You watch the lights from the car recede, waiting until they’ve disappeared before you step out from behind the pickup. Your throat is sore from deepening your voice, and your pulse is racing, either from excitement or frustration, you can’t be sure.
The idiot never realized how close he came.
You know you took a chance confronting him like that, but you couldn’t help it. When you saw him coming across the car park it seemed a God-given opportunity. There was no one else around, and chances were no one would have missed him till the next day. Without even thinking about it, you dogged his steps from the shadows, closing the distance between you.
But quiet as you were, he must have heard something. He stopped and turned round, and although you could still have taken him if you’d wanted, it made you think again. Even if your foot hadn’t stubbed that damn stone, you’d already decided to let him go. Lord knows, you’re not afraid to take chances, but some Brit no one’s ever heard of wasn’t worth the risk. Not now, not when the stakes are so high. Still, you’d been sorely tempted.
If it hadn’t been for what you’ve got planned for tomorrow you might have gone ahead anyway.
You smile as you think of it, anticipation bubbling up inside you. It’s going to be dangerous, but no one wins any prizes by playing safe. Shock and awe, that’s what you want. You’ve hidden your light under a bushel for long enough, watched your lessers take all the glory. High time you got the recognition you deserve. And after tomorrow no one’s going to be in any doubt what you’re capable of. They think they know what they’re dealing with, but they’ve no idea.
You’re just getting started.
You take a deep breath of the warm spring night, savouring the sweetness of blossom and the faintly treacly smell of asphalt. Feeling strong and confident, you climb into the pick-up. Time to go home.
You’ve got a busy day ahead.
CHAPTER 9
THE LAST REMNANTS of an early morning mist still hung between the trees bordering the woodland path. Shafts of low sunlight broke through the canopy of new leaves and branches, dappling the ground with a cathedral light.
A lone figure sat reading a newspaper at a picnic bench made from rough-cut pine. The only sound came from the rustle of the pages, and the hollow rattle of a woodpecker in the trees nearby.
The newspaper reader glanced up, idly, as a piercing whistle came from the trail off to the left, where it curved out of sight. A moment later a man appeared. He wore an irritated expression, and was looking into the undergrowth at either side as he walked. He had a dog lead in one hand, the empty chain swinging in rhythm with his brisk steps.
‘Jackson! Here, boy! Jackson!’
His calls were interspersed with more whistles. After a single incurious glance, the reader went back to the news headlines. The dog walker paused as he drew level, then came across.
‘Haven’t seen a dog, have you? A black Labrador?’
The reader glanced up, surprised to have been addressed. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
The dog walker gave a snort of annoyance. ‘Damn dog. Probably off chasing squirrels.’
The reader gave a polite smile before going back to the newspaper. The man with the dog chain chewed his lip as he stared up the trail.
‘I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye open for him,’ he said. ‘You see him, don’t let him get away. He’s friendly, he won’t bite.’
‘Sure.’ It was said without enthusiasm. But as the dog walker looked forlornly around the reader reluctantly lowered the newspaper again.
‘There was something making a noise in the bushes a while ago. I didn’t see what was making it, but it could have been a dog.’
The dog walker was craning his head to see. ‘Where?’
‘Over there.’ The reader gestured vaguely towards the undergrowth. The dog owner peered in that direction, chain swinging loosely in his hand.
‘By the trail? I can’t see anything.’
With a sigh of resignation, the reader closed the newspaper. ‘I suppose it’s easier to show you.’
‘I appreciate this,’ the dog walker said with a smile, as they entered the trees. ‘I haven’t had him long. Thought I’d gotten him trained, but every now and again he’ll just take off.’
He paused to whistle and call the dog’s name again. The reader gave the heavy dog chain an uneasy glance, then looked back towards the trail. No one was in sight.
Suddenly the dog walker gave a cry and ran forward. He dropped to his knees by a clump of bushes. The body of a black Labrador lay behind them. Blood matted the dark fur on its crushed skull. The dog walker’s hands hovered over it, as though scared to touch it.
‘Jackson? Oh, my God, look at his head, what happened?’
‘I broke his skull,’ the newspaper reader said, stepping up behind him.
The dog walker started to rise, but something clamped round his neck. The pressure was unrelenting, choking off his cry before he could make it. He tried to struggle to his feet, but he was off balance and his arms and legs had no strength. Belatedly, he remembered the dog chain. His brain tried to send the necessary commands to his muscles, but the world had already started to turn black. His hand spasmed once or twice, then the chain dropped from his limp fingers.
High above in the branches, the woodpecker cocked its head to assess the scene below. Satisfied there was no threat, it resumed its hunt for grubs.
Its rat-a-tat echoed through the woodland morning.
I woke feeling better than I had in months. For once my sleep had been undisturbed, and the bed looked as though I’d barely moved all night. I stretched, then ran through my morning exercises. Normally it was a real effort, but for once it didn’t seem so bad.
After I’d showered I turned on the TV, searching for an international news channel as I dressed. I skipped through one station after another, letting the stream of advertisements and banal chatter wash over me. I’d gone past the local news station before I registered what I’d seen.
Irving’s smoothly bearded face reappeared on the screen as I flicked back. He was looking thoughtfully sincere as he spoke to a female interviewer who had the painted-on prettiness of a shop-window dummy.
‘… of course. “Serial killer” is a phrase that’s badly over-used. A true serial killer, as opposed to someone who merely kills multiple victims, is a predator, pure and simple. They’re the tigers of modern society, hiding unseen in the tall grass. When you’ve dealt with as many as I have, you learn to appreciate the difference.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I groaned. I remembered that Irving had been late at the morgue the day before because he was pre-recording a TV interview, but I hadn’t given it much thought. My mood curdled as I watched.
‘But it is correct that you’ve been called in by the TBI to provide an offender profile following the discovery of a mutilated body in a Smoky Mountain rental cabin?’ the interviewer persisted. ‘And that a second body has been exhumed from a cemetery in Knoxville as part of the same case?’
Irving gave a rueful smile. ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to comment on any ongoing investigations.’
The interviewer nodded understandingly, her lacquered blond hair remaining immobile. ‘But since you are an expert on profiling serial killers, presumably the TBI are worried that’s what they may be dealing with, and that this may be just the start of a killing spree?’
‘Again, I’m afraid I really can’t comment. Although I’m sure people will draw their own conclusions,’ Irving added innocently.
The interviewer’s smile revealed perfect white teeth beneath the blood-red lipstick. She crossed her legs. ‘So can you at least tell me if you’ve formed a profile of the killer?’
