The Perfect Victim
by Linda Castillo
Prologue
"Let us return to the magic hour of our birth for
which we mourn." -KOFI AWOONOR
She had dreamed of him. Dark, disturbing dreams filled with blood and violence and a vague sense of terror. Dreams that choked her with the familiar sting of shame and dredged up memories of a past she'd spent her entire life trying to forget.
Huddled in the threadbare recliner, Agnes Beckett watched the hands of the clock sweep to midnight, knowing sleep would not come again. It was the kind of night that evoked demons. The kind of night that made her wonder why her subconscious had waited until now to torment her. She'd always believed she'd come to terms with her past. It was somehow disappointing, and strangely ironic, to realize after all these years those demons still frightened her.
A faint rasping, like the frenzied gnawing of a cold rodent, sounded just outside the front door. Hauling herself to her feet, she made her way to the kitchen, the thought of rats bringing a curse to her lips.
At the door, she flipped on the porch light and spread the homemade curtains. Beyond, a thin veil of snow whispered across the plowed field, gathering at the frozen peaks of earth, stark and white against black.
She leaned close to the glass, straining to see the maple tree that grew alongside the mobile home. Spindly fingers of ice clung like transparent talons to the branches and grated against the siding. A sigh of relief slid from her lips. It wasn't rats. Just the wind.
An instant later the door burst inward, striking her in the chest hard enough to knock the breath from her. Shock flashed through her, followed by a fleeting sense of realization, and an instant of disbelief.
A man entered her kitchen. Terror snaked through her as she took in the sight of him—long black coat, shiny leather gloves, face concealed behind a ski mask.
"Who are you?" she cried.
Reptilian eyes stared at her through the slits of the knit mask. "Destiny," he whispered.
Not much frightened Agnes Beckett these days. She'd led a hard life filled with the kinds of experiences that destroyed the weak and made the strong stronger. But as she watched the intruder close the door behind him, a fear she'd never experienced in her youth wrapped around her and squeezed, like a snake crushing the life from its prey.
It was the stare, she realized, inhuman in its intensity, the eyes dispassionate and resolute, filled with unspeakable purpose.
Spinning, she propelled herself into a dead run for the bedroom. She was aware of him moving behind her, but she didn't stop. She ran blindly, arms outstretched, tripping over the cheap throw rug, righting herself just as she flung herself forward into the narrow hall. She sensed his closeness as she ran, heard the sound of his boots on the carpet, his breathing above her own labored gasps.
A sliver of panic pierced the last of her control and worked its way into her like a shard of glass into flesh. Lunging at the night table, she snatched up the phone and punched zero.
But the line was as silent and cold as the terror exploding in her brain. Breaths rushing between clenched teeth, she spun on her attacker. The sight of the knife sent a scream pouring from her throat. In that instant, she knew she was going to die. A vile bitterness welled up inside her that her life would be wiped out this way. So suddenly and with so much violence.
He leaped forward, tiny eyes fixed on hers, as cold and emotionless as a taxidermist's glass. She raised her hands in defense. The blade came down, slicing into the flesh between her fingers, rising again, then cutting deep. The scream that followed was hoarse and weak. Her own. And the blood. So much blood…
A split second of flittering light and the knife plunged again. There was no real pain, but the knowledge that she'd been badly injured flowed into her as surely as the blood coursed between her breasts.
She lashed out with her fists, but she was too weak to fight. As she sank to her knees in the narrow hall, she knew, after all these years, he'd finally come for her. Master of her fate. Her past. And, now, her destiny. The realization came with a rush of pain, of unfulfillment, of hatred. She'd been living on borrowed time. His time. Bastard.
The knife slashed upward. She felt the pressure of the blade as it bit into her throat. She tried to scream, but her voice was gone. Her vision blurred. Panic fluttered away. Her senses dimmed as if a switch inside her head had been suddenly and viciously turned off.
She heard gurgling, an undignified sound that had come from somewhere deep inside her. Light ebbed into darkness. Thoughts fragmented, memories tumbled away into oblivion, lost forever, as though they had never existed. She slid to the floor, her blood-soaked flannel shirt catching on the nails in the cheap paneling.
Outside the front door, the maple danced with the wind.
Chapter 1