Part 1
I have been one acquainted with the night
Darkness descended with gradual grace, creeping over the land with stealth and silence. A pall of gray clouds smothered the land, a menacing mass thick with the dangerous stillness that often precedes a Midwestern thunderstorm.
As the afternoon deepened and the tension in the air melded with the choking heat, most creatures instinctively sought shelter somewhere. But along the man-made roadways, the occasional car could be seen, moving along the highway with the purposeful purposelessness that plagues so much of humanity.
A young man made his way along the shoulder of Route 20, heading toward Chicago. He moved with an easy grace at odds with his size and the apparent indifference to his surroundings displayed by far too many pedestrians. He whistled as he walked, his thumbs hooked on the belt loops of his jeans. His dark hair was neatly trimmed and he was clean-shaven, a youth of indeterminate age with the pleasant look of a harmless Suburbanite.
There was nothing harmless about Jonathan. He was as feral as any wolf-raised child, albeit better able to blend into human society, but the “wolf” who had raised him had been human. Though he didn’t like to think about it, there was much of his father in him. Even now, prowling the highway for reasons of his own, he was very much his father’s son.
He dismissed such thoughts from consideration as he walked, reveling in the weather. The dangerous edge to the summer night might fill most creatures with apprehension, but it merely made Jonathan restless. When he felt the change in the air, he had taken to the road, thrilled by the thought of being out on the land when the storm finally struck.
The surly grumbles from the clouds grew deeper and longer before the storm pounced on the world below with the mad ferocity of a half-starved wolf. Rain lashed the ground and jagged flashes of light cracked the sky, leaving Jonathan momentarily night-blind. He stopped moving for the first time in more than an hour. A wild glee arose from the depths of his soul as thunder vibrated through his body. He raised his arms as if to embrace the sky. Then he began to laugh as the heavy drops pounded his upturned face.
“ ’Above the weird twilight,” he shouted, exultant,
The hurrying centers of the storm unite
And spreading with huge trunk and rolling fringe
Each wheeled upon its own tremendous hinge
Tower darkening on. And now from heaven’s height
With the long roar of elm-trees swept and swayed
And pelted waters, on the vanished plain
Plunges the blast. Behind the wild white flash
That splits abroad the pealing thunder-crash
Over bleared fields and gardens, disarrayed
Column on column comes the drenching rain.’ ”
Suddenly he began to run, tearing along the side of the road as if he could outrun the howling winds.
He didn’t want to escape the tempest. He wanted to run with it, now and forever, glorying in the rage and violence. He wanted to be a part of nature’s fury unleashed. He wanted to arc into the sky like a lightning bolt, or perhaps be struck by one. He wanted…he wanted…he needed…
Hunger rose in him, fierce and terrible. He bared his teeth as his mile-eating dash eased into a predatory jog. His was a nameless hunger that slept deep within his soul. He was a hunter by nature, both terribly aware and proud of this fact. His favorite prey was human.
He jogged on and on, tireless. Tonight was the perfect night for the game to begin. America was rapidly losing her trusting nature, becoming more and more wary and hostile in the wake of the violence that was growing increasingly prevalent. Yet common decency lingered in the hearts of most of the people, and Jonathan knew it would serve him in good stead. He was soaked to the skin, out in the pouring rain on a stretch of lonely road with no shelter in sight. Someone was bound to stop for him.
Traffic became more frequent, headlights burning through the twilight rain. When each car approached, he hunched his shoulders and trudged as if made miserable by the weather. Headlights swept over him, swept past him. Tires sprayed him with water. He was already drenched, but this was annoying him.
Finally one of the bulky blurs swishing through the rain flashed an orange light through the pouring rain, and pulled over onto the wide shoulder. Wild glee rose inside him and he had to fight to keep his expression hopeful-forlorn when he wanted to laugh. The driving rain and snarling sky made him feel fiercely alive, tingling along every nerve in primal savagery. But it wouldn’t do to make this unknown Samaritan nervous.
With his blood singing, but none of it showing on his face, he ran to the car and slid inside as quickly as possible. He thanked the driver for stopping, turning slightly in his seat so that he could get a good look at her.
She was a black woman of middle years, with hound-dog eyes and a serene smile. She waved off his apology when he expressed concern about getting water on her upholstery, and he caught sight of a filigree-style golden cross around her neck.
“It’s nasty out. I couldn’t leave you walking in the rain. What you doing out on a night like this?”
“I was a little late heading home from work.” He said, buckling his seat belt as she pulled back onto the highway. “I was on my way home when my car died.”
