HE STILL HAD room to fill. He needed another soul to put in his collection, so he drove around St. Louis, hunting for prey. He didn’t have anything particular in mind. He didn’t like to discriminate when choosing his victims. However, he never chose children or elderly individuals. He needed healthy men and women who could withstand the pain for his purposes.

He saw her—a mousy woman standing at the bus stop all alone. She was digging in her purse, probably looking for enough change to pay the fare. He pulled up to the curb and rolled down the passenger window.

“Excuse me, but I’m lost. Can you give me directions?” He held up a street map for emphasis.

The woman looked around anxiously but then approached the Suburban. “What are you trying to find?” she asked.

“I’m trying to find Jones Street. I was told it was by Tenth Street, but I can’t find it on the map.”

The woman scratched her head and mumbled, “I’ve never heard of Jones Street, but I know where Tenth is.”

She opened the door to look at his map under the dome light. The light that caught her eye, though, was the electric light of the taser as it zapped her hand. Her body violently convulsed, and he pulled her into the SUV before anyone could see. Then he put zip ties on her hands and ankles and quickly drove to the vacant house. He had considered selling the house and just using the smaller one, but he liked the larger studio it sported. He also didn’t mind the drive between the two. When his mother had finally left his bastard of a father, she tried to get as far away from him as she could afford.

Since the drive to Town and Country would take a while, he injected his new guest with scopolamine. She was a lightweight, so he hoped he didn’t use too much of the drug on her. He wanted her completely lucid for what he was going to do, so he would wait until the effects wore off.

She was still out of it when he carried her into the house, so he chained her upright in a chair. It would do until he could move her to the wall. He didn’t bother to photograph her because there was no pain or sorrow. He went upstairs to paint while flipping through his collection to find the perfect inspiration.

He settled on a couple photos of the curator. He liked looking at the broken-down mess she’d become. He worked the canvas with shades of grey and black before accenting it with the blood-red paint mix. He laughed at the irony of painting her portrait with her own blood. He’d be sure to show it to her when it was completed. He would show it to the whole world when he was finished. Of course, no one but him would know who the subject was. It wasn’t like the detailed portrait of the lovely detective; it was simply a portrait of pain. He added some more shadows, and it was done.

He stepped back to admire his work with a smile. In the morning, he’d take his paintings back to the City Museum and talk to the new curator. If he was still rejected, he’d take them to another museum. Unfortunately, though, only the City Museum had the art show for new artists this holiday weekend which was coming up.

He readied himself for bed and quickly fell asleep. He dreamed he achieved the fame he sought…before it was too late.