But murder was an art to be properly learned, and practice improved any art.
It took him another two years to lure Celia Hampton away with him. He’d waited for a frat party. Waited until she was drunk and vomiting and offered her a wet towel—doused with a drug, of course. Then he’d slipped her into his old van and out to the woods in Virginia, far from the city. He hadn’t had to strip her; he’d shown her his knife and she’d done everything he wanted. After that, he’d cut her. First her throat. Slowly. He’d let her bleed out...while he sliced open her gut.
He’d thrown her in a river—weighing her down by stuffing her with stones. By the time she was found...the river had washed away all evidence.
In the beginning he’d been able to live on the memory for years. Then, more recently, he’d felt the need to kill again. But now things were different. The need came faster. He got work that allowed him to travel, and it had afforded him opportunities for murder. He was controlled, always controlled and always careful. He studied his victims. They were never ugly again. They were the pretty ones. But he made sure that when they were found, he couldn’t be. They might know about him—since communications among law enforcement officers were pretty good these days—but they didn’t know who he was.
He always took a souvenir.
The tongue.
Serial killers often took souvenirs. He’d determined that would be his souvenir of choice.
They would recognize his work.
Then again, maybe not; he left his victims in water, weighed down with whatever he could find. And the water concealed any evidence there might be.
Yes, he had an alter ego. And he’d paved the way. Two dead already, just in the past month. Now...this one. And there’d have to be more.
He’d watched the first girl, Sarah, not with malice, but with purpose. He hadn’t done anything out of hatred or viciousness. He’d been inexperienced then, still learning. With Celia, the second girl, it had been easy. It wasn’t that he liked what he’d done. He’d seen the need early on and he did his job as he understood it.
It was just necessary. Like dressing every morning, driving, breathing, eating—making a living.
He wished he could be sorry. He wasn’t.
He did what he needed to do, and that was all.
He’d become Slash McNeil.
For a moment, he paused. It was messing with him this time. He had it figured out—and damned well, too. The girls, the type, the psychology.
But this one...
This one was different. The way he handled her had to be different. And he sure as hell didn’t like it, not one bit.
Still...
He was prepared. He’d prepared for this possibility months ago, and in actuality, there were things about it that were even more appealing than usual. This involved wits and careful machinations and a certain danger that made it all the more exhilarating; it gave him a high that was greater than the rest.
He smiled and thought about the woman—her flair, her grace, her confidence.
And he thought about what she’d be...
When it was all over.
1
Meg Murray’s alarm went off with a strident ring that made her nearly jump out of her skin as well as the bed.
She groaned and rubbed her temples. Keeping up with the guys wasn’t easy—not as easy as she’d hoped, anyway.
But she, and Sandra Martinez and Carrie Huang— the two other young women in her academy class—were holding up nicely. And they’d made it. Meg was proud—and relieved. She knew that only one out of every hundred applicants got into the academy.
And not all made it through.
She’d been determined. Just as some kids knew they wanted to grow up to be actors, artists, veterinarians or zookeepers, she’d known she wanted the FBI.
She and her class had learned legal and investigative processes and passed every physical test of strength and coordination. The men and the women in her class had all done well. Meg hadn’t beaten Ricky Grant—considered by most of them, including Ricky, to be the toughest cadet in their class—but she’d kept up with him. In fact, her class had excelled.
They’d graduated; they’d had their ceremony. They were officially agents now, and they’d celebrated.
She wasn’t sure why she’d felt compelled to keep up with Ricky in all things.
She hadn’t gotten wasted last night; she’d been extremely temperate while pretending to imbibe far more than she had. And she wasn’t hungover; she was tired!
The trials, the strain, the classes, the yearning—they were over. It was exhilarating, and it gave them all a flutter of fear. Time to go into the world as rookies. Time to prove themselves.
And, of course, it was time to move out of cadet housing and into places of their own.