“Don’t you got a cell phone?” There was something very matronly about her, a motherliness he found endearing.
“Nope.” He kept his smile sheepish. “I haven’t caught up with the times yet. Besides, I can’t afford it.”
“So where you headed?”
“Palos Hills.”
She seemed pleased. “I live in Palos Heights. I’ll drop you off on my way through. I’m Donna Gibbons. What’s your name, hon?”
“Jonathan.”
Donna gave him a quick glance. “You don’t hardly look old enough to be out of school.”
“I’m nineteen.”
She snorted. “Gangling boy like you? I’d bet sixteen, seventeen at most.”
He laughed, neither confirming or denying her fairly accurate guess.
“You gonna get in trouble with your mama when she finds out you been joyriding in her car?” Donna asked with a sly smile.
A sudden pang shivered through Jonathan, made stronger by the no-nonsense motherly attitude of the woman sitting beside him. Following an impulse he didn’t understand, he decided to tell the truth.
“No, ma’am.” He said softly, both approving of and condemning himself for the catch in his voice. “My mother died when I was little.”
“Ah, honey, I’m so sorry.” She made as if to pat his hand, but the vicious weather demanded that she not remove her hands from the steering wheel.
“It’s all right. There’s no way you could’ve known.”
She was silent for a moment before she asked, “What happened?”
His mind shied away from the truth and he lied automatically. “A car accident. She died instantly. Broken neck.”
“What about your daddy?”
Having guessed she would ask, this question made him less uncomfortable. “Dad’s always working. I don’t see him much.”
She tsked. “Bad idea to leave a boy alone too much. Just look at the trouble you got yourself into.”
Recognizing that she was talking more to herself than to him, he made no reply. Another thought demanded his attention.
He could extend this encounter. That would give him more of a challenge, help him perfect his ability to masquerade as human. Despite being human-born, he didn’t consider himself human, didn’t think like any human he had ever met. He needed more exposure to people so he could fully understand how they thought and felt and acted.
He could get Donna to invite him into her home. He was sure of it. All he had to do was make her feel sorry for him. He suppressed a smile as the plan began to take shape.
Jonathan let out a shuddering sigh. “I know that we need the money, but I wish Dad didn’t have to work so much. It gets lonely all by myself.”
There was a moment of awkward silence, then he made a visible effort to shake off his counterfeit melancholy. He had to weave his plan with subtlety if he was to make it work. “But it’s not all bad. I can listen to my music as loud as I like when Dad’s not home.”
Donna all but pounced on the safer subject. “What kind of music you listen to?”
“I like Korn and Limp Bizkit. Dad likes country.”
“Your music must drive him crazy.”
“He says it sounds like cats being strangled.”
That made her laugh.
They were heading into Palos Hills. He had to make his move to keep this going before she started asking for directions. Thankfully, his stomach rumbled loudly enough to provide the perfect opening. Flashing his most charming smile, he said, “I’m so glad you stopped for me. I’d’ve been pretty hungry by the time I got home on my own.”
“You and your daddy gonna have dinner together?”
“Dad won’t be home till after midnight. I’ve got some frozen dinners.”
That seemed to be more than her maternal heart could take. “You come on home with me, honey. You can have a nice home-cooked meal with my family.”
He gave her a hesitant smile and did his best to sound uncertain. “I wouldn’t want to impose…”
“Nonsense. Let a boy go home to an empty house and frozen dinner? We’d be glad to have you.”
“Thank you, you’re very kind.” He replied as humbly as he could while triumph swelled inside him.
Now that it was settled, Donna chattered amiably, telling him about her husband and two kids. She had a small daughter and a son only a few years younger than Jonathan, which explained both her motherliness and her reluctance to let him go home alone. There was a bruised hesitancy about her when she mentioned her husband that made Jonathan fiercely eager to meet the man.
They pulled up outside one of many two-story pre-fabricated homes lined up along the street, with nothing but color and sometimes neat gardens to distinguish one from another. Donna’s home had pansies edging the short driveway and slightly longer sidewalk, well-maintained stripes of purple and white.
She opened the door and called out to those inside. He followed her from the foyer into the living room, brushing his fingers over a tiny statue of the Virgin Mary. There were more religious icons in the next room, along with good-quality furniture drifting toward shabby. It was lit only by the light of the television until Donna snapped on the overhead light.
