Quayle was waiting for Mors when she returned, the killings of recent hours lending a temporary warmth to her pallor, as though in depriving others of life she had absorbed a little of their vigor to compensate for the paucity of her own.
Quayle knew her requirements by now. He had laid out a sheet of plastic just inside the door on which Mors stood to shed her clothing, until she was naked before him. Only then did she step from the plastic and carefully gather up the ends of the sheet, knotting them together to form a neat package. Later she would soak the contents in bleach before dumping them. Burning would have been preferable, but they were concerned about the smoke drawing attention to the cabin.
Mors showered before dressing in fresh clothes. Quayle, lost in thought, had still not moved from his chair by the time she was finished. Mors did not disturb him, but curled up on a couch and fell instantly asleep.
Quayle was very close to what he had been seeking for so long, but the temptation to bring it to an end with alacrity had to be tempered with caution. He did not wish to be the quarry in a manhunt when all this was done, or not before he had safely left this place to return to England.
How soon before the bodies of Mullis, White, and the rest were found? Not long, he supposed. He had no fear that Mors might have been seen in the immediate vicinity of either the house or the trailer—she was too good for that—but one could not account for every possibility, and there was always the small chance that someone might recall an unfamiliar vehicle glimpsed on the road. It would be best if Mors abandoned her car. Giller had sourced two for them, guaranteed clean, and one would suffice for what remained to be done.
Since Holly Weaver worked long hours, and the boy was at school, their home stood empty for most of the day. Owen Weaver was a problem, since his own property was so close to his daughter’s, but he had to go out sometime. If he didn’t, they would deal with him; nevertheless, it would be better if they could find what they wanted, take it, and vanish without leaving any more bodies behind. The greater the carnage, the greater the likelihood of being caught, and they had already ended enough lives. There had been no choice when it came to the others, but Quayle could see no reason to inflict harm on the Weavers, or none beyond a vague desire for retribution, and that would be assuaged as soon as he had what he wanted.
And then there was Parker to consider, because he was also searching for Karis Lamb’s son. With Giller gone, there was no way of finding out how close Parker might be, but Quayle had made provisions for his distraction. They might require one more body, although thankfully Mors’s enthusiasm for killing appeared quite inexhaustible.
She really was, Quayle thought, the most remarkable woman.