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Desperate now, he'd used his right fist as a club, and had managed to get in a lucky blow. Stunned, she'd crumpled to the ground, knocked out cold by the desperate force of his attack.
Breathing hard, with blood flowing freely from his wounds, he'd quickly dispatched her with the knife. But it hadn't been the same, it had been so far from the neat and tidy scenario he'd planned.
His entire comfort zone felt destroyed. He felt angry and disoriented and somehow robbed of something that was rightfully his. His wounds were painful, throbbing and still bleeding. He knew that he should rest and let them heal, but there was no time to do that.
Without wanting to, he'd left evidence at the scene. He'd left some of his own DNA behind. And that meant his timeframe for future kills had shortened drastically.
This woman, this terrible Mama Bear, had almost destroyed him, and the worst might still happen. He knew the cops would be looking for him, and he had to be ready to run.
It was eight a.m. now and time for the drugstore to open. He'd been waiting outside, in pain, fear and anger. He needed bandages and medication, but at the same time, going in here would be risky. He would have to be very careful.
He stared at the door, knowing that to keep under the radar, he should wait for other customers to walk inside, rather than being the first through the doors, but the pain was getting worse and his nerves were jangled. Caution be damned, he had to go in there.
He'd have to appear normal, despite his pain. And he'd have to hope that nobody had been alerted, this early, to the fact that he might have been injured. Did the police know yet? The thought caused his stomach to twist in anxiety. What if the word was already out that a wounded man was on the run?
As the drugstore door swung wide, he scrambled out of his car and walked in. Look innocent, he reminded himself. Act like a normal customer.
He wasn't the kind of person who did first aid on himself. But he knew that this was life or death, and he couldn't visit a doctor now. Quickly, he scoured the shelves for everything he needed.
"Can I help?" the clerk asked, hovering nearby and smiling. He was a young man with kind, brown eyes and a goatee beard. But he looked sharp and alert, which was worrying. How the killer wished he could be dealing with someone careless and disinterested.
The killer smiled back, his best mask of nonchalance in place. He’d already gotten bandages, disinfectant, gauze, and painkillers into his basket.
“I just need to pay,” he said.
"Sure." The clerk went to the till, gathering up the items. Was he going to be one of those chatty people? Yes, he was.
"What happened to you? How did you get hurt?" he asked curiously.
The killer stared at him and felt a dizzying sense of panic. Was the clerk giving him a knowing look?
"I tripped on a root and fell." He tried to sound calm, although he was shaking.
"You cut yourself by falling?" The clerk frowned dubiously at him.
"I was carrying some steel fencing, and the spikes tore up my arm and side."
Was his impromptu addition to the story going to be believed? He’d always thought that he was good at stories, but now, he was wondering. The killer watched anxiously. If his account was not plausible, then he was in big, big trouble.
"Spikes? What type of fencing was that?" The clerk looked puzzled. He wasn't buying his version.
"It's security fencing for a friend. A guy I know who is building a house. It's not in a good area, and there have been a lot of burglaries. He needed some protective fencing, so I picked some up for him second hand. But it was heavy and difficult to carry on my own."
"That's crazy," the clerk said. "You should leave that to a professional. It's dangerous, doing it yourself. That razor wire and spike fencing is lethal."
"I know that now," the killer said, with a nervous smile. "I can't believe how dangerous it was, I was trying to help him."
"That's one of the worst ways to get injured. And it's so hard to get the dirt off after too. You should make sure you wash the wound, or you'll get an infection. Have you had a tetanus shot recently?"
"Yes, six months ago," he said.
"You should be okay for that then." The clerk finished up, handing him the bag. "I'm sure that'll fix you up."
"I'm sure I'll be fine," he said.
The clerk looked him up and down. "You really don't want to go to the hospital? You might need stitches."
"No, I'm fine. I'm not bleeding much anymore. The hospital's expensive."