“Guys, this is Jonathan. He’ll be joining us for dinner. Jonathan, this is my husband Richard and our kids. Make yourself at home. I’ve gotta get everything started.” With that, she bustled into the kitchen across the way.
Jonathan cast his glance around the room, skipping over the sullen-looking youth engrossed in his PSP and the subdued girl who didn’t look young enough to still be sucking her thumb. He fixed his attention on the shapeless lump of man-flesh glowering at him from one end of the couch. Judging from the smell, the beer Richard Gibbons was cracking open was far from his first one. There was a tightness around his mouth, a meanness lurking in his eyes.
After a glance down at his sodden clothes, Jonathan squelched across the carpet and seated himself close enough to Richard to annoy him. Unless he had badly misjudged the woman’s character, Donna would merely cluck her tongue in mild annoyance and bring him a towel. Jonathan’s goal was to avoid upsetting her if he possibly could—but he definitely wanted to provoke her husband so he could see if he’d made the correct guess about the man’s temperament.
Richard scowled at him. “Where’d she dig you up, boy?”
Jonathan gave him a look of wide-eyed innocence. “I was walking along Route 20 after my car broke down and it started raining and then Mrs. Gibbons stopped and gave me a ride and brought me here cuz otherwise I’ll be eating alone since Dad doesn’t get off till midnight.”
“Don’t know that it’s a good idea to bring home a stranger when people been turning up dead a lot around here.” Richard took a large swallow of beer.
“That’s an unfair generalization.” Jonathan said, his temper simmering out of sight as both kids reacted to his challenge by giving their father quick, uneasy glances.
“What are you talking about?”
Jonathan gave him a slow, icy smile. “Humans have always killed each other, it’s true, but there aren’t significantly more murders now than there were a few years ago. Chicago’s a dangerous area.”
Richard snorted and stormed into the kitchen for another beer. Jonathan could hear him growling at Donna as he rummaged in the fridge. When Richard returned, he said, “Too many psychos around here, or don’t you watch the news? First that wacko murdered all those girls, then that Gacy nut prancing around like a clown from Hell, and now we’ve got some lunatic butchering people. I hope the cops shoot him when they catch him.”
Jonathan didn’t allow his smile to slip, though his teeth were starting to hurt. “Aren’t there two lunatics? One dismembering random people, and another killing young women. Besides that, we have gangs and drugs and—”
“That a racial slur?”
“White men have gangs too, and Hispanics. The last druggie I met was a white chick. Race has nothing to do with it.”
“Donna, why the Hell’d you bring a smart-ass cracker into my house?” Richard shouted before he chugged his beer.
“Stop being so sensitive!” She hollered from the safety of the kitchen. “Jonathan don’t mean any harm.”
Richard muttered for a moment, shooting dark glances toward the kitchen. Jonathan tightened his hold on his temper and wondered what the man’s response would’ve been without a stranger in the house to witness his behavior.
“What do you do for a living?” Jonathan asked.
Anger flashed in Richard’s dark eyes, as if Jonathan had insulted him. “None of your damn business.”
Jonathan guessed that the man was probably unemployed. When Richard lit a cigarette, Jonathan made a face and heaved himself up from the couch. He “accidentally” stepped on Richard’s toes on his way to the kitchen, tightening his hold on himself when he heard Richard swearing and threatening violence.
“Can I help?” He asked Donna, hoping that nothing of the predator showed in his smile.
She smiled in return, some of her tension easing. “Sure thing, hon. Open up those beans and set them in the microwave for a few minutes.”
He did as she directed, wondering what her lingering anxiety might prompt her to say if he kept silent.
“Don’t mind Richard.” She said after a few minutes. She selected a small onion and began to dice it. “He doesn’t mean any harm. It’s been rough for him since he got laid off.”
Jonathan noticed that she pitched her voice low so as not to be overheard. He moderated his own tone to match hers. “How long has he been out of work?”
“Not long.” She turned her head away. “It’s not really his fault. He tries so hard.”
He’d heard a similar sentiment, a similar tone, expressed in another woman’s voice, spoken through swollen lips. Cold fury washed through him, and he checked his temper with difficulty. He had to be sure before he acted, but there was nothing he could point to as proof—Donna’s skin was so dark that if she had any bruises, he couldn’t see them.
He smiled slowly, his eyes glittering with malice. Fortunately, Donna was messing about with the pork chops and didn’t see the predator in Jonathan rise to the surface. He didn’t want to scare her.
He wanted to protect her.
