The moonlight glowed blue on her naked white skin as she ran across the clearing. It was a good light for her. Hid the cellulite and the stretch marks. Smoothed over her hips. It even made her breasts look, if not perky, at least not so saggy.
He raised the rifle to his shoulder and lined her up in the sights. He’d played with the first three. Toyed with them. Stalked them. He didn’t feel like playing this time.
Maybe it was because he’d waited so long. The fantasies had burned inside him like a hunger until all that mattered was filling his belly. Maybe it was because she was older, and the dreams of killing his mother, exciting at first, left him limp in the end. Maybe it was because she’d laughed at him.
But whatever the reason, this one had been a disappointment.
She raced for the brush. He had to admit, her fear gave him a charge. And standing here, resting his finger on the trigger, he was as hard as a tree branch.
Look who was laughing now.
He squeezed the trigger. The air cracked. The rifle kicked sweetly against his shoulder. He watched her lurch and fall as the perfume of gunpowder spiced the air.
He strode across the clearing toward her. He’d gotten a clean shot. He’d taken out one of her legs, just as he’d been instructed. As he approached, he could hear her thrashing, trying to crawl the rest of the way to the forest’s edge, to safety.
There was no safety for her.
He pulled his knife from the sheath on his belt. He wrapped his fingers around the handle, the charge of excitement starting to pulse through his body. He’d follow instructions for the kill, too. Pushing the knife in just under her ribs. Letting her screams wash over him like a refreshing rain. Watching the life drain from her eyes as he pulled the blade down through her belly. Next he would clean her out, warm and sticky on his hands.
Then he’d wait to find out what he was supposed to do with the body.
He looked down at the fear shining in her eyes. He listened to the whimper dying on her lips.
As thrilling as he knew killing her would be, he couldn’t help wishing for more, wanting more. With each of his murders, he’d learned so much. About death and life. About the strength and power in himself. About hunger. But it wasn’t enough. He’d been acting a part, following Dryden Kane’s instructions, playing out Dryden Kane’s fantasies. But now he could feel his own desires building. They pressed against the inside of his skull, until he felt he’d explode with lust.
There was something he wanted. Something blond and beautiful with light blue eyes and perky breasts. And soon, very soon, he would reach out and pluck it like ripe fruit off a tree. He would bite into her, devour her, and let the juice run sticky down his chin.
And no one could stop him. Not Reed McCaskey. Not even Dryden Kane.