond wood floor to the master bedroom closet and carefully selected a wardrobe suited for his night’s work: forest-green work pants, a black T-shirt, and a black hooded sweatshirt. He set each garment on the bed. He then chose dark brown hiking boots and set them next to the nightstand.
He carried the wine glass by its pewter stem and crossed the hall into the guest room. He sat in the oversized rocking chair next to the window and looked at the late afternoon light accentuating the texture of the heavy plaster on the faux-painted wall behind the bed.
He took a sip of the cool wine and crossed to the other side of the room to stand in front of a large oil painting. He touched the painting, allowing his fingertips to trace the outline of the woman. Her beautiful face was framed by an abundance of black hair that was pulled to one side and held with a large silver comb. The artist had taken great care to give the comb the same luminescence as her green eyes.
Durbin maintained contact with the green eyes that followed him as he walked naked about the room. Her lips were full and red, as if stained with pomegranate juice. A muted variation of the deep red accentuated her high cheekbones.
“I’m really glad we kept the beige, tan, and brown colors in this room,” Durbin said to the painting. “It seems much more classical than the pale greens and yellows Marie-Justine used in her bedroom.”
Durbin ran the fingers of his right hand along the red choker that was painted across the olive skin of the woman’s neck. He let his thumb trace the fall of her neckline as it moved beneath the fluid folds of her red sarong, which was decorated with small golden dragons.
“We may be leaving here soon,” he said as he traced the lower curve of the painting’s right breast. “I know I promised that we would stay, that I would stop causing us difficulties, but this is not my fault.”
He stepped to the dresser and opened the top drawer. He gently entwined a pair of woman’s underpants in his left hand and raised the lacy garment to his face. He inhaled deeply, then replaced the item and closed the drawer.
“I’m going to be late tonight. Don’t wait up. I’ll try not to wake you when I get in.” He pulled the door closed behind him.
He dressed slowly. From the closet, he chose a black coat. Before closing the door, he reached in and touched the shoulder of the gray parka. “I know you want to go, but you’ve been out far too much lately.”