The meal was filled with stilted conversation and tension, but the food was delicious. Jonathan praised the cook, pleased by her flushed pleasure and angered that her family took the wonderful meal for granted. The children didn’t speak unless spoken to. Richard found fault with everything, growling and complaining like a petty tyrant. Jonathan’s dislike of the man grew rapidly.
Jonathan insisted on washing the dishes when the meal was over, and Donna drove him home shortly afterward. He didn’t direct her to the little cabin that had once belonged to his father. He never took anyone there, never admitted he lived in that secluded area. Even his mail went to a post office box rather than his cabin.
Instead, he had her drop him off at a neighbor’s house—a man who worked night shift and kept a spare key under a flower pot.
“Thank you for dinner.” He unbuckled his seat belt and hesitated in the car. “I know it’s none of my business, but…don’t let Richard get to you. You’re a wonderful woman, and he’s lucky to have you.”
Donna patted his hand. “You’re a sweet kid. You ever need anything, you let me know, okay, hon?”
“Sure thing.” He smiled and climbed from the car. As he expected, Donna waited for him to get safely inside before she pulled away.
He waited until her car was out of sight, then slipped out of the house. He replaced the key exactly where he’d found it and jogged the quarter-mile to his cabin.
His father had chosen to build a home near a small state forest, because it provided seclusion without being too far from the city and everything it offered. The cabin was small, a one-story structure with two bedrooms and a storm cellar. There were two sheds in the back, several yards from the house. One was small and roughly built, housing tools for yardwork and maintenance. The other was better constructed and twice as big, intended for butchering. It held a rack of hunting rifles and knives, fishing equipment, and a chest freezer. It also contained a heavy wooden trap-door, held closed by a thick metal bar and palm-sized padlock.
Jonathan went to the larger shed before he went into the cabin. The blood had drained from the turkey he’d shot early that morning. It was a fine, fat one, and he looked forward to roasting it tomorrow. He spent the next two hours plucking the bird and removing the bits he didn’t intend to eat. He saved the down for pillows and tossed the scraps into a metal bucket.
The shed was heavily insulated, with a generator tucked into one corner to power the lights and the cooling unit. He switched the unit on so his meat would stay fresh and grabbed the scrap bucket on his way out the door.
He whistled to himself as he went into the cabin. Once inside, he was greeted by his dogs. They danced around him and bumped into him, making small noises of excitement. They were too well-trained to jump on him, but there was never any doubt that they were pleased to see him.
“Hi guys! Great to see you!” With his free hand, he patted flanks and scratched behind ears as he made his way to the kitchen in the center of a furry swarm.
The dogs backed off when he entered the kitchen and stood a few feet away, watching him expectantly. Here and there, a tail waved gently.
Jonathan glanced at them fondly as he picked their dishes from the floor. He had five dogs, and their presence kept him from longing for other companionship. He selected meat scraps from the fridge, mixed them with the fresh turkey scraps, and dumped an appropriate portion into each bowl, along with a single egg for each dog, and mixed it together with an equal portion of dry dog food.
Gypsy, the elkhound mix, wriggled with excitement when he set the dish in front of her. Gypsy’s grown pup, Thunder, strongly resembled his wolf father. He bared his teeth in token challenge, but quickly subsided when Jonathan growled at him. The German shepherd, Rufus, attempted to dive snout-first into the bowl before Jonathan even put it down, forcing Jonathan to give him a rap on the nose, as the move broke discipline. Rufus then waited until Jonathan set the bowl in front of him and straightened up before he began to eat.
Missy, the Rottweiler, was more polite, waiting for him to step back before she approached the bowl. Jonathan’s heart twisted with sympathetic pain and remembered fury every time he looked at her. He pushed away the memories of how he’d acquired her and set the last bowl on the floor for Goliath. Goliath was the biggest of the bunch, more accurately described as a pony, a scruffy-looking mottled brown mutt who looked as though he had Great Dane heritage.
As the dogs wolfed down their food, Jonathan refilled their water bowls and returned the scrap bucket to the meat shed. He rinsed the blood off the shed floor with a hose, watching the water flow from pinkish to clear as it swirled down the drain in the center of the floor. Then he rinsed the bucket and returned it to its accustomed place.
The dogs’ training included several lessons. They never stole food from each other, they obeyed about a dozen commands, three of them hunted for him on occasion—and most importantly, they never barked. It wouldn’t do to advertise his presence, since he technically wasn’t supposed to be here.
