Stupid damnfool question, but she had to keep him talking. Keep his mind on the straight and narrow. Keep it from wandering. She’d seen this film—what was it called? She couldn’t remember now, but the girl in it kept talking to this crazy guy, to stop him from throwing her over the cliff. She’d talked and talked till the cops came an’ took the crazy guy away.
In her mind, she pictured this happening to her.
Mace’d have his hands around her throat, squeezing the life outta her… Then she’d start talking. Maybe arguing. For hours on end. Mace’d give up, go away, an’ then Warren an’ Mattie and a gang of cops’d show up and take her home…
Her blood ran cold.
“Do?” Mace asked, surprised. “Why, go a-callin’ on that whorin’ slut, sugar. After I’ve rid me of sister Tania…”
Reaching down into the holdall, he drew out a hunting knife.
Drawing it from its sheath, he held it up to the window. Then, smiling softly, he wiped it on the seat of his pants.
SIXTY-FOUR
The girl up ahead caught his eye.
She was stacked—tall, athletic-looking, with long dark hair caught up in bunches. The bunches bounced jauntily against her candy-pink sweatshirt. A tennis racquet swung in her hands. He eyed her long, shapely legs swinging down the sidewalk.
Her feet, in white socks and sneakers, almost danced in her hurry.
A glimpse of tight white shorts peeking out from beneath the sweatshirt got him going. He felt himself rise, go hard.
“All
His gaze fixed on the swinging bunches. Long and black, they curled a little at the ends.
Thinking ahead to her tennis date, smiling to herself a little, the girl didn’t see the black Tornado cruise by, nor the driver slouched in the dark interior, wearing reflective shades, his left arm hanging out the window.
The car slid to a halt some twenty yards ahead of the girl. Through his rearview mirror, the man watched her swing toward him.
Drawing level with the parked car, she looked in the open passenger-side window. Saw the man at the wheel. Wearing a black leather biker jacket and one of those funky sports wristwatches that did everything ’cept play “The Stars and Stripes.”
He was chewing, his jaw working around with a steady, rhythmic movement.
Later, in one of his three rented Bay Area apartments, Mace surveyed his work. Dipping his head from side to side, appraising his latest killing, assessing the need for a little more embellishment.
He grinned, his white teeth glistening in the soft light from the bedside lamp.
In the small cramped space the realty office had euphemistically described as a living room, the blinds were drawn. And not only against the glare of the midday sun.
Mace eased the knife from the slit in her throat. It came away with a sharp, sucking sound. Fresh blood welled, pumping over her shoulders. Matting the long strands of hair. Making a pool on the pillow behind her.
She groaned, moved slightly. Her legs made small jerky tremors. Bubbles gurgled gently from the mouth- shaped slit. Her fingers twitched, then lay still.
Her lids fluttered gently, then opened.
The eyes staring up at him were blank, glazed.
Dead already.
Mace hefted the knife like a dagger. He raised his arm, visualizing the long clean slit he’d carve from throat to pubic bone.
His hand came down, slicing the firm white flesh, the blade juddering slightly as it hit the breastbone. Like a jacket unzipped, the torso sagged open.
More blood seeped from the “mouth,” easing onto the pillow… till the dark hair floated in a small black lake.
Mace paused, then hacked some more. Edging up the skin with the tip of his blade, flapping it open, peering at the hot steamy coils within.
He could
Sniffing, breathing it in, he grinned, then flicked the skin back again. Kneading it into place with quick, practiced fingers. Patting the breasts, hanging loose, lolling sideways, away from the incision.
He fondled them, squeezing the soft dark nipples.
Frowning.
They’d been so
How she’d bucked, squirmed, screamed out.
Not “liquid ecstasy,” though.
This time he’d used his trusty hunting knife. “Yessir,” he muttered, panting a little, remembering. “It’d been a real pleasure, slicing that smooth white throat.”
And he’d made another. One guaranteed to stay open, no matter what…
He liked that.
A harsh laugh blurted from his lips.
Probably something like Debbie, Jennifer, or Susan.
Typical middle-class product.
He took a wild guess…
Wealthy daddy. House in Pacific Heights. Tennis and the beach all summer. UCSC in the fall. All set for a big exciting career in Daddy’s L.A. office.
Maybe…
With that black hair… she’d’ve always been evil… Doin’ bad things the resta her life…
He’d done the world a favor.
He’d gotten rid of one more Tania.
Hate twisted his face. His teeth clenched.
He turned away. Busying himself with his holdall, throwing in the almost empty vial of GHB, the syringe…
He brought out the Nikon and began taking shots. Full-on. Sideways. Then zooming in for a close-up of that gaping “mouth.” It’d be a real change from the others in his scrapbook, he told himself.
