fuck with me about my son."
She slid from the counter and started toward him. Her eyes were fierce and direct. Not the eyes of a liar, he thought, and that scared him. To consider the possibility that his son had been murdered was simply unthinkable . . .
"I have a witness," she said.
"I don't believe you."
"Let me prove it to you." She stopped a foot away from him. her eyes clear and beseeching.
"Are you trying to tell me someone saw . . . what happened to Brandon?"
''That's exactly what I'm telling you."
''Why the hell didn't they come forward? Why didn't they talk to the police?"
"I can't answer that."
He choked our a sound of incredulity and frustration. "Can't or won't?"
"Look, you said you would listen to me if I came up with a witness."
He stared hard at her, trying to read her, trying even harder to understand what she could possibly hope to accomplish by lying. "What the hell do you want from me?"
"Come to my house. Tomorrow morning."
"I'll meet with you on one condition."
''What condition?"
"I want to talk to this witness one on one. No games. No fucking around. You got that?"
“I got it."
For several interminable seconds they stared at each other. Then, as if realizing her business was finished here, she brushed by him and started toward the door.
He watched her walk away, aware that his heart was pounding, that her words had upset him despite his efforts not to let them. And like a fool, he was already looking forward to seeing her again.
# # #
He watches her from the shadows beneath the stand of live oaks at the edge of the bayou. He is as silent and deadly as the alligators that slither along the murky river bottom and mud flats. He is patient, but the bloodlust torments him. A hunger that drives him to commit unspeakable acts. Acts he has been able to conceal through cunning and brilliance and a conscience that has ceased to exist since long before he made his first kill.
He can't believe the bitch is back. He can't believe she's asking questions and opening old wounds just when they'd started to heal. What can she possibly hope to accomplish after all this time?
The answer eludes him. But he knows Nat Jennings is a threat. A threat that must be dealt with swiftly and permanently and without raising suspicion. He has worked too hard to risk having his secret uncovered now.
The parking lot is nearly empty as she crosses to her car. He watches her, taking in the long strides. liking the way she moves. Stupid, crazy bitch. He could have the knife buried in her throat before she even hears his approach. Before she can scream. She would be helpless against the knife. And his troubles would be over forever.
He imagines the dark spray of blood. The warmth of it on his hands. The copper smell in his nostrils. The terror on her face. Her energy pouring into him. The thought of killing her arouses him. His senses heighten to a fever pitch. The rush of blood to his groin is intense. His sex grows heavy and full and the hunger becomes an unbearable pain.
Come to me . . .
The night throbs with the symphony of the bayou. The rhythmic chirp of crickets and frogs, the lap of dark water against ancient cypress trunks, the quick slide of a reptilian body over mud. Music as primal as death.
His heart is pounding, a mix of hunger and rage and dark anticipation he feels all the way to his bowels. Sweating, he slaps at the mosquitoes. Feeling the stickiness of blood on his fingers, he brings them to his mouth and suckles, enjoying the salty tang. The beady rush of energy.
He watches her climb into the car, the taste of blood metallic on his tongue. He imagines her blood in his mouth. The thought excites him. And even though the night is muggy and hot, he begins to shake.
He wants to believe it is anticipation making his muscles quiver and twitch. But deep inside he feels the fear encroaching. stealing his enjoyment, his power, and he hates her for it. Fear is the one emotion he cannot
She slid from the counter and started toward him. Her eyes were fierce and direct. Not the eyes of a liar, he thought, and that scared him. To consider the possibility that his son had been murdered was simply unthinkable . . .
"I have a witness," she said.
"I don't believe you."
"Let me prove it to you." She stopped a foot away from him. her eyes clear and beseeching.
"Are you trying to tell me someone saw . . . what happened to Brandon?"
''That's exactly what I'm telling you."
''Why the hell didn't they come forward? Why didn't they talk to the police?"
"I can't answer that."
He choked our a sound of incredulity and frustration. "Can't or won't?"
"Look, you said you would listen to me if I came up with a witness."
He stared hard at her, trying to read her, trying even harder to understand what she could possibly hope to accomplish by lying. "What the hell do you want from me?"
"Come to my house. Tomorrow morning."
"I'll meet with you on one condition."
''What condition?"
"I want to talk to this witness one on one. No games. No fucking around. You got that?"
“I got it."
For several interminable seconds they stared at each other. Then, as if realizing her business was finished here, she brushed by him and started toward the door.
He watched her walk away, aware that his heart was pounding, that her words had upset him despite his efforts not to let them. And like a fool, he was already looking forward to seeing her again.
# # #
He watches her from the shadows beneath the stand of live oaks at the edge of the bayou. He is as silent and deadly as the alligators that slither along the murky river bottom and mud flats. He is patient, but the bloodlust torments him. A hunger that drives him to commit unspeakable acts. Acts he has been able to conceal through cunning and brilliance and a conscience that has ceased to exist since long before he made his first kill.
He can't believe the bitch is back. He can't believe she's asking questions and opening old wounds just when they'd started to heal. What can she possibly hope to accomplish after all this time?
The answer eludes him. But he knows Nat Jennings is a threat. A threat that must be dealt with swiftly and permanently and without raising suspicion. He has worked too hard to risk having his secret uncovered now.
The parking lot is nearly empty as she crosses to her car. He watches her, taking in the long strides. liking the way she moves. Stupid, crazy bitch. He could have the knife buried in her throat before she even hears his approach. Before she can scream. She would be helpless against the knife. And his troubles would be over forever.
He imagines the dark spray of blood. The warmth of it on his hands. The copper smell in his nostrils. The terror on her face. Her energy pouring into him. The thought of killing her arouses him. His senses heighten to a fever pitch. The rush of blood to his groin is intense. His sex grows heavy and full and the hunger becomes an unbearable pain.
Come to me . . .
The night throbs with the symphony of the bayou. The rhythmic chirp of crickets and frogs, the lap of dark water against ancient cypress trunks, the quick slide of a reptilian body over mud. Music as primal as death.
His heart is pounding, a mix of hunger and rage and dark anticipation he feels all the way to his bowels. Sweating, he slaps at the mosquitoes. Feeling the stickiness of blood on his fingers, he brings them to his mouth and suckles, enjoying the salty tang. The beady rush of energy.
He watches her climb into the car, the taste of blood metallic on his tongue. He imagines her blood in his mouth. The thought excites him. And even though the night is muggy and hot, he begins to shake.
He wants to believe it is anticipation making his muscles quiver and twitch. But deep inside he feels the fear encroaching. stealing his enjoyment, his power, and he hates her for it. Fear is the one emotion he cannot
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