Chapter Twenty-Six.
She was alive. He could feel it. With two latex-covered fingers pressed against her neck, he detected a hint of a heartbeat. She was unconscious but slowly coming back for another round. The discovery thrilled him, as if her fading pulse were pumping the blood through his own veins. The icy-cold blood.
After weeks of anticipation, all the tedious preparation, this was the payoff. Everything had gone exactly according to plan.
For nearly three hours he had waited patiently inside the closet in the guest bedroom. Around eleven he'd heard her car pull up in the driveway. The front door opened and closed. The keys jingled in the lock; her heels clicked on the tile floor. Through the slats in the louvered closet door, he watched her pass in the lighted hallway. He heard the toilet flush, listened as she brushed her teeth. The lights went out. The bed squeaked gently beneath the weight of her body. The television played for twenty minutes, then was switched off. It was an instant rush--routine noises that telegraphed her complete unawareness. It made him want to spring early, but he contained himself, sticking to the schedule. He waited. With time, silence filled the house. He allowed another thirty minutes for her to fall asleep. And then he'd made his move.
Quietly out of the closet, then down the hall, dressed in a hooded black body suit that rendered him invisible in the darkness. The hunting knife was in its sheath, strapped to . his forearm. A set of plastic handcuffs was in one hand. His strangulation stick was in the other. The bedroom door was open. He stood in the doorway, opposite the bay window on the far wall. Outside, a big full moon radiated just enough light to cast shadows across the room. A collage of framed photographs covered another wall. A queen-size bed faced the bureau. His analytic eye traced the gentle curve of her body beneath the blankets. She lay on her right side, facing away from him. She was surely asleep, but he would wait for the furnace to kick on before closing in. The hum from the blowers would muffle his footsteps. He stood motionless for several minutes, watching over her, never flinching a muscle. Finally, the furnace tripped. A stream of warm air poured from the vents. The lace curtains on the window began to stir. That was his cue. He hooked the plastic cuffs to his belt. He put his arm though the loop of his strangulation stick and brought it up around his right shoulder. Both hands were free. He took four steps closer, right to the edge of the bed. She was easily within his grasp.
Half her sleepy face was hidden beneath the covers, but he knew exactly what she looked . Like. He knew all about her. She met the essential requirements. Brown hair, brown eyes, mid-thirties. A very suitable selection, given the compressed time frame.
He took a deep, silent breath, then unleashed his fury in one fluid motion. He grabbed her hip and shoulder and jerked her backward, arching her spine against his knee with such force that it cracked the seventh vertebrae. He dragged her to the floor, flat on her stomach. Her limbs flailed as he mounted her, nearly two hundred muscular pounds planted firmly on her kidneys. He extended his arms, and with cupped hands he slapped her simultaneously on the ears. It stunned her long enough for him to gain control and lock her wrists behind her back in the plastic cuffs. He jerked her upward and sat her on the edge of the bed. She screamed once. The strangulation stick dropped over her head and tightened quickly, silencing her. It was a simple but lethal device, a two-foot loop of nylon rope attached at both ends to an eight-inch wooden handle. It allowed him to twist with one hand and choke his victim, leaving the other free to control her. He knelt behind her on the bed as the rope twisted and tightened around her neck. The blood flow to her brain stopped. She weakened with each breathless moment. He propped her up with his free arm around her waist, beneath the rib cage, like half a Heimlich maneuver. As long as she was alive, he wouldn't let her fall. She sat facing the mirror. He was directly behind her, facing the mirror, too, though his face was unrecognizable behind the ski mask. There was just enough light to show their reflection. In every attack, there had to be a mirror.