have a hunting zone of the entire state of California, the Reaper must have traveled quite a lot, regularly, for some reason.”
Roarke picked up the thought, with building excitement. “So we should concentrate on professions like truck driving that would take him to these particular locations, give him a familiarity with them. A truck route with regular stops in all three towns.”
“And that would have allowed his path to cross with all three of the families.”
A possibility… though as he thought it through, Roarke wasn’t sure he believed that someone as disordered as the Reaper would be to hold down even a truck-driving job.
As if hearing his thought, Snyder spoke. “Remember that the Reaper had a significant cooling off period. These weren’t sprees. He went for six months at least between killings. That speaks to some level of control.”
It made sense, although Roarke didn’t like to think it. A psychotic killer with that degree of control… a nightmare combination.
“And usually you don’t see a killer traveling this kind of distance until he’s built up a history of successful kills. As confidence increases, the hunting zone will expand.”
Roarke spoke aloud. “On the other hand, if the killer is psychotic, or thinks he has some special power or protection, that could also instill confidence, yes?”
“Quite right,” Snyder agreed. “Another thing interests me here. This specific M.O., the massacres of entire families, is very unusual. Generally a family massacre involves an adult, most often the father, killing his own family and then himself.”
Roarke considered this, and sensed the glimmering of an idea. “We were thinking in our group meeting that we could road trip to Arcata, hoping she would follow us and extrapolate from our stops that we were re-opening the Reaper case. But what if we found something closer to home?”
“ Found something?” Snyder asked with a hint of wariness.
Roarke felt a superstitious chill even speaking it aloud. “Another massacre to investigate. Something recent. A family murder/suicide like you’re talking about.”
From the silence on Snyder’s end, he knew his old mentor was feeling the same unease.
“I see,” Snyder said slowly. “A family massacre that you would investigate as a new Reaper killing. Yes, I think so. I think that might exactly do the trick.”
Chapter Eleven
The Haight Street eateries begin to open about the same time that she realizes she is hungry. She finds herself drawn to an Asian fusion restaurant, painted olive green with an enormous pink lotus flower design, and a whole wall of glass looking out on the street.
Inside the scents are delicate and layered, but the food she cares nothing about. It is the window that draws her.
She lets the tiny Asian hostess lead her to a perfect table beside the wall, and she sits and loses herself for some time, watching the parade of humanity through the glass, waiting for whatever the window has to offer.
It is not long. Striding up the street, wobbing on too-high heels, comes a girl with blazing eyes, a feral intensity, a brash sexual confidence. Dark hair, huge gray eyes like rain. A beauty, despite the meth sores on her face and neck. And no more than sixteen, she is sure of it.
Despite the November chill, the girl is dressed in a miniskirt and boots, and an open-collar sweater that falls off her thin and shapely shoulders, exposing an elaborate fairy tale of a tattoo on her back: a girl dancing in flames, trees and vines blooming with fiery flowers, a whole mythology inked into her flesh. The art scrolls up onto her neck, disappearing under her hair, a dangerous and illegal process requiring weeks, months, of pain.
She is high, horribly high, moving back and forth across the street and talking loudly to every man and boy who passes, bumming cigarettes, spare-changing.
Behind the window, Cara can see the mixed lust and revulsion on their faces.
She is
Roarke picked up the thought, with building excitement. “So we should concentrate on professions like truck driving that would take him to these particular locations, give him a familiarity with them. A truck route with regular stops in all three towns.”
“And that would have allowed his path to cross with all three of the families.”
A possibility… though as he thought it through, Roarke wasn’t sure he believed that someone as disordered as the Reaper would be to hold down even a truck-driving job.
As if hearing his thought, Snyder spoke. “Remember that the Reaper had a significant cooling off period. These weren’t sprees. He went for six months at least between killings. That speaks to some level of control.”
It made sense, although Roarke didn’t like to think it. A psychotic killer with that degree of control… a nightmare combination.
“And usually you don’t see a killer traveling this kind of distance until he’s built up a history of successful kills. As confidence increases, the hunting zone will expand.”
Roarke spoke aloud. “On the other hand, if the killer is psychotic, or thinks he has some special power or protection, that could also instill confidence, yes?”
“Quite right,” Snyder agreed. “Another thing interests me here. This specific M.O., the massacres of entire families, is very unusual. Generally a family massacre involves an adult, most often the father, killing his own family and then himself.”
Roarke considered this, and sensed the glimmering of an idea. “We were thinking in our group meeting that we could road trip to Arcata, hoping she would follow us and extrapolate from our stops that we were re-opening the Reaper case. But what if we found something closer to home?”
“ Found something?” Snyder asked with a hint of wariness.
Roarke felt a superstitious chill even speaking it aloud. “Another massacre to investigate. Something recent. A family murder/suicide like you’re talking about.”
From the silence on Snyder’s end, he knew his old mentor was feeling the same unease.
“I see,” Snyder said slowly. “A family massacre that you would investigate as a new Reaper killing. Yes, I think so. I think that might exactly do the trick.”
Chapter Eleven
The Haight Street eateries begin to open about the same time that she realizes she is hungry. She finds herself drawn to an Asian fusion restaurant, painted olive green with an enormous pink lotus flower design, and a whole wall of glass looking out on the street.
Inside the scents are delicate and layered, but the food she cares nothing about. It is the window that draws her.
She lets the tiny Asian hostess lead her to a perfect table beside the wall, and she sits and loses herself for some time, watching the parade of humanity through the glass, waiting for whatever the window has to offer.
It is not long. Striding up the street, wobbing on too-high heels, comes a girl with blazing eyes, a feral intensity, a brash sexual confidence. Dark hair, huge gray eyes like rain. A beauty, despite the meth sores on her face and neck. And no more than sixteen, she is sure of it.
Despite the November chill, the girl is dressed in a miniskirt and boots, and an open-collar sweater that falls off her thin and shapely shoulders, exposing an elaborate fairy tale of a tattoo on her back: a girl dancing in flames, trees and vines blooming with fiery flowers, a whole mythology inked into her flesh. The art scrolls up onto her neck, disappearing under her hair, a dangerous and illegal process requiring weeks, months, of pain.
She is high, horribly high, moving back and forth across the street and talking loudly to every man and boy who passes, bumming cigarettes, spare-changing.
Behind the window, Cara can see the mixed lust and revulsion on their faces.
She is
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