The Search

He feasted, but delicately.

Hands and mouth skimmed down in whispering trails, inciting sighs and shivers that rolled into a slow rise, a gilded peak, a breathy fall.

He was with her in the magic, steeped in her, in the rich glow of the moment, in the slow glide of movements. Seduced as he seduced, enraptured by the sound of his name murmured from her lips, the slide of her hands, the taste of her skin.

She welcomed him, warm and wet, took him in—into her body, into her arms. The need stayed slow and sweet, tender as an open heart even as it climbed.

And when he fell, he fell into her eyes.

Sixteen

In the shabby excuse for a rented cabin squatting in the magnificence of the Cascade Mountains, Francis Eckle read Perry’s letter. They had, many months before, determined the route, the timing, the towns, colleges, burial sites.

Or Perry had, he thought.

The preplanning made it a simple matter to obtain a mail drop for the letters Perry smuggled out of prison. The answers returned by a similar method—mailed to Perry’s minister, who believed in his repentance.

In the beginning, he’d been thrilled by the correspondence, the exchange of details and ideas. Perry’s understanding, guidance and approval meant so much.

Someone, finally someone who saw him.

Someone who didn’t require the mask, the pretense, but instead recognized the chains required to keep them in place. Someone, at last someone who helped him gather the courage to break those chains and release what he was.

A man, a friend, a partner who offered to share the power that came from throwing off the shackles of rules and behavior and embracing the predator.

The teacher had become a willing student, eager to learn, to explore all the knowledge and experiences he’d so long denied himself. But now he believed the time had come for commencement.

Time to move beyond the boundaries and the tenets he’d been so meticulously taught.

They were rules, after all, and rules no longer applied.

He studied the two fingers of whiskey in his glass. Perry had decreed there could be no drugs, no alcohol, no tobacco during the journey. The body and mind remained pure.

But Perry was in prison, he thought, and sipped with the pleasure of rebellion. The journey no longer belonged to him.

It was time to make his own mark—or the next mark, as he’d detoured from the plan already by sending the Bristow bitch a little present.

He wished he could have seen her face when she opened the mailer. He wished he could have smelled her fear.

But that would come, soon enough.

He’d detoured as well by renting the cabin—an expense dearer than a dingy motel room, but he felt it earned the cost with its privacy.

He needed privacy for the next detour from his mentor’s carefully drawn route.

Perry had given him a new life, a new freedom, and he would honor that by finishing what his mentor hadn’t and killing Fiona. But there was much to be done in the meantime, and it was time to test himself.

To celebrate himself.

He took another sip of whiskey. He’d save the rest until after. He moved quietly through the room into the bathroom where he removed his clothes, admired his body. He’d removed all the hair from it the night before, and enjoyed the smooth, sleek skin, the muscles he’d rigorously toned. Perry was right about strength and discipline.

He stroked himself, pleased anticipation hardened him, before sliding on a condom. He didn’t plan to rape— but plans could change. But in any case, protection was key, he thought as he drew on leather gloves.

Time to let himself go. To explore new ground.

He stepped into the bedroom, switched on a low light and studied the pretty girl tied to the bed. He wished he could rip off the duct tape over her mouth, hear her screams, her pleas, her gasps of pain. But sounds carried so he’d have to content himself with imagining them.

In any case, her eyes begged him. Her eyes screamed. He’d let the drug wear off so she’d be aware, so she’d struggle—so her fear would perfume the air.

He smiled, pleased to see she’d abraded her wrists and ankles fighting the cords. The plastic under her crackled as she cringed and writhed.

“I haven’t introduced myself,” he said. “My name is Francis Xavier Eckle. For years I taught useless cunts like you who forgot me five minutes after walking out of my class. No one saw me because I hid myself. But as you see”—he spread his arms as tears spilled out of her eyes—“I stopped hiding. Do you see me? Nod your head like a good girl.”

When she nodded, he stepped to the side of the bed. “I’m going to hurt you.” He felt the heat spread in his belly as she struggled, as her wild pleas piped against the tape. “You want to know why? Why me? you’re thinking. Why not you? What makes you so special? Nothing.”

He got on the bed, straddled her—considered the rape dispassionately as she tried to kick, to turn. And rejected it, at least for the moment.

“But you’re going to be special. I’m going to make you famous. You’ll be on TV, in the newspapers, all over the Internet. You can thank me later.”

Balling his gloved hands, he used his fists.

Fiona hesitated and backtracked. Her bag was packed and in the car. She’d made arrangements for everything. She’d left lists—long lists, she admitted—carefully detailed. She’d devised Plan Bs for a number of items—Plan Cs for a few.

Still, she went over everything in her head, again, looking for anything she’d left out, miscalculated, needed to cover more fully.

“Go away,” Simon ordered.

“I’ve still got a few minutes. I think maybe I should—”

“Get the hell out of here.” To solve the matter, he took her arm and steered her through the house.

“If one of the dogs gets sick or injured—”

“I have the name and number of the vet who’s covering for Mai. I have your number—hotel, cell, Mai’s cell, Sylvia’s cell. So does James. We have everything. In triplicate. Between us I think we can handle anything short of nuclear holocaust or alien invasion.”

“I know, but—”

“Shut up. Go away. If I’m hauling four dogs home with me this morning, I need to get started.”

“I really appreciate it, Simon. I know it’s a lot. James will pick my guys up—”

“After work. It’s on the list, with the time, his cell phone, his house phone. I think all that’s missing is what he’ll be wearing. Beat it. I’m finally going to have three days without having to listen to you.”

“You’ll miss me.”

“No I won’t.”

She laughed, then she crouched down to pet the dogs, to hug them. “You’ll miss me, won’t you, boys? Poor things having to spend the day with King Cranky. It’s okay. James will save you later. Be good. Be good boys.”

She straightened. “Okay, I’m going.”

“Thank Christ.”

“And thank you for letting them hang out with Jaws during the day.” She gave him a quick buss on the cheek, opened the car door.