Jonathan poured himself a glass of water, turned on the television, and settled onto the couch. Missy jumped up beside him and laid her head in his lap with a contented sigh. Gypsy sat on the other side of him, her chin resting on the arm of the couch. Thunder also climbed on the couch and curled up against Missy. A few minutes later, Goliath padded in from the kitchen and squeezed himself into the space between the coffee table and the couch. Jonathan propped his feet onto the table so Goliath could settle into his favorite spot beneath Jonathan’s legs.
The local news came on. The top story was the disappearance of fifteen-year-old Owen Sinclair. Police had no leads, and his family was pleading that anyone with any information step forward.
A small, satisfied smile flickered across Jonathan’s lips and was gone. He didn’t doubt that tomorrow’s news story would reveal what had happened to Owen, though it would be a while before anyone realized that what they had found was all that remained.
He stroked Missy’s head and side, his fingers tracing the edges of the spots where her fur had been shaved for easy tending of the cuts and burns. He whispered, “I made it right, sweetheart. I called in the debt. Could you tell?”
She licked his fingers and gazed up at him adoringly. She was the most recent addition to his family, and he still had to fight against blinding rage every time he recalled the circumstances of her acquisition—but the fury was balanced by his malicious satisfaction.
He took a long swallow of water to soothe himself as the story switched to coverage of an ongoing police investigation. There was a serial killer prowling the Chicago area, a predator the media had dubbed the Reaper. Between him and the Midwest Maniac, the populace was thoroughly alarmed.
Jonathan sat back to watch the coverage, his blueberry-dark eyes unreadable. The press couldn’t seem to decide which monster warranted more attention.
The Reaper had killed six young women. The most recent victim was sixteen-year-old Kristin Smith. Like the others, she had been found in a scenic area, in this case an orchard. She had been gently placed, with a brightly colored silk scarf covering the deep gash across her throat and a small bouquet of daffodils on her chest.
The flowers were different every time, as was the color of the scarf and the location selected for the dump site, but a few things were always the same. The victims were all women under the age of forty, killed by a single deep knife wound across the throat. They were all murdered somewhere else, the blood drained from their bodies, which were subsequently moved. They were all left in picturesque areas, like parks or gardens—but also where they were sure to be discovered quickly. No forensic evidence was ever found.
The Midwest Maniac was less selective. He had killed ten people, but the murders were more gruesome, and the police were not certain they had even found all of the bodies. None of the victims had been identified, because not much was ever found. There were merely black plastic garbage bags dumped by the side of the road, each containing bones. The medical examiner was able to determine the race and gender of each victim, as well as the approximate age. The bodies had been skillfully disarticulated at every joint before the flesh was scraped from the bones. In every case, the teeth had been removed to prevent identification through dental records. DNA was the only possible method of identification remaining, but it was difficult to pull DNA from bone, especially after it had been bleached.
The story cut to a young Hispanic reporter with a cute haircut. “Police received the letter a few days ago and have analyzed it at length, trying to create a profile of the killer. They believe him to be a white male in his mid to late thirties.”
Jonathan sat up straighter and smiled slowly, well pleased.
“I’m here with Detective Arlen Jacobson, who has prepared a statement on the progress of the investigation. Detective?”
The reporter turned to the man standing beside her, and Jonathan leaned forward, his feet dropping down on either side of his dog. The detective was a grim-faced man with bags under his bloodshot eyes and bland hair that was starting to go gray as it retreated. He didn’t look like he’d been sleeping well, and Jonathan felt a stab of sympathy for the poor detective.
“We have a task force working around the clock to find this monster.” Detective Jacobson said. “He’s arrogant enough that he’ll make a mistake eventually, and when he does, I can guarantee that he’ll answer for these heinous crimes.”
“What did the letter say, Detective?”
“The usual things you’d expect from a psycho. Taunts and egoism, threats and narcissism. We’re not dealing with anything that hasn’t been seen before, and we have all the tools we need to find him.”
Jonathan snorted, amused. The letter had been nothing more than a diversion, designed to throw the police further off track. He was in a position to know.
“That’s all I have to say at this time. Thank you.” The detective turned on his heel and strode off-camera before the reporter could reply.
“I think it’s time I paid a little visit to Detective Jacobson.” Jonathan mused, absently rubbing Gypsy’s ears. “I bet that’ll perk up his day.”
Detective Jacobson returned to a cold, empty apartment after a long day. His wife had walked out on him a few months ago, when the investigation into the Reaper and the Midwest Maniac had become his obsession. She had taken the kids with her. The investigations were keeping him too busy for that to hurt as much as he felt that it should.
