across the state and has led to legislative action calling for juveniles charged with violent crimes to be tried as adults and face stiffer penalties.
Once
.
The word blazed in Eric’s mind, like a flash of doom. Where had she seen him? And why was she being so mysterious about it? That word corroborated his own feeling that he had seen her before, but her face did not emerge from his memory. He was sure that he had not seen her at the facility, which meant that they must have met at least three years ago. Studying her photo, he squinted as if at a painting in a museum. She was probably sixteen or seventeen years old now and would have been much younger if they had met before he was sentenced. Probably had pigtails, freckles. A kid.
He laid the newspaper aside and stood immobile at the kitchen table. The girl represented a threat to all his plans, a threat to his very existence. The picture in the newspaper linked them together in the minds of the public. She was an unknown quantity, and that meant that she could be any number of things coming out of his past to haunt his future.
Angered, frustrated, he crumpled the newspaper in his hands, wanting to destroy the picture, destroy the girl. Then he sighed, placing the page on the table, smoothing the wrinkles. He had to keep the photograph, study it, absorb it into his system. Maybe that way he would remember when they had once met.
That night, he awoke from a sound sleep, surprised to learn from a glance at the digital alarm clock that it was 4:10. Now what? He had never experienced broken sleep before. What had caused him to vault out of a sound sleep?
Sudden knowledge filled his mind.
He knew where he had seen that girl before.
At the railroad tracks.
Years ago.
He remembered, to his horror, exactly the day and the circumstances.
He had just finished with Alicia Hunt. Had laid her down in a thicket near the tracks, waiting for the proper moment to dispose of her body. Hehad pushed his way through the brush to make certain that he was alone. That’s when he encountered the girl, balancing on the rail, looking directly at him, watchfulness in her eyes, as if she had been waiting for him to appear.
How long had she been standing there?
How much had she seen?
She had smiled, a smile impossible to decipher. He remembered talking to her, trying to draw her out. What had they talked about? Something about her birthday. She was twelve years old—no wonder he had not immediately recognized her across the street or in the photograph. He recalled now how his heart accelerated as they talked. Two in one day. Two within a few minutes of each other. Almost too beautiful to resist, despite the risks. But—how could he dispose of two of them? He had plans for Alicia Hunt but not for this unexpected girl. A child, really. Excitement flooded him, however, at the thought of sharing tenderness with a child.
Before he could make a decision, the motorcycle gang roared into view, kicking up dust and dirt, fracturing the intimacy of the moment. One of the cyclists grabbed at the girl, and Eric shouted at him, surprising himself by coming to the girl’s defense, made bold by the knowledge of the power he held over life and death. When the bikers had gone, he said goodbye, a bit sadly andreluctantly, to the girl, and sent her on her way, the job of disposing of Alicia Hunt waiting for him in the woods.
But:
Once
.
She had now come out of the past like a ghost. He did not believe in ghosts but he believed that this girl represented a threat.
His old refrain beat through his mind:
I’ve got to get out of here
.
But he needed the license first.
It all happened the next day.
He awoke to rain drumming against the windowpane, ending the heat wave, although the heat had become so much a part of his existence that it had ceased to bother him.
Looking out the bedroom window at the rain lashing the picket fence and the wind stirring tree branches, he felt a rising of his spirits. The
Once
.
The word blazed in Eric’s mind, like a flash of doom. Where had she seen him? And why was she being so mysterious about it? That word corroborated his own feeling that he had seen her before, but her face did not emerge from his memory. He was sure that he had not seen her at the facility, which meant that they must have met at least three years ago. Studying her photo, he squinted as if at a painting in a museum. She was probably sixteen or seventeen years old now and would have been much younger if they had met before he was sentenced. Probably had pigtails, freckles. A kid.
He laid the newspaper aside and stood immobile at the kitchen table. The girl represented a threat to all his plans, a threat to his very existence. The picture in the newspaper linked them together in the minds of the public. She was an unknown quantity, and that meant that she could be any number of things coming out of his past to haunt his future.
Angered, frustrated, he crumpled the newspaper in his hands, wanting to destroy the picture, destroy the girl. Then he sighed, placing the page on the table, smoothing the wrinkles. He had to keep the photograph, study it, absorb it into his system. Maybe that way he would remember when they had once met.
That night, he awoke from a sound sleep, surprised to learn from a glance at the digital alarm clock that it was 4:10. Now what? He had never experienced broken sleep before. What had caused him to vault out of a sound sleep?
Sudden knowledge filled his mind.
He knew where he had seen that girl before.
At the railroad tracks.
Years ago.
He remembered, to his horror, exactly the day and the circumstances.
He had just finished with Alicia Hunt. Had laid her down in a thicket near the tracks, waiting for the proper moment to dispose of her body. Hehad pushed his way through the brush to make certain that he was alone. That’s when he encountered the girl, balancing on the rail, looking directly at him, watchfulness in her eyes, as if she had been waiting for him to appear.
How long had she been standing there?
How much had she seen?
She had smiled, a smile impossible to decipher. He remembered talking to her, trying to draw her out. What had they talked about? Something about her birthday. She was twelve years old—no wonder he had not immediately recognized her across the street or in the photograph. He recalled now how his heart accelerated as they talked. Two in one day. Two within a few minutes of each other. Almost too beautiful to resist, despite the risks. But—how could he dispose of two of them? He had plans for Alicia Hunt but not for this unexpected girl. A child, really. Excitement flooded him, however, at the thought of sharing tenderness with a child.
Before he could make a decision, the motorcycle gang roared into view, kicking up dust and dirt, fracturing the intimacy of the moment. One of the cyclists grabbed at the girl, and Eric shouted at him, surprising himself by coming to the girl’s defense, made bold by the knowledge of the power he held over life and death. When the bikers had gone, he said goodbye, a bit sadly andreluctantly, to the girl, and sent her on her way, the job of disposing of Alicia Hunt waiting for him in the woods.
But:
Once
.
She had now come out of the past like a ghost. He did not believe in ghosts but he believed that this girl represented a threat.
His old refrain beat through his mind:
I’ve got to get out of here
.
But he needed the license first.
It all happened the next day.
He awoke to rain drumming against the windowpane, ending the heat wave, although the heat had become so much a part of his existence that it had ceased to bother him.
Looking out the bedroom window at the rain lashing the picket fence and the wind stirring tree branches, he felt a rising of his spirits. The
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