purple-blue, it took four agonizing minutes for her heart to arrest. All the while, as life slipped from Peggy, the last vision in her cloudy eyes was April's little body curled on the chair.
Simon could see April beginning to stir. Before she awakened, he found a vein behind her left knee and injected the mild sedative, enough to ensure that she'd sleep through the night. He lifted the child off the bed and set her on the chair. Held upright, perpendicular to the floor, the base of the cross was securely fastened to heavy metal brackets anchored to the concrete. Carefully, he loosened the clamps and guided the crucifix to the floor. With a three-foot crowbar, he braced the round end against a wooden block for leverage, and slowly pulled out each of the four railroad spikes, much like removing nails from a two-by-four with a claw hammer. Blood still trickled from the wounds, but the flow did not surge as it did when her heart pumped. To absorb the blood, Simon wrapped cotton towels around her wrists and feet. Then he lifted Peggy off the wooden cross, carried her limp body to the bed, and laid her on her back.
It was a moment he longed for.
The reunion.
He closed his eyes and cleared his brain of all thoughts, focusing on one image.
"Mother, are you with me?"
I've been calling for you, my sweet son .
"Shall I come to your bedroom?"
Yes, Simon, Mother is waiting .
He opened his eyes and Peggy McDonald no longer existed. Instead, Simon's mother lay on the bed, her lovely eyes looked up at him and she smiled. Ah, how he remembered those soft breasts and long shapely legs. Just like he'd done so many times before when beckoned in the middle of the night, Simon removed his clothes and crawled into bed beside his beautiful mother. He lay holding her, stroking her silky hair, caressing her warm body. Then, gently, lovingly, he made love to the only woman he had ever intimately known.
EIGHT
Thursday was an unseasonably warm day when Sami left her home at nine a.m. The temperature was already sixty-five. Aside from the ever-growing population, outrageous real estate prices, overcrowded freeways, and the most discourteous drivers in the galaxy, San Diego sure was a nice place to live. With the exception of a few stubborn clouds hovering over the shoreline--referred to by meteorologists as a marine layer--the sky looked clear and bright blue. She drove with her window rolled down; the invigorating air tousled her freshly trimmed hair.
Sami was not yet sure whether she felt disappointment or elation that the license plates on the black Supercab in the hospital parking lot did not belong to Simon. When she learned that the truck was registered to Alicia Chavez, fifty-five-year-old widow, a woman who'd never even gotten a parking ticket, Sami dismissed her original suspicions as foolhardy. Yes, Simon did fit the basic description of the serial killer, however, so did a few thousand other men. Perhaps, she thought, the lack of progress in this case was beginning to affect her ability to remain rational.
Normally, Sami worked Monday through Friday, eight to five, or at least those were the hours she turned in to payroll every week. To the outside world, working a day shift seemed a bonus, perhaps even unbelievable for a job in which the investigative process required that a detective be available whenever needed. Criminals didn't look at their watches before plunging a knife into a victim's chest. Therefore, Sami--and just about every other dedicated detective--invested plenty of off-duty time working. If the San Diego Police Department compensated Samantha Rizzo for the actual time she spent performing police-related duties, everything from midnight surveillance to early morning coffee with informants to weekend research to interrogating suspects, she could retire before her fortieth birthday. In spite of the craziness, she endured. Working a day shift was not a perk Sami earned. It just made sense. During the daytime hours,
Simon could see April beginning to stir. Before she awakened, he found a vein behind her left knee and injected the mild sedative, enough to ensure that she'd sleep through the night. He lifted the child off the bed and set her on the chair. Held upright, perpendicular to the floor, the base of the cross was securely fastened to heavy metal brackets anchored to the concrete. Carefully, he loosened the clamps and guided the crucifix to the floor. With a three-foot crowbar, he braced the round end against a wooden block for leverage, and slowly pulled out each of the four railroad spikes, much like removing nails from a two-by-four with a claw hammer. Blood still trickled from the wounds, but the flow did not surge as it did when her heart pumped. To absorb the blood, Simon wrapped cotton towels around her wrists and feet. Then he lifted Peggy off the wooden cross, carried her limp body to the bed, and laid her on her back.
It was a moment he longed for.
The reunion.
He closed his eyes and cleared his brain of all thoughts, focusing on one image.
"Mother, are you with me?"
I've been calling for you, my sweet son .
"Shall I come to your bedroom?"
Yes, Simon, Mother is waiting .
He opened his eyes and Peggy McDonald no longer existed. Instead, Simon's mother lay on the bed, her lovely eyes looked up at him and she smiled. Ah, how he remembered those soft breasts and long shapely legs. Just like he'd done so many times before when beckoned in the middle of the night, Simon removed his clothes and crawled into bed beside his beautiful mother. He lay holding her, stroking her silky hair, caressing her warm body. Then, gently, lovingly, he made love to the only woman he had ever intimately known.
EIGHT
Thursday was an unseasonably warm day when Sami left her home at nine a.m. The temperature was already sixty-five. Aside from the ever-growing population, outrageous real estate prices, overcrowded freeways, and the most discourteous drivers in the galaxy, San Diego sure was a nice place to live. With the exception of a few stubborn clouds hovering over the shoreline--referred to by meteorologists as a marine layer--the sky looked clear and bright blue. She drove with her window rolled down; the invigorating air tousled her freshly trimmed hair.
Sami was not yet sure whether she felt disappointment or elation that the license plates on the black Supercab in the hospital parking lot did not belong to Simon. When she learned that the truck was registered to Alicia Chavez, fifty-five-year-old widow, a woman who'd never even gotten a parking ticket, Sami dismissed her original suspicions as foolhardy. Yes, Simon did fit the basic description of the serial killer, however, so did a few thousand other men. Perhaps, she thought, the lack of progress in this case was beginning to affect her ability to remain rational.
Normally, Sami worked Monday through Friday, eight to five, or at least those were the hours she turned in to payroll every week. To the outside world, working a day shift seemed a bonus, perhaps even unbelievable for a job in which the investigative process required that a detective be available whenever needed. Criminals didn't look at their watches before plunging a knife into a victim's chest. Therefore, Sami--and just about every other dedicated detective--invested plenty of off-duty time working. If the San Diego Police Department compensated Samantha Rizzo for the actual time she spent performing police-related duties, everything from midnight surveillance to early morning coffee with informants to weekend research to interrogating suspects, she could retire before her fortieth birthday. In spite of the craziness, she endured. Working a day shift was not a perk Sami earned. It just made sense. During the daytime hours,
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