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Who, though? And if not the Bureau, who else? The only people who knew enough about her to threaten her like that were David and Doctor West. Doctor West had a busy schedule—too busy for him to moonlight as a serial killer—and she knew David wasn’t capable of that kind of violence.
She hated not knowing, especially when she didn’t have even the slightest idea which direction to go.
Another rat caught Turk's attention. This one managed to safely cross the yard. Faith wondered if the rat realized how lucky it was. A few minutes earlier, and it would have ended up dinner. Sometimes there wasn't a reason. Sometimes, animals were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Or the right place if you were a predator.
CHAPTER SEVEN
He looked down at the portly man in the wheelbarrow and wondered how someone could let himself go that far. He understood a little bit of softening due to age, maybe even some love handles due to a fondness for greasy foods, but to allow oneself to grow into this? It was obscene. How did someone like that look at themselves in the mirror and not swallow a bullet?
Well, then again, when you were the kind of individual this man was, maybe it didn’t matter to you if you were grotesque. Or maybe you just took your self-hate out on the innocent.
He didn’t particularly care what this man’s reasons were. He just wanted to watch him suffer for his crimes.
He leaned forward and tapped the man on the bridge of his nose, then drew back swiftly. The man woke with a start and tried to sit up. He watched in disgust as the man flopped around like a beached whale for a few seconds before finally rolling over onto his stomach and laboriously dragging both knees underneath him.
The man got to his feet and swayed drunkenly, looking around him with a bewildered expression. His eyes passed right over his soon-to-be killer without stopping.
Maybe he had overcompensated for the man’s size and overdosed him a little. Oh well, he was awake now.
He lifted his hand and said, “Hello there.”
The man jumped. He wouldn’t have thought it possible that a man that size could jump, but there was no doubt that both feet left the ground when he called to him.
“Who’s there?” the man cried. “Who—”
Finally, he saw the killer. His eyes widened. “Hey… what is this? Where am I?”
The killer smiled. “This is justice,” he said softly. “You’re going to pay for what you did.”
The victim—no, the criminal—took a step back. “What the hell are you talking about? You’re insane!”
“And you’re a murderer,” the killer replied, unfazed by his target’s accusation. “And now you’ll suffer the consequences.”
The portly man stepped back again. Then, he seemed to remember that he was much bigger than the man threatening him. His eyes narrowed into what the killer was sure he thought was a menacing expression. He took a step forward and said, "You better get the hell out of here before I beat your ass!"
The killer nearly laughed. The idea of that tub of lard beating anything other than a large pizza was absurd. Well, he would make a nice meal for the dogs.
He whistled, and the animals came to him. He saw the criminal's eyes widen, saw his skin blanch in the soft light of the streetlamps. The fat man began backing away, and the killer imagined what he must be seeing right now. A row of eyes gleaming yellow in the dark and emerging from the shadows with bared fangs and snarling throats.
This truly was justice.
“Hey,” the fat man said, “What did I do? Why are you doing this? Hey, I never killed anybody!”
“Yes, you did," the killer insisted, "and the fact that you don't know it only shows how horrible and evil you are. The world will be better off without you."
“Look,” the fat man said. “I have money. I can pay you, okay? Just let me go, and I can give you a hundred thousand dollars.”
He would never understand why they all offered him money. Were they so obsessed with wealth that they assumed everyone would sacrifice their morals for cash?
Evil never came alone. A rotten apple was rotten to the core.
“This is the part where you run,” he said.
The fat man whined, a pathetic keening sound like the lowing of a cow giving birth. Then again, perhaps that was an appropriate comparison.
The killer whistled.
