Besides, it’s not like I’ll forget any of them, with my trophy case stocked with precious souvenirs, ready to display more. He thought about the collection of locks of hair and the rings, watches, and other jewelry he had saved from his conquests, and he knew that, as risky as keeping the prizes was—if the authorities ever searched his house, they would certainly be his undoing—it was well worth it. Besides, he was much smarter than the people pursuing him, so as long as he continued to exercise caution in his hunting, he knew he had nothing to fear. What exactly was the point of exercising his admittedly peculiar interest if he could not enjoy the fruits of his hard-fought labors?
Martin scanned the plaza, his practiced eye immediately zeroing in on a few potential targets, attractive girls in their late teens or early twenties. He was fortunate that he was mostly permitted to indulge his taste for slim blondes and brunettes; his contact only demanded that they be young and attractive. This process of selecting a companion was where things could get a little dicey. He had to be careful to choose a target whose family or friends weren’t paying too much attention to her. It was getting more and more difficult. With each passing success, the media coverage of the I-90 Killer became more and more sensational, causing nervous parents to pay that much more attention to their daughters.
At least for a while.
Then, time would go by, Martin would lie low, and the coverage would die down as other stories moved into the news cycle, picking up again only after Martin plucked another victim out from under the not-so-watchful gaze of her parents or friends.
Martin strolled past the pizza counter, moving behind the lines of people. He passed the line for the pizza and burger joints, taking his place in the crowd of people waiting to buy a cup of coffee. His heart hammered wildly in his chest and he practically quivered with anticipation. This was the hardest part: the knowledge that he was so close to his next plaything but would have to wait to enjoy her, but he forced himself to slow down and proceed with caution.
This sense of caution was exactly why he would never be caught. Others of his kind rushed in with little or no regard for the potential consequences of their rash actions. Or they were careful in the beginning but became sloppy after a few successes, leaving themselves open to committing the kind of mistakes that resulted in capture, humiliation, and, eventually, life in prison or even the death penalty.
Not Martin Krall. Martin Krall was too smart for that kind of carelessness. He knew when to take bold, decisive action and when to hang back and observe, and this was the time to hang back and observe. Scan and plan before leaping into action.
The line at the coffee counter moved slowly. Its length surprised Martin because of the stifling heat outside. Of course, like most coffee franchises, this one offered the thirsty patron all sorts of fancy iced drinks and frothy ten-thousand-calorie concoctions composed mostly of water and sugar, and Martin figured the majority of the sheep were probably purchasing those. He waited patiently, eyes continually scanning the crowd behind his mirrored sunglasses, keeping tabs on the pair of girls he had determined were the most promising targets.
Finally, he reached the front of the line. A tall, skinny kid in his late teens with serious acne issues and long, greasy, blond hair looked down at him through bored, blue eyes. Pinned at a careless angle onto his shirt was a nametag that read “Jamie.” The shirt was wrinkled and partially untucked. “Help you?” he asked.
Martin was immediately turned off. He was no neat freak, not by any stretch of the imagination, but this kid reeked of grime and germs. It was disgusting. Martin’s first instinct was to turn away. He certainly didn’t want to drink anything “Jamie” had put his dirty paws all over. But then he stopped himself. Waiting all that time in line and then leaving without buying anything just as he got to the counter would be noteworthy. It would make him stick out. It would make people remember him.
That kind of reaction was unacceptable, especially considering what would soon take place here today. He reluctantly forced a smile onto his face, wondering whether it looked as insincere as it felt, and said, “Small coffee, please.”
The kid stared at him without moving, as if Martin had spoken in some foreign language. For a second, Martin wondered if maybe he didn’t speak English, but of course, that was absurd. He had been waiting behind a whole group of people, most of whom must have been speaking English, and no one else seemed to have had any trouble. What was this moron’s problem?
Finally, the kid asked, “Hot?”
Now it was Martin’s turn to stare uncomprehendingly. Of course it was hot; it was at least ninety degrees outside, for crying out loud!
Suddenly, he realized what the kid was asking. His earlier supposition that most of the people in line were buying those iced drinks was right on target, and this idiot wanted to be sure he understood Martin’s order correctly. “Yes, hot,” Martin said, trying and mostly succeeding in keeping the sneer he felt out of his voice. “I’d like hot coffee.” He said it slowly and deliberately.
The kid drew the brew out of a huge stainless steel urn set up on a counter behind him, then handed the cup to Martin and received payment without another word. Martin wanted nothing more than to stiff this loser out of a tip—his service was poor and his personal hygiene nonexistent—but of course that might draw the attention of some of the sheep, too, so he reluctantly dropped a quarter into the plastic tip jar, strategically placed next to the cash register, and moved away, grabbing a table near the front of the room where he would have a decent view of the entire place.