satisfaction rose within him. He peered, exulting. Dark windows. She was sleeping
already.
An image of her heel with his bit pressed lightly into her callused skin spread goose bumps over his neck and shoulders. The
base of his spine tingled and his breathing quickened.
Bless me, bless me, bless me, bless me, bless me, bless me, bless me, Father.
He approached the edge of Melissa’s blue house, hardly more than a shadow on a moonless night. From the Google satellite,
the house was indiscernible. From God’s vantage point, it was nothing more than a speck, than a flake among a million flakes,
hardly distinguishable from a tree. Then—zooming in—a computer chip, then a postage stamp, and only finally a house. A black
car was driving past when the satellite had taken its last image.
No one peering down, no one except God, could possibly know what slept in the bed inside the tiny house. Just one in six billion,
but tonight the only one.
Selected by none other than himself, Quinton Gauld.
He stood still, like a small tree in the dark, and watched for a moment so long that any other person would have found the
stillness impossible to maintain. Finally, he unzipped his pants and urinated into a small plastic jar, which he then returned
to his pocket.
For a long time he stood and stared, rehearsing details, resuming his inward deliberations.
Brad Raines. Nikki. Nikki, Nikki, Nikki.
His mind shifted to the seventh.
You know, don’t you Brad? That I’m going to take her because she belongs to me, not to you? That she will come to me because
she is the seventh?
What the FBI agent couldn’t possibly know was that he was nothing more than a puppet on a string. He’d reacted to the note
precisely as intended. Smart, Quinton would give him that. Even brilliant. But Quinton depended on exactly that level of intelligence.
Brad would likely have to die to make eight, but this was a small sacrifice. One even the agent would willingly make, once
he understood just how beautiful she was.
Quinton set the thoughts aside and let his mind walk around the bed inside the house. He mentally placed himself mere inches
from his choice, so close now that his presence would be deemed by the world as an illegal intrusion, a trespass. A violation
brash enough to earn a scream from her, should she awaken early. Yet he belonged there, waiting in the dark, savoring the
bittersweet pause before her taking.
No longer willing to wait, Quinton decided that he would fetch the bride half an hour early. He retraced his steps to the
truck, set his plastic bottle of urine under the seat for disposal later, and withdrew the chloroform. Before she understood
what was at stake, she might be frightened by his appearance. He had to transport her safely to the place he’d chosen near
Elizabeth, where he could begin his work.
Ten minutes later, he stood at the edge of her back lawn. Not a sound of objection. No new pet, no sleepwalker or insomniac,
no barking neighbor dog. Perfect. He walked up to her bedroom window and peered in past the slats. Did Melissa realize there
was a thin gap between her mini-blinds and the window frame that allowed anyone to see a sliver of the room, including part
of her bed? Perhaps she had known and dismissed the concern, confident that she was special, immune to the outside world.
He made out long lumps in the half-light. It took a full minute for him to understand that he was seeing her legs under the
floral bedspread. She was home, as he knew she would be, but seeing her helped him relax.
Though Melissa used deadbolts and had an alarm system with adequate contacts on all windows and doors, cutting the glass on
the closet window, though time consuming, raised no alarm. He climbed in, careful not to dislodge the frame and activate one
of the contacts.
Using a small penlight to give him enough light to work by, he applied a few tacks of superglue to the edges of the cut
already.
An image of her heel with his bit pressed lightly into her callused skin spread goose bumps over his neck and shoulders. The
base of his spine tingled and his breathing quickened.
Bless me, bless me, bless me, bless me, bless me, bless me, bless me, Father.
He approached the edge of Melissa’s blue house, hardly more than a shadow on a moonless night. From the Google satellite,
the house was indiscernible. From God’s vantage point, it was nothing more than a speck, than a flake among a million flakes,
hardly distinguishable from a tree. Then—zooming in—a computer chip, then a postage stamp, and only finally a house. A black
car was driving past when the satellite had taken its last image.
No one peering down, no one except God, could possibly know what slept in the bed inside the tiny house. Just one in six billion,
but tonight the only one.
Selected by none other than himself, Quinton Gauld.
He stood still, like a small tree in the dark, and watched for a moment so long that any other person would have found the
stillness impossible to maintain. Finally, he unzipped his pants and urinated into a small plastic jar, which he then returned
to his pocket.
For a long time he stood and stared, rehearsing details, resuming his inward deliberations.
Brad Raines. Nikki. Nikki, Nikki, Nikki.
His mind shifted to the seventh.
You know, don’t you Brad? That I’m going to take her because she belongs to me, not to you? That she will come to me because
she is the seventh?
What the FBI agent couldn’t possibly know was that he was nothing more than a puppet on a string. He’d reacted to the note
precisely as intended. Smart, Quinton would give him that. Even brilliant. But Quinton depended on exactly that level of intelligence.
Brad would likely have to die to make eight, but this was a small sacrifice. One even the agent would willingly make, once
he understood just how beautiful she was.
Quinton set the thoughts aside and let his mind walk around the bed inside the house. He mentally placed himself mere inches
from his choice, so close now that his presence would be deemed by the world as an illegal intrusion, a trespass. A violation
brash enough to earn a scream from her, should she awaken early. Yet he belonged there, waiting in the dark, savoring the
bittersweet pause before her taking.
No longer willing to wait, Quinton decided that he would fetch the bride half an hour early. He retraced his steps to the
truck, set his plastic bottle of urine under the seat for disposal later, and withdrew the chloroform. Before she understood
what was at stake, she might be frightened by his appearance. He had to transport her safely to the place he’d chosen near
Elizabeth, where he could begin his work.
Ten minutes later, he stood at the edge of her back lawn. Not a sound of objection. No new pet, no sleepwalker or insomniac,
no barking neighbor dog. Perfect. He walked up to her bedroom window and peered in past the slats. Did Melissa realize there
was a thin gap between her mini-blinds and the window frame that allowed anyone to see a sliver of the room, including part
of her bed? Perhaps she had known and dismissed the concern, confident that she was special, immune to the outside world.
He made out long lumps in the half-light. It took a full minute for him to understand that he was seeing her legs under the
floral bedspread. She was home, as he knew she would be, but seeing her helped him relax.
Though Melissa used deadbolts and had an alarm system with adequate contacts on all windows and doors, cutting the glass on
the closet window, though time consuming, raised no alarm. He climbed in, careful not to dislodge the frame and activate one
of the contacts.
Using a small penlight to give him enough light to work by, he applied a few tacks of superglue to the edges of the cut
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