He had case files on his coffee table and his kitchen counters. He had more pictures of victims scattered around than he did of his family. It bothered him in the rare moments when he had the luxury to think of anything other than work.
He was exhausted. Shortly after his statement on the evening news, a call came in that another Maniac victim had been found. Jacobson had stayed late to review the medical examiner’s report. He had missed dinner, and knew that if he didn’t go home and at least try to sleep, he’d be useless. So he threw together a quick meal, gulped it down, and staggered off to bed.
A few hours later, something startled him out of a sound sleep. Heart pounding, he struggled to make sense of his surroundings. There was something cold and thin against his throat, something…sharp.
“Sorry to disturb your sleep, Detective.” A low voice said , a voice that came from somewhere very close to his ear.
“Who—what—” Jacobson croaked, finally recognizing the object at his throat as a knife. He didn’t dare move until he had a better grasp of the situation.
“I have been called a monster many times before, most recently by you.” The warmth in that voice didn’t falter. “Lately, some have been referring to me as the Midwest Maniac.”
Ice rushed through Jacobson’s veins. Shock temporarily robbed him of the power of speech.
“I don’t particularly like that name. It implies a lack of control.”
Jacobson swallowed, wincing when the move pushed his throat against the knife. “What do you want?”
“I thought we could have a nice chat, since you seem to be so interested in me.” There wasn’t much Jacobson could deduce from the man’s tone.
“Are you going to kill me?”
“I don’t believe I shall answer that question at this time. Do you have any other questions for me?”
“Yeah. Who are you?”
“ ’I am that merry wanderer of the night.’ ”
“Your name. What’s your name?”
“ ’I am become Death, destroyer of worlds.’ ”
“Who are your victims, then? What are their names?”
“That would be telling.” A soft laugh puffed against his ear. “You would be able to figure out the pattern that way, and that just won’t do. But I will tell you that you’ve found Owen Sinclair.”
“He was just a kid! Why kill him?”
“That would be telling.”
The knife’s edge vanished from his throat, and Jacobson shifted slightly so he could surreptitiously inch his hand toward his gun. Or at least, he tried to. Panic flooded his system when he realized he couldn’t move.
“The knife was just to command your attention until the ketamine took effect. Now we can talk more freely.”
Jacobson let out a strangled sound, halfway between a growl and a scream. He was too angry and frightened to be more coherent. Ketamine was dangerous!
“Don’t worry.” The Maniac continued. “I gave you a very low dose. You’ll feel spacey but there won’t be any harm. You really should get more rest, Detective. You have to be a special kind of exhausted to sleep through injections.”
“I haven’t been sleeping,” Jacobson said through clenched teeth, “because I’ve been working overtime trying to find you before you kill again.”
His visitor laughed again. “Well, you found me. Or rather, I found you. Are you happy?”
“I won’t be happy unless they bring back the death penalty and let me push the plunger myself after I catch you, you bastard.”
“So feisty!” The man drew closer. Jacobson couldn’t hear him move, but he felt the warm breath against his ear. “You’re right that I will be caught. It’s only a matter of time. You walk a thin, dangerous line when you do what I do, even if you do it well. I do hope you’re the one who catches me. You deserve it. You’ve been working so tirelessly.”
Jacobson said nothing.
“You need a break. Tell you what, I’ll make things easier for you, at least for a little while. I’ll give you two months where you won’t have to worry about finding bagged body parts, and I’ll give you a good night’s sleep.”
Before Jacobson could reply, he felt something cool and wet against his inner arm. Then the pinch of a needle. The merest touch of a killer’s hands on him while he lay helpless made his skin crawl, but he clenched his teeth and gathered what impressions he could from the fleeting contact. The hands were strong, the touch gently professional. He thought he detected calluses, but he could make no guess as to the size of the man beside him.
He was surprised when he realized that the cool sensation against his arm had been an alcohol wipe. Obviously this was someone who had some familiarity with basic medical procedures.
“You’ll be out for a while once my little cocktail takes effect, but you’ll feel great when you wake up. Don’t worry, it’s a fresh syringe.”
“Where did you get—”
“That would be telling.”
“What did you give me?”
“A sleeping potion.”
“What’s in it?”
There was a soft laugh from somewhere nearby. “Various herbs. Completely harmless. Works quite well; I use it myself.”
“Can you leave the syringe?”
A moment of silence. “I’m sure you’ll be able to gather some sort of evidence from it, but I’ll leave it if you answer one question for me—and answer honestly.”
