The Search

“Some of that should be replaced,” he said without looking around. “That platform’s crap.”

“You’re probably right. Did James and Lori go?”

“Yeah. She put stuff in the fridge and wherever, said to tell you she’d call you tomorrow. I offered them a beer,” he added, almost defensively. “But they rain-checked.”

“I imagine they’re tired after all this.”

“Yeah. I want a beer and the beach.”

“That sounds perfect. Go ahead. I’ve just a couple things, then I’ll come down.”

He walked over, opened the fridge for his beer. “Don’t clean anything.”

She lifted her hand. “Solemn oath.”

“Right. I’ll leave Newman, take the rest.”

She nodded. She couldn’t be alone, she thought. Not even here.

She waited until he’d gone out, until she’d heard him order Newman to stay, stay with Fee. Then she sat at his counter, laid her head on it and waited for the tears that had begun to burn in her throat to come.

But they wouldn’t. She’d held them back too long, she realized. Pushed them down all these hours, and now they were simply blocked, locked inside, hurting her throat, aching in her head.

“Okay.” She breathed the word out, rose. Rather than a beer she chose a bottle of water. Better, she thought. Cleaner.

She stepped outside where the faithful Newman waited. “Let’s take a walk.”

He bounded over immediately, doing a full-body wag as he rubbed against her.

“I know, new place. It’s nice, isn’t it? Lots of room. We’ll be okay here for a while. We’ll figure it all out.” Her eye instinctively picked up spots that needed flowers, a good location for a kitchen garden.

Not hers to play with, she reminded herself.

“Still it could use more color, more outdoor seating. I’m surprised he hasn’t thought of it. He’s the artist.” She paused as they came to the drop leading down to the beach. “But then there’s this. It’s pretty fabulous.”

The charm of crooked steps led down to the narrow beach and opened to the dreamy spread of water. Stars winked on, adding to the sense of peace, of privacy. Simon walked along with the three dogs sniffing sand and shale and surf.

He’d missed this, she thought, his solo walks in the twilight where the land met the water. Missed the quiet, the subtle whoosh of the surf at the end of the day, but he’d stepped away from that to be with her.

Whatever happened around them, between them, she wouldn’t forget that.

As she stood, looking down, he pulled bright yellow tennis balls from a bag he’d hooked on his belt. He heaved them, one, two, three, into the water—and the dogs charged and leaped.

They’d smell... amazing, she thought as she watched them swim toward the bobbing yellow balls.

Even as she thought it, she heard Simon’s laugh rise up, over the subtle whoosh of the surf, over the quiet —and the sound of it chased away the demons.

Look at them, she thought. Look how wonderful they are, how perfect they are. My guys.

Beside her, Newman quivered.

“What the hell. Four smelly dogs isn’t any worse than three. Go! Go play!”

He charged down the crooked steps, joy in the speed, in the challenging bark. Simon tossed a fourth ball in the air, caught it, then winged it into the water. Without breaking stride, Newman sprinted in.

And Fiona ran down to join the game.

In his motel room near the Seattle airport, Francis X. Eckle read the most recent message from Perry and sipped his evening whiskey on the rocks.

He didn’t care for the tone, no, he didn’t care for the tone at all. Words like disappointed, control, focus, unnecessary popped out of the text and grated against his pride. His ego.

Boring, he thought, and crumpled the paper into a ball. Boring, scolding and annoying. Perry needed to remember just who was in prison, and who wasn’t.

That was the problem with teachers—and he should know because before he evolved he’d been a teacher himself. Boring, scolding and annoying.

But no more.

Now he had the power of life and death in his hands.

He lifted one, studied it. Smiled at it.

He breathed fear at his whim, dispensed pain, eked out hope, then crushed it. He saw all of that in their eyes, all the fear, the pain, the hope and, finally, the surrender.

Perry had never felt this rush of power and knowledge. If he had, truly had, he wouldn’t constantly preach caution and control—or, as he liked to call it, “the clean kill.”

Annette had been the most satisfying kill to date. And why? Because of the sound his fists made when they pounded into her flesh, cracked against bone. Because he’d felt every blow even as she did.

Because there had been blood—the sight of it, the smell of it. He’d been able to watch, to study the way the bruises gathered, the way they rose up to stain the skin, and to enjoy the different tones—slap or punch.

They’d gotten to know each other, hadn’t they? Taking the time for that, sharing pain, made the kill so much more intimate. So much more real.

Thinking about it now, he realized Perry’s work had been bloodless, clinical, even detached. There couldn’t have been genuine pleasure with so little passion. The single time Perry had deviated, had allowed himself true, bloody violence, he hadn’t been able to handle it.

Now he lived in a cell.

That was why this gradual and creative acceleration was superior. Why he was now superior.

It was time, maybe past time, he decided, to break off all contact with Perry. He had nothing more to learn from that source, and no desire to teach.

Remembering himself, he rose to pick up the balled note. He smoothed it out carefully before tucking it into the folder with all the others.

He’d already begun to write a book on his life, his epiphany, his evolution, his work. He’d accepted it would be published posthumously. He’d accepted his inevitable end, and the acceptance made each moment more vital.

Not prison. No, never prison. He’d already lived his life in a self-imposed prison. But glory. In the end, the inevitable end, he would have glory.

For now, he would simply be a shadow, slipping in and out of the light, unnamed and unknown. Or known only by those he chose, those who crossed from life to death with his face caught in their eyes.

He’d already selected the next.

Another change, he thought. Another stage of his evolution. And while he studied her, tracked her like a wolf tracks a rabbit, he could speculate on how it would be between them.

The irony was exquisite, and he knew, already knew it would add to the thrill.

Then before much longer, there would be Fiona.

He took out the newspaper, unfolded it, smoothed his hands over her face. He’d fulfill his obligation to Perry with her, and his debt would be paid in full.

She would be the last to wear the red scarf. That was fitting, he decided. She’d be the highlight of this stage of the work. His crescendo, he thought, with a final homage to Perry.

He was sure already he’d enjoy her most of all. She’d know more pain, more fear than all the others before he was done.

Oh, how people would talk when he took her, when he ended her life. They’d talk of little else. They’d talk and they’d tremble over the man who killed the Perry survivor.

RSKII.

Reading the term made him shake his head, made him chuckle.

Made him preen.

After Fiona lay in the shallow grave he’d force her to dig herself, RSKII would be no more. He would become someone else, something else, find another symbol as he embarked on the next stage of his work.

In a way, he thought, and took another sip of whiskey, Fiona would be the end of him, and the