***
Jasper put on the backpack he’d prepared in Anchorage. Then he pulled on his ski mask. There wasn’t anyone around, but in case the worst happened, he didn’t need someone who knew what he looked like these days helping the police build a composite sketch, and he sure as hell didn’t care to set himself up for more surgery. With all the empathy his parents felt for others, they wouldn’t be able to justify helping him if they learned that he’d killed again. They’d only done it the first time because he’d told them he was high on acid when he killed Evelyn’s friends and thought they were zombies—and then Evelyn had surprised him, and he’d panicked.
No, it was far more practical to protect his identity, to mitigate the risk. Although at first, he’d hated having to wear a mask, he’d used it so much in the past twenty years that it had become part of the fun. Feeling the heat of it, the scratchy fibers against his cheeks, signaled to his brain that he was about to engage in what he loved most.
That excitement nearly consumed him now. He wasn’t going out to kidnap another woman who looked like Evelyn; he was going to confront Evelyn herself.
He’d parked his car such that he’d been able to shine his lights on her house long enough to let her know something terrible was about to happen. He liked the idea of giving her a good scare, of making her wonder if her day of reckoning had come. Invoking that kind of terror was an important part of the foreplay, and he’d always been good at foreplay.
Since then he’d moved his rental car down the windy street and parked it off the road behind some trees. He was a stranger in the area. He didn’t want anyone else to spot it. The more careful he was, the less likely it would be that he’d have to answer for this later—and what good would it do to finally finish off Evelyn if he went to prison for it?
Careful not to make a sound, he crept around to the far side of the bungalow. He wasn’t concerned that she would figure out he was about to break in. She couldn’t get away, regardless. She couldn’t even call for help, since he’d cut her phone line. He was only being so quiet because he wanted to check things out before he made his move. He’d be a fool to underestimate her: She could be armed.
If he could get another glimpse of her, it would help him know if she was carrying a weapon, he thought, as he moved silently from window to window...
But she wasn’t in the living room anymore, where he’d briefly caught sight of her from the car. And he couldn’t tell if she was in the bedroom. There were blinds instead of drapes in the bedroom, and those blinds were down.
“Where are you, Evelyn?” he breathed to himself and paused to listen. He even put his ear to the back door.
Nothing.
He figured he might as well break a window. Someone with her background would have deadbolts on all the doors, so he doubted he’d be able to kick one in.
Closing his eyes, he reveled in a rush of anticipation while imagining how the next few seconds would go. If she had a gun, the noise he was about to make would most likely draw her to him—and he’d have to make sure, if she fired, that she missed. If she didn’t have a gun, she’d probably try to run.
Either way, he’d have to move quickly to subdue her. But she’d be scared shitless. She’d have to be. And there was nothing more debilitating than fear. He’d seen it so many times: people who could usually think and act quite rationally freezing up in terror. Since Evelyn, of all people, would have a clear knowledge of what was in store for her, he didn’t think it would be hard to gain the advantage. Even if she had a gun, she’d be lucky to get off one shot, which would probably go into a wall or the ceiling, before he could shove the barrel of his own firearm in her mouth.
He was fairly certain that would put an end to all resistance. Then he could put the gun in other orifices—and with someone as strong as Evelyn, the torture could last for days.
It had before, hadn’t it?
Choosing the widest window, he pulled out the small area rug he’d shoved in his backpack. It was thick enough to protect him from the broken glass, thicker than a blanket or a towel. But before he could lift the butt of his rifle, he heard the sound of a vehicle coming down the street. Then a car door slammed, a dog barked, and, almost right after, someone rang the doorbell.
Chapter 12
“Were you the one sitting down the street?” After checking the peephole, Evelyn had opened her front door to find Amarok, and the beautiful Alaskan Malamute she’d occasionally seen with him in town, standing on her front stoop.