It was the only way his victims could watch themselves be strangled.
Her legs kicked, her body tightened with resistance. The futility of her efforts only heightened his excitement, underlined his total control. This one had fought for nearly half an hour. The fight, however, was on his terms. Every few minutes he would give a twist of the right hand and tighten the noose. She would groan and squirm, then slowly lose consciousness. And then--at precisely the right moment--he would release. The loop at the end of the strangulation stick would loosen. Her swan-like neck would lose the hourglass effect. The air passages would reopen. Blood flow to and from the brain would resume. The purple ring of bruises around the neck would swell, then throb. Slowly, her near-dead body would return to life. He could enjoy it all over again. Three times so far.
And now she was coming back--again.
She coughed lightly. Once more she was gaining strength. He could feel the change in her neck and shoulders. She was no longer dead weight. This was unprecedented--four times, up and down, then up again. Either she was an amazing fighter, or he was getting better. More likely the former. He was already the best. He knew just how far to take it, how tight to squeeze, how long to hold it. It had taken years of training, much of it at the expense of his own neck muscles. All those afternoons in his garage as a teenager, standing on a ladder, hanging by the neck with his makeshift pulley. Practice had made perfect. He knew what it was like on the other side. The rope had taken him there. More important, he knew the way back. He could show others the way, too. He could bring anyone back.
Or not.
Her face was red and puffy. Blood oozed from her tongue and lips, where she'd bitten herself. Her eyes blinked open, locking with his in the mirror. Hers were glassy and bloodshot. His were dark, narrow slits. He gave the stick a swift turn, harder than the last time, farther than before. The noose tightened and crushed the larynx. Her body stiffened, then quickly went limp. She had little fight left. The struggle was over.
This one was not coming back.
He released the tension on the rope, staring closely at a face that no longer showed expression. The brief excitement faded, then turned to disappointment. The anger should have subsided, but it was only getting stronger. This close up, eye to eye with his victim, beyond the flurry of the kill, his mistake was evident.
This one just didn't look enough like Beth Wheatley.
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-Seven.
Andie finished her Monday morning run in record time. The clouds even parted as she crossed the imaginary finish line outside her town house. A quick three miles with a sprint-kick finish had left her sweaty and exhausted. The phone rang just as she reached her back door.
She had not yet caught her breath as she raced inside the kitchen and grabbed it in mid-ring. It was Gus.
"Good--morn--ing," she said, each syllable separated by heavy breathing.
"Did I catch you in the middle of . . . something?"
"No, not--it's not that," she said, realizing she had the distinct breathlessness of recent orgasm.
"I'd better call back later."
"It's okay, really." She drew a few more breaths. "I was jogging."
"Oh." He sounded relieved.
She pulled the scrunchie from her knotted hair, letting it fall. "What's up?"
"I hate to bother you at home so early, but I've been thinking about something all weekend that I really need to talk to you about. With your psychology background and all, I thought you might be able to help."
"Sure. Be happy to."
"It's about Beth. She seems to have been in some kind of trouble. Even before she disappeared, I mean."
He had her attention. Andie sank into a chair at the kitchen table as he told her about the bulimia, the shoplifting. She got up once to grab the magnetic message pad from the refrigerator door, then jotted down a few notes with the phone tucked beneath her chin. It took him several minutes to recount everything. She listened carefully, interjecting only a few "uh-huhs" and "I sees" along the way. As he spoke, however, she was internally debating whether to tell him on the phone that the evidence was more than ever pointing to Beth as a likely victim. When he finished, there was silence.
Andie said, "Would you mind if I stopped by your house this morning?"
"That would be fine, I guess. What do you have in mind?"
She caught herself, careful not to use the term victimology with a man who might not be ready to label his wife a victim. "It would be helpful for me to see where Beth lived, how she lived. Maybe even look at some of those things you think she shoplifted. Then we can talk more."
"That sounds like a good idea."
"I can be there in about an hour."