“Sure.”
“Who do you think is more dangerous? Me or the Reaper?”
Jacobson considered. “You. The Reaper may have killed more people, but you’re more vicious. You’re more of a monster than he could ever hope to be. At least he treats his victims with respect.”
“I see.” There was no inflection in that velvety voice.
Jacobson waited to see what would happen next, but darkness pulled him under a few moments later. His last conscious thought was to wonder if he would even wake up at all.
The house had pansies edging the driveway and sidewalk. The snowy curtains were trimmed with pale green lace. It was a lovely home, carefully maintained, as if the beauty of the outside could conceal the darkness inside.
Jonathan didn’t yet know exactly what form that darkness took, but he didn’t doubt its existence. He had grown up surrounded by darkness and was chillingly familiar with the darkness inside himself. He just needed a chance to find out what was really going on with Donna and Richard Gibbons.
Which was why he had driven to a late-night gas station in Palos Heights. He had parked in a vacant lot across the way, bought a few energy drinks and power bars, and began to walk.
With only a few blocks between him and his objective, the walk was a pleasant one. Few people were awake in the homes he passed. No one took particular notice of him despite his size. He slowed his pace when he neared Donna’s house and took a surreptitious look around. No lights were on in many of the nearby houses, and those with signs of life had their blinds drawn. A sullen light flickered in the downstairs of the Gibbons home—Jonathan guessed that Richard was watching TV.
Satisfied that no one was paying the least bit of attention to the world outside their snug little homes, Jonathan made his move. Running would draw attention to himself if anyone thought to look out their windows, as would any kind of furtive movements. So he walked over to the sturdy tree standing to one side of the lawn, as if he had every right to be there, and pulled himself into the lower branches. Once there, he froze, listening.
No unusual noises, nothing to indicate he had been noticed. He didn’t assume that meant he was safe, and kept all his senses alert as he climbed a little higher. He settled in a spot where the leaves were thicker, screening him from casual view, but where he could keep the house under observation.
He had a hunter’s patience. The passing time meant nothing to him, and he could ignore the physical discomfort. When he needed to relieve himself, it was a simple thing to shift position and water the tree.
After about an hour, the TV was shut off, and a few moments later, a light came on upstairs. A few minutes after that, the light went off.
He had to be sure before he acted. It was unacceptable to make mistakes, being what he was, doing what he did. He’d promised Detective Jacobson two worry-free months, and he intended to honor that promise—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t put his time to good use, and study his potential prey.
No—not potential prey. Jonathan recognized the thinly veiled viciousness in the man’s eyes. He’d seen it often enough in his own eyes. Once he had the proof to support his gut instinct…
He had certain items in his bag that would aid him in his task—tiny video cameras with audio feed. All he needed was the opportunity to plant them. They weren’t intended for long-term surveillance; he doubted he would need eyes in the Gibbons’ house for more than a few hours before he found the evidence he sought.
Jonathan dozed lightly as he waited, and when dawn lightened the horizon, he shook himself awake. Gulping his double-shot of espresso, he watched the house with predatory intensity. He watched, motionless, as newspapers were delivered and dogs let out. He watched the breadwinners head off to work and the kids to school. He watched, and he waited.
Donna left early, before her kids got on the bus. A few hours after the kids left, Richard did too, leaving the house empty. There was a burglar alarm, but that would be easy enough to bypass since the Gibbons had so considerately posted signs advertising their security system.
Foolish, Jonathan thought as he dropped from the tree, landing lightly as a cat. Security systems are not as effective a deterrent as a dog—hardly a deterrent at all. Those signs just help burglars figure out how to break in.
He crouched beneath the tree for a moment, alert for any activity in the vicinity. All was quiet, and he was fairly certain that the principle occupants of the nearest houses had left, so he rose and made his way into the back yard. He was trusting the ultimate camouflage: inattention. Humans were notorious for overlooking the obvious, for being blind to anything not within their own personal spheres. Suburbanites were nosier as to the doings of their neighbors, but they wouldn’t be expecting much to happen in broad daylight after the family had departed.
There was a thin strip of woodland behind the neat row of houses, which provided a certain degree of shielding. Nimble as a squirrel, he climbed onto the bit of roof sheltering the back door. From there, it was a simple thing to slip in through a second-story window. He chose the bathroom window because it was small, but not too small for him to get through. This particular security company usually neglected to put sensors on second-floor bathroom windows, and this house was no exception.
