professional . . . in more than one sense. He was logged into his website and loved the way his logo hung at the top of the page: a knife dripping blood. Not that he’d ever actually used a knife. His weapon of choice was a Colt 911A1 .45 caliber semi-automatic handgun. He’d had years of practice and now he never missed his target. He liked the power but the relative silence.
The knife on the computer, though, was more visceral. It looked savage and personal—perfect to get the attention of potential clients.
His chat room was open, but he was ignoring it. He knew that Cindy McKay was there, not typing anything, but rather trying to find if there was any way to locate their previous correspondences.
He chuckled and minimized the screen, opening up a new screen that showed the view from Cindy’s webcam, which was squarely placed in the center top of her laptop.
“You’re so fucking stupid,” he said to her image. He chugged a bottle of beer and watched the screen. Cindy was there with her friend, Maria.
It wasn’t long after they’d first connected that he’d started spying in her home. She was naïve enough to let him infect her computer, and that was enough to give him control of both her webcam and the audio controls. She hadn’t noticed that although she’d always kept the microphone volume on mute, it was now on the fourth setting. She was so stressed these days, she wouldn’t notice things like that.
He listened in for a moment.
“I wish I’d taken screen shots,” Cindy said. She pushed out a long breath of frustration and used both her hands to slide her hair back.
“Would it matter? You can’t really go to the police or anything. Right?”
“Maybe I could find some way to identify him, though. Some slip-up he might have made.”
The Manipulator laughed. “Good luck with that.”
He glanced over Cindy’s shoulder, his mouth pursed in dissatisfaction. She shouldn’t have dragged anybody else into this, and he was trying to decide whether to let her know that he knew.
Not that it made any difference in the long run. He took another sip of his beer and closed his browser. The basement was calling to him.
It had taken him a long time to even notice the basement existed. He’d anticipated creating his work room at one end of the barn. That would have been fine, because he was a million miles from civilization, but a cellar was better.
The old farmer who owned the place must have been one of those loonies who feared nuclear destruction during the middle of the last century. The cellar had a trap door that raised up from the floor. If you didn’t know what it was, it just looked like a section of the barn floor. Over the years, though, the metal supports underneath the wooden covering had stayed strong while the rest of the floor sagged just about everywhere. The solid section had gotten his attention and he laughed when he found it had a handle to pull it up.
“Perfect,” he’d said, even before going down.
There was a set of creaky stairs that led him to the basement. He half-expected to find a thousand cans of tuna and lima beans, but the place was empty. It was just a vacant shell buried below ground.
The lights still worked. There were no rats or other critters, and the Manipulator had brought in all the equipment he needed over the past couple of weeks. Chains, a small cot, a jug to hold water, some scalpels, and rags to clean up when he would need it.
And of course, a beautiful video camera that was already linked up to stream to his website.
He was all ready for Avril to visit.
Chapter 13
July 24
1989 was the year of Ken Griffey, Jr. The rookie centerfielder seemed to turn the entire population of Seattle into baseball fans overnight. Even people who’d never bothered to watch a single game suddenly needed to know whatever Junior had done the night before.
Griffey played in 127 games that year, hit an unremarkable .264 and collected 16
The knife on the computer, though, was more visceral. It looked savage and personal—perfect to get the attention of potential clients.
His chat room was open, but he was ignoring it. He knew that Cindy McKay was there, not typing anything, but rather trying to find if there was any way to locate their previous correspondences.
He chuckled and minimized the screen, opening up a new screen that showed the view from Cindy’s webcam, which was squarely placed in the center top of her laptop.
“You’re so fucking stupid,” he said to her image. He chugged a bottle of beer and watched the screen. Cindy was there with her friend, Maria.
It wasn’t long after they’d first connected that he’d started spying in her home. She was naïve enough to let him infect her computer, and that was enough to give him control of both her webcam and the audio controls. She hadn’t noticed that although she’d always kept the microphone volume on mute, it was now on the fourth setting. She was so stressed these days, she wouldn’t notice things like that.
He listened in for a moment.
“I wish I’d taken screen shots,” Cindy said. She pushed out a long breath of frustration and used both her hands to slide her hair back.
“Would it matter? You can’t really go to the police or anything. Right?”
“Maybe I could find some way to identify him, though. Some slip-up he might have made.”
The Manipulator laughed. “Good luck with that.”
He glanced over Cindy’s shoulder, his mouth pursed in dissatisfaction. She shouldn’t have dragged anybody else into this, and he was trying to decide whether to let her know that he knew.
Not that it made any difference in the long run. He took another sip of his beer and closed his browser. The basement was calling to him.
It had taken him a long time to even notice the basement existed. He’d anticipated creating his work room at one end of the barn. That would have been fine, because he was a million miles from civilization, but a cellar was better.
The old farmer who owned the place must have been one of those loonies who feared nuclear destruction during the middle of the last century. The cellar had a trap door that raised up from the floor. If you didn’t know what it was, it just looked like a section of the barn floor. Over the years, though, the metal supports underneath the wooden covering had stayed strong while the rest of the floor sagged just about everywhere. The solid section had gotten his attention and he laughed when he found it had a handle to pull it up.
“Perfect,” he’d said, even before going down.
There was a set of creaky stairs that led him to the basement. He half-expected to find a thousand cans of tuna and lima beans, but the place was empty. It was just a vacant shell buried below ground.
The lights still worked. There were no rats or other critters, and the Manipulator had brought in all the equipment he needed over the past couple of weeks. Chains, a small cot, a jug to hold water, some scalpels, and rags to clean up when he would need it.
And of course, a beautiful video camera that was already linked up to stream to his website.
He was all ready for Avril to visit.
Chapter 13
July 24
1989 was the year of Ken Griffey, Jr. The rookie centerfielder seemed to turn the entire population of Seattle into baseball fans overnight. Even people who’d never bothered to watch a single game suddenly needed to know whatever Junior had done the night before.
Griffey played in 127 games that year, hit an unremarkable .264 and collected 16
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