“What if he went back?” The words fell out of her mouth.
Chapter Five
The sun had already peeked up over the horizon and he stood there, watching it break through the trees. It was a new day, and he could feel the urge rise within him at each touch of the sun, like an itch that was too deep to scratch.
For the first time, a hiker had gotten away and it burned like a fire within him. She was dead, that much he knew, but he wanted to control it, have her beg for death. It was not how she was supposed to go. But he would make up for it, and tonight, he had decided, he would take another victim and his body tingled with excitement.
He could picture the hikers just waking up, boiling water for their morning coffee, packing up their tent only to be laid out again at their next destination. They would probably be talking, laughing even, and looking forward to the hike ahead of them that day. He grew more and more agitated at the thought. He hated it all—people hiking along the trail only to say they had experienced some taste of struggle, as if they even knew what that truly meant.
He gritted his teeth at the thought, as he stood outside in the green grass, surrounded by the woods. They had no clue what true struggle was, but soon they would know—he would make sure of it.
A barn stood just behind him and he turned toward it, slinking across the lawn until he reached the large doors and pushed them open. The two victims lay sprawled across the floor, next to the blue tarp he had wrapped them in days earlier when he had wounded them, knocked them unconscious, and transported them to where they now lay.
He had bound them and given them fractions of hope as he tended to their wounds and promised to let them go. But then he sent arrows to each of their limbs. The boyfriend had pleaded to let his girlfriend go, but each time, he sent another arrow through her until they both begged for death.
It had been two days since they finally bled out, and he could smell the scent as the early stages of decomposition settled in. He would have to move them, he decided, to make room for the next ones. And at that thought, he reached for his work gloves in his pocket and slid them on.
For any normal person, the smell would bother them, but not him. He liked it. It was a reassurance—the definitive effect of what he’d done. It was a reminder that he had succeeded, that they had been there for a period of time and he had not gotten caught.
He wanted to watch the body through each stage, through each week of them still not being found, of him still not being a suspect. He knew each time the smell deepened, he would feel more and more powerful.
He reached down and grabbed the woman by her arms, sliding her body across the wooden floor to the corner of the room. He then grabbed the man, sliding him as well—each time a streak of half dried blood tarnishing the floor. And then he stared at them for a moment before lowering his own body to the floor. He reached out for the woman’s long blonde hair, letting it drape over his palm before burying his face into it. It still had the scent of pine, and it caused a flurry of excitement to stir within him. He couldn’t wait to do it again.
He then stood up and moved to a box. He bent over, sitting on his heels as he reached inside, where dozens of compasses lay within. He grabbed hold of one and held it in his hand for a moment. Just like all the others, it was defective and he carefully moved the needle, pointing it to the southern point, where it remained no matter which way he moved it. He carefully placed it in his pocket and exited the barn—the smell still lingering in his nose—and looked off into the distance, to the forest.
Chapter Six
Twenty minutes later Tara stood at the first crime scene, with Warren, Sheriff Russo, and two other cops by her side. She was right. Just above the deep red stains on the forest floor stood a tree, its branches outstretched and winding in every direction—and dangling off of one was a compass. Underneath, the same engravings from the last scene were dug out in the tree as well. It was almost identical, except for one thing—the compass was pointing north, the way they just came from.
Warren and the other officers stood in shock, and Tara could see the fire in the sheriff’s eyes as he looked to his officers. He had mentioned that they had been patrolling the area around the clock, but now, they all knew that one of them wasn’t doing his job.
“Who was on watch early this morning?” the sheriff snarled.
One of the cops’ eyes fell to the floor, his face flushing a deep red, almost the same shade as his hair. He was clearly guilty. The other cop stood there quietly, looking between his friend and his boss, unsure if he should speak.
“Well?” the sheriff asked again, this time moving closer to the guilty-looking officer.
“I might’ve dozed for a minute. I’m really—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Sheriff Russo looked at the cop dumbfounded and threw his arms in the air. Tara could see the blood boiling through his skin as a vein pulsated on his forehead. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to regain his composure.
“How long?” he asked.
The cop’s eyes remained fixated on the ground. “It could’ve been about thirty minutes.”
The sheriff suddenly burst. “Thirty minutes?!” he screamed, his voice echoing off the trees until the forest fell again into silence.
He was about to open his mouth again. But suddenly,