Three cameras, three points of observation. After a brief tour of the house, he hid one in the upstairs hallway smoke detector, one in the kitchen smoke detector, and the third he taped to the underside of the TV stand. He checked the video angles, adjusted as necessary, then pondered his next move.
In and out was usually best, but he didn’t want to leave without his evidence. The cameras didn’t have much of a range. Besides, he was tired. Ignoring his grumbling stomach, he wandered until he found the trap-door stairs to the attic. He pulled the stairs up after himself, selected an out-of-the-way spot, and went to sleep.
Angry voices woke him some hours later. With the habitual wariness of a wild animal, he was instantly alert. He rolled to his feet and crouched, listening.
One shrill voice, one a little lower, and both young. He couldn’t make out the words, but he knew without a doubt that the children were fighting. Some of the tension drained from him, but he lost none of his animal wariness.
A male voice rose above the squabble, a distinctly threatening edge vibrating in every word. The children fell silent, and the only sound in the house was the distant mumble of the TV.
Nothing conclusive about Richard’s character—yet. Jonathan’s stomach growled, and he silenced it with one of the power bars.
There were boxes stacked in the attic, all neatly labeled. He began to investigate the contents of the nearest one, stacking everything carefully to one side. Once he’d satisfied his curiosity, he put everything back exactly as he’d found it. He searched every box in the attic. He didn’t find anything incriminating, but it gave him something to do with his time.
It was dark by the time he finished. When he sat back, wondering what to do with himself next, he heard shouting echoing up from downstairs. Richard’s voice, hard and angry. Donna’s voice, defensive and a little fearful. Other noises, too muffled for him to identify with any certainty, though he had his suspicions. After a few minutes, a woman began to sob. He heard the thudding of feet on the stairs. A door slammed, and the sobs became stifled.
Anger swelled in Jonathan as he guessed that Donna had retreated to the bedroom to cry into her pillow. The anger might have ebbed if he hadn’t heard Richard begin to yell at the kids. The little girl, already distressed by her mother’s retreat, began to cry. He heard a sharp sound, and the anger turned cold when the girl began to howl in earnest. Like her mother, she retreated to her room.
Jonathan’s eyes were narrowed, his teeth bared in a silent snarl of pure rage. He embraced the icy, calculating fury like a long-lost lover. Tonight, he would make his move. Richard’s own temper had sealed his fate.
Soon, Jonathan promised himself. He prowled to the attic stairs and settled down to wait.
The house gradually fell silent. He checked his watch; ten o’clock. Not quite yet. Last night, Richard hadn’t gone to bed until after midnight. Jonathan wanted to catch him while he was still awake, but only after enough time had passed that he could be reasonably certain that everyone else was asleep.
At eleven, he slowly lowered the stairs. Intensely alert, he descended into the second-floor hallway and paused, listening.
Nothing but the murmur of the television.
He crept silently to each bedroom door—they were all firmly closed—and pressed his ear against the wood. Hearing nothing, he raised the attic stairs and retrieved his camera from the smoke detector.
The TV was loud enough that his cautious descent went unnoticed. He paused at the foot of the stairs and lowered his bag from his shoulder. He always carried certain items with him whenever he went hunting, items he regularly needed. Tools of the trade.
He crouched beside his bag and removed a zippered case. He opened it swiftly, under cover of an explosion in the action movie Richard was watching. The lack of light didn’t inconvenience him; he knew where everything was by touch. He ran his fingers lightly over the syringes, found the one he wanted, and tenderly lifted it from the case. He ran the fingers of the other hand over the row of ampoules, counting carefully, until he touched the right one. Getting the correct dosage in minimal light was tricky, but he’d had a lot of practice. When he felt that he’d filled the syringe correctly—judging from how far the plunger had been pulled out—he pressed the button on his watch and eyed the dosage in the pale light.
A little too much. He wanted to immobilize Richard, not kill him—at least, not right away.
Jonathan held the syringe upright, tapped it, squeezed out a tiny bit of air and a little fluid. Perfect.
There was no room for mistakes. It was like defusing a bomb. Mistakes were unacceptable. A single mistake could ruin everything.
The predator in Jonathan was fully awake, and in perfect control of his thoughts and actions. His feral eyes were inhuman as he glided forward, step by silent step. Richard didn’t know he was there until the needle jabbed his neck and a strong hand clamped over his mouth.
“It’s fast-acting,” Jonathan purred, his lips beside Richard’s ear. “You think you’re scared now? When you wake up, I’ll teach you what real fear is all about.”
