Page 32 of Gianna

And he tested himself, pushed himself every time.

His body was fit and toned. No less was expected or required for what he did. He worked out every day. Not at a gym, there was no need for that. Gyms were for people who lacked imagination and initiative. That was his disparaging view. All he needed was a room, even a small one. He did the rest. Pressing against the wall. Star jumps. Lifting the end of the bed off the floor one handed and repeating it ninety times, until his sweat dripped onto the floor. Cleaning up was another workout in itself. He always respected his environment.

Today, he was ready. He felt the anticipation buzzing through him like electricity. His heart rate was steady, his breathing regular. He was ready to take the next step, to move forward with his plan.

The only part of him that moved was his eyes, and by that, he was able to assess his surroundings. That was very important. Because police were always on the lookout and he needed to stay a step ahead. He was clever, observant, and intelligent, and he could evade their attention. That he knew. He'd seen other performers being corralled, checked, their papers scrutinized. It all took time. Many of them had no papers and the consequences were severe.

He had surveyed the square, his gaze moving from one person to the next, searching and evaluating.He was looking for undue attention paid to him, anything beyond the curious glances.

He was just another artist, just another face in the crowd.

He knew the police would be watching the area and the performers, but he was confident he could escape their attention. He had done it before and he would do it again.

After keeping ahead of his hunters for some time now, he thought he had a good idea of what he needed to do. He understood how to see movement out of the corners of his eyes, to assess, and to act. He knew the difference between the astonished stares of bystanders and the suspicious stares of people who might call him out or bring him down.

"Look! Will you look at that! Is it even real?" The accent was pure British, the speaker a middle-aged woman, holding her partner's hand as she stared at him.

"I think that's just a prop, Emily." The man paused. "At any rate, I think so."

Think so? That wasn't enough for him; it was an insult. He forced himself to keep even stiller, willed his muscles into a state of immobility. He felt at one with the structures of Paris, at one with the Eiffel Tower, its steel struts, like blades cutting into the air, lifting it high into the sky; and though it vibrated on a minuscule scale, it never moved. Never.

And nor would he.

"Yeah, it's a prop," the man said and they turned away, strolling along the walkway, stopping to laugh in astonishment at a pair of mime artists.

But his eyes, scanning the area, then picked up exactly the flicker of movement he did not want.

There were police here. Police.

And they were not just clearing out the area. Rather, the police he saw were paying very close attention to the street performers.

It was a level of scrutiny he did not like and it worried him. There was no reason for it, apart from that they were starting to think that street performers or artists, moving freely through Paris as they did, might be involved in these killings.

That was going to be a huge problem.

He felt an icy trickle of fear chill him. It was an effort to keep still, to keep himself from moving. Immobility and looking like a structure, a lifeless being of cold metal, took even more of his will power.

He watched them.

Without a doubt, they were on the hunt, and that meant it was time for him to go.

One breath, then another. Wait until the time is right. Don't move yet. He felt his heart rate slow, his breathing even out, the stillness returning. He wanted to wait until there were no eyes on him, and he was an expert at assessing the language of the crowds.

Not yet. Still a couple watching him, and the police were not close enough for him to panic - not yet at least. So he stayed still, drew on that iron discipline that would keep him immobile and which would also draw no attention to himself at all.

They finished looking at him and moved on, and their gaze left him.

Good. He was free to move without being noticed. Now, were there other police? Which directions were clear? He checked. He knew police were sneaky and that they sometimes liked to circle in and come from more than one direction at the same time. He needed to be very sure that his escape route was clear before he took it.

There were no police to the right.

So he made his move, his actions swift and practiced. He turned his back on the crowds and in one smooth movement he slipped the gray hooded sweatshirt over his shoulders, pulling up the hood. Then, he slipped out of the snakeskin pants, revealing the black running shorts underneath and his bare legs below. Legs he hated because they were so real, so human.

So unlike the steel legs of the tower that could endure against the whole of time.

But he had to do this to survive, to continue his work, until he reached a stage of hardness, of resolve, where he and the tower were as one.

After all, he had so much left to do, and it depended on him being able to move as he needed to.

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