A few minutes later he eased the car away from the curb, drove around the corner, and pulled into the empty driveway of an unlit house halfway down the street from where she lived. He killed the ignition and continued his vigilance.
The late night air in the foothills hung with the promise of an early winter. Jack camped near a fork of the Feather River and spread his bedroll on the ground, even though by the time dawn came, his toughened body would no longer feel the hard, packed dirt beneath it.
After setting up camp, he walked to the water's edge, filled his canteen, and popped four more of the red pills. On an empty stomach, they'd metabolize quickly in his system. He'd skipped dinner, but he wasn't hungry, at least not for food. He wanted to purge his body so that when he entered the killer's mind nothing would hinder the link.
He settled down beside the sleeping bag, poked at the small fire, and listened to the sounds, his hearing at maximum capacity. The scurrying of insects reached his ears along with the soft, distant tread of an animal, coyote or wolf, maybe even a mountain lion. A snake hissed a quarter of a mile away, slithering through the underbrush and rustling the foliage. Beneath the rotting logs and brush of the forest he smelled another scent, the odor of a small animal recently dead, beginning the process of decay. As the fire began to burn to embers, he stared across the narrow slice of water and made out a night owl in a tree and a worm burrowing its way into the rich dirt.
Lying down on his bedroll, he cradled his arms beneath his head, and gazed up at the stars. His lids grew heavier, his mind went blank, and the transformation took over his human form and mind.
Although she taunted the Avenger in the way the others had, perhaps she was the true holy vessel. Perhaps she had not broken her sacred vows, but was the guardian of hearth and home. Perhaps she was a true vestal virgin. Perhaps even The Virgin.
He'd dismissed his driver and now observed Olivia Gant from an empty classroom window as she walked briskly across the university campus. Her hips flexed beneath the tan slacks, her arms were filled with books and papers, and a bag was slung over her shoulder. She looked straight ahead, ignoring the waves and greetings from passing students, her lips thinned in a determined line.
The pale, aloof beauty was upset. A smile hovered around the man's lips, and a trickle of excitement began to build in his stomach and move upward to his chest where it thudded against his sternum. He replaced his dark glasses and broke off his scrutiny. Taking her here, in the place where she worked, where so many people knew her, would be foolish.
He was
He'd carefully calculated the next offering, the final sacrifice on the altar of humanity's wickedness. The seven sacrifices to holiness had been completed. Seven because it was the perfect Biblical number, the sacred number of ancient creation. Of course, she wasn't the original
Perhaps, all along and unbeknown to him over the last four years, he'd been speaking to her – to
Slipping behind the wheel of his car, he drummed his fingers on the steering column. How to get Dr. Olivia Gant where he wanted her? How to approach her without arousing suspicion? Although taking her wouldn't be easy, he would ponder the matter and come up with a strategy. Olivia Gant was a woman, after all, as easily manipulated as all weak vessels were. She was little more than the lamb being led to the slaughter.
Ted Burrows dropped his ring of keys on the landing. 'Shit!'
Hurriedly he snatched them up from the porch and inserted the house key in the lock. Glancing over his shoulder to reassure himself the girl still lay in the front seat of his car, he spied her head lolling on the headrest of the passenger side.
The door gave way and he took the steps two at a time, entered a small room next to the master bedroom, and slid aside the picture that covered the peephole. He pushed the button to begin the recording equipment. Before leaving the room, he gazed once around the room at the walls lined with bookcases that held his collection of videos. He paused at the pictures he'd tacked up on the opposite wall. Their lurid colors stood out in the drab room. He smiled in satisfaction and snapped both locks in place as he exited. Then he moved on to the master bedroom.
First, he adjusted the camera hidden in the top shelf of the armoire. The red light near the lens glowed like the single eye of a Cyclops, but when he closed the door, he saw it wasn't noticeable from the bed. He divested the bed of its pillows and jerked back the duvet, revealing satin sheets in a rich crimson hue. He lighted candles around the room. Perfect.
When everything was arranged to his standards, he returned to the car where the girl was just beginning to rouse from her stupor. 'Hey, baby,' he whispered as he half lifted, half dragged her out of the car. 'Are you ready for our exciting night?'
He slung her over his shoulder and carried her into the house, slammed the front door, and carried her up the stairs. The girl's body made a light load since he made a point of working out every day at the university gym. As he positioned her on the bed, he glanced over his shoulder at the camera, at the peephole. The idea of any kind of audience aroused him.
The girl's eyes opened, wide green orbs fringed with thick lashes. Her skin was freckled and her cheeks were flushed. She smiled prettily up at him. 'Oh, hi, are we there yet?'
She slowly batted her eyelids, and he realized she was still under the effects of the drink. Good. Rohypnol was his favored choice, but tonight the brandy had worked very effectively. He smiled as he slipped the straps of her dress off her shoulder. A drink of brandy for a girl named Brandy.
How fitting.
Olivia had felt an uneasiness she couldn't shake off since she returned home. Silly, but she sensed someone was watching her, possibly following her. She told herself it was nonsense prompted by Howard Randolph's poorly disguised snooping, coupled with Ted Burrows and her new awareness of his slick familiarity. The professor and his assistant were quite a pair, apparently two of a kind.
Driving home, she remembered what Keisha had said the day she disappeared. Her student had hinted that she was involved with someone who worked for the university. An older man? A completely inappropriate liaison? Howard had been sly in his aspersions on the girl's character. Ted Burrows was a well-known Casanova, with quite a reputation around campus. As ludicrous as it sounded, could either man have been her secret lover? Olivia had thought Keisha was – had been, she corrected herself – a level-headed young woman with clear goals and long- range plans. Was it possible that she never really knew her student?
Could either Howard Randolph or Ted Burrows have anything to do with Keisha's disappearance? Did that mean either man could be the Dead Language Killer? Impossible. The enormity of that implication overwhelmed her. Professor. Teaching Assistant. She thought of the two of them in her office today, the undercurrent of secrecy. She remembered how Howard had studiously avoided Keisha whenever she visited Olivia. How Ted enjoyed adding young coed after coed to his stable of girls.
When Olivia arrived home, the house looked forlornly empty. She punched play on her answering machine.
