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Lisa Jackson
It’s time for Elyssa to face her darkest fears. Deep down, she’s worried that I’m the StarCrossed Killer. I saw it in her eyes when she first woke in the cabin. She was on painkillers then, and out of it, so I was able to allay her fears, to convince her to trust me, but in that part of her brain that’s instinctive, she hasn’t quite let go of her dread. I walk across a small hill and deeper into the forest, avoiding the old mining road that has been closed for years. No reason to arouse suspicion, as surely the police will search it eventually, when they get their choppers airborne again. From the air the access road looks like nothing, but I can’t risk driving my truck on it. The tracks of the snowshoes will be invisible, however, especially with the ever-falling snow. Now Elyssa has crossed the line.
Yes, she’s worried that I’m not who I say I am, but she is also so dependent on me that she is falling for me.
They all do.
In time.
I see her watching me as I prepare the food, or bathe her, or even walk into my “bedroom.” Her eyes follow me and she’s starting to fantasize. As I care for her, I make sure that my head is close to hers and I feel her gaze on my mouth. She wonders what it would be like to kiss me. She imagines running her tongue down my skin, even what it would be like to make love to me with her mouth. I tingle just thinking about it, my cock growing hard as I skim the surface of the snowdrifts and ease around a final outcropping of rock to the back entrance of my private cabin. It’s been a good day already, what with the killing of that prick, Brady Long,
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and it would be a nice way to celebrate to fuck the hell out of Elyssa.
But that would be breaking my own rules. These women are untouchable. If I want to get laid, Nadine with her smoky breath and sexy little tattoo over her buttocks would gladly raise her rump to me, offer herself up. I like it that way, to come in from behind, so that I don’t have to see the whore’s face. She’s willing and wet and hot, but a whore just the same. I feel nothing for her. These women, the ones I’ve spent so much time hunting down, they are worthy, but if I ever gave in and made love to them, the tide of power would turn. No . . . I cannot give in.
But my damned penis isn’t paying attention. Stiff and anxious, it impedes me. So I stop at a snowbank, grab a handful of icy crystals, unzip my ski pants, and jam the snowball into my crotch. I have to bite my tongue to keep from gasping aloud as the ice instantly shrivels my hard-on and I’m able to think clearly again. I can’t, won’t, be impeded from my purpose by my erection. I reach my destination, a shanty that appears to be falling down: graying wood siding that has withstood the test of nearly a hundred Montana winters; shingles on the roof that bubble and peel; and a window of thin, rattling panes, now completely iced over, painted black on the inside. Unlocking the door, I step into the shack and start peeling off the outer layer though it’s still freezing within the thin walls. They aren’t as bad as they appear from the outside, however, as I’ve insulated and nailed sheetrock over the panels of fiberglass that help keep out the cold. I walk to a back door, which, too, is pad-222 Lisa Jackson
locked. It creaks as it opens and I light a lantern before descending the stairs to the underground tunnels, built during the silver-mining era. I’ve spent years improving these tunnels and rooms, updating them, making everything usable for my special purpose. Long before any of the women I’ve chosen were brought here. There are various tunnels that sprout off these steps, some short, others long and, eventually airless. Some have other exits, others dead-end. I’ve explored most of them and use them to store supplies. But today, I ignore them as I traverse the memorized route, using a small flashlight for illumination. The tunnel leads me to my own quarters, barely underground, close enough to the surface that a chimney draws upward, allowing me to keep the caverns warm. I worry about the chimney and the smoke it brings to the surface, for if it is seen by the authorities, my operation could be discovered.
There is a log and stone cabin above my living quarters, a fortress of sorts, where I also keep my guests. If seen, the smoke could be construed as coming from its chimney because the authorities cannot find me.
Not until I’m finished.
Worried, I decide to hurry things along. I had once had a plan,
using the Zodiac signs, but it proved too cumbersome and I had to wait too long between the killings . . . stupid police . . . Now I’ll have to rush . . . but maybe that will work well and really throw off the cops. It’s not as if I don’t have more than one who will suffice . . . And I could really shock Sheriff Grayson and his band of incompetents if I used more than one at a time. Why not up the game? I smile to myself for all the planning I’ve done
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here in the old mine. “Clever boy,” I whisper, thinking again how Mother would have been impressed. And shocked. Here, there are so many tunnels, so many secret spots, so many places to hide a person and no one would ever be the wiser. Thank goodness I’ve been thinking ahead. Putting the plan into action. Finding those who are worthy to be left. Making certain I have enough . . . inventory. Again I smile. I really am far smarter than anyone would ever imagine, especially Mother.
If she could only see me now. And witness the women who have come to love me. To trust me. Outside the door to my work space I peel off the next layer of clothes—my ski suit—and leave it on a hook, so that it will stay clean and drip on the landing. Then with my key, I let myself in. Honey, I’m home, I think and smile at my little joke as I walk through my larger living space to the detective’s door and peer through the peephole. Somewhere a door creaked.
Damn!
Regan slid onto the cot and closed her eyes, as if she’d been sleeping. The hairs on the back of her arms lifted as she heard soft footsteps. His footsteps. Her wrist was bruised and swollen. Though she’d managed to work at the weld, saw that it was cracking, she hadn’t yet broken through the soldered seam. If she just had a little more time, a little more strength.
Don’t give up. You can beat this guy. You can. But as she felt his gaze crawling up her body, she recoiled inside and she was certain she was in the presence of raw evil. She didn’t care if he was men-224 Lisa Jackson
tally off or not. Depravity fed depravity and this freak needed to be stopped.
It’s up to you.
If you can off him, you can save not only yourself but all the others he has planned for his sick game. Her heart nearly stopped when she heard the click of tumblers and sensed her door sweep open. Bile rose up her throat as she thought of him watching her. Though the bodies of the women who had been found in the forest had shown no evidence of sexual molestation, surely they had endured some kind of hellish torture at this maniac’s hands.
“I know you’re awake,” he said in that oily smooth voice of his, one that sounded familiar.
“You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Slowly, she opened her eyes. He was standing over her, a big man, still disguised. The goggles covered his eyes, the beard had to be fake, but in the darkness she saw the scrapes to his skin that hadn’t yet healed. Score one for the good guys.
“Good morning, Detective,” he said softly. “Well, it’s really not morning anymore . . .”
