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Such a desperate plan, though, would only make things worse.Aside from the nearby police officers, there were a number of joggers and dog walkers in the park, all potential witnesses to his crime.The man forced a smile, hoping his face didn't betray his inner turmoil.
"Of course not," he said, trying to sound nonchalant."I just thought it would be a nice place to relax and enjoy the wildlife."
The old man nodded slowly, still looking skeptical.The man with the binoculars could feel his heart pounding in his chest, wondering if he should make a run for it or try to talk his way out of it.Suddenly, the old man's face lit up with a clever, self-satisfied smile.
"You know what?I have a friend across the street, Patrick Gibbons.OfficerPatrick Gibbons.He's quite a bird enthusiast himself.I should introduce the two of you!"
The man stared back, his mouth going dry.Was this old fart serious?Did he really know one of the police officers at the graveyard, or was he just pulling the man's chain?
The man tensed, ready to spring.It was starting to look like he might have no choice except to run.
"Come on," the old man said, a triumphant smile on his face as he gestured."Don't be shy.Who knows what you two might have in common?"
The man started to rise—not to follow the old man, but to bolt in the opposite direction.Just then, however, an old woman's voice reached them.
"Harold!"She sounded concerned, her tone laced with worry."We have to hurry if we're going to be home when Stacy brings the boys over!"
"Okay, dear!"the old man, Harold replied automatically, still staring at the man.His smile began to fade, and at the same time, the man felt a surge of relief.
Thank God for nagging wives,the man thought.
The old man turned to go.After only a few steps, however, he turned back, scowling as he pointed a finger at the man."You're a real creep, you know that?"he said."I don't know what your deal is, but if I ever see you here again, I'm calling the cops.Got it?"
The man stared back, saying nothing.Harold's wife called again, and Harold, like an obedient dog, shook his head in disgust and moved away.
The man watched with relief as Harold retreated, joining an equally elderly woman who looped her arm through his.They walked slowly, their steps measured and cautious, until they disappeared around a bend in the park's path.
Finally, alone, the man let out a deep breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the solitude that enveloped him like a comforting blanket.The quiet rustle of leaves above him, the distant murmur of the graveyard activity—these were the sounds he craved, not the prattle of strangers.
He loved the silence, the way it seeped into his bones, calming the storm within him.It was in these moments of peace that he felt truly at ease, unburdened by the expectations of others.Alone, he was free to be himself, to indulge in his darkest desires without fear of judgment or retribution.
With the old couple gone, the man raised the binoculars to his eyes once more, focusing on the flurry of activity in the graveyard.From this distance, he could see the reporters huddling together like vultures, their cameras pointed at the police officers as they worked diligently to unearth any clues that might lead them to the killer.
"I should've recorded the whole thing," the man mused, his eyes scanning the scene.The thought intrigued him—the idea of capturing the terror that had filled the Hubbard family's eyes as they'd realized their fate, the desperation with which they'd pleaded for mercy.It would have been a beautiful, macabre masterpiece, one that he could watch over and over again, savoring each moment like a fine wine.
But then he shook his head, dismissing the notion.As much as he craved the idea of immortalizing his work, he suspected that figuring out how to record the incident would have detracted from the experience, sacrificing the excitement of a moment that could never truly be relived, even if he watched it again through the eyes of a camera a thousand times.
The man was still thinking about this when he spotted a reporter making a beeline for the park, microphone in hand and a determined expression on her face.She was no doubt looking to interview anyone nearby who might have information about the grisly discovery across the street.It was time for him to make his exit.
Rising from the bench, the man slid the binoculars back into their case and tucked it under his arm.As he began to walk away, his hand found its way to his pocket, where it closed around a worn leather wallet.He retrieved it, flipping it open with practiced ease to reveal the driver's license nestled within.
"Roy Hubbard," he read aloud, his voice barely above a whisper.A grim smile twisted his lips as he stared down at the man's photograph, recalling the way he had begged for his life before the man had snuffed it out.In that moment, the man felt a surge of satisfaction roil through him like a tidal wave, the knowledge that he had brought justice to those who deserved it.
"Got what was coming to you," he muttered, snapping the wallet shut and tucking it back into his pocket.
As he made his way out of the park, the man was warmed by the assurance deep in his gut that this wasn't the end.No, this was only the beginning.He smiled in anticipation of what was to come, letting out a low chuckle as he imagined all the other Roy Hubbards out there who were just waiting for him to find them.
It was time to sharpen his knives and start hunting again.
CHAPTER SIX
Sheila leaned forward in the passenger seat of Finn Mercer's car, staring intently at the small house through the windshield.
The killer could have parked right here,she thought,watching the Hubbards from a distance without them even knowing it.There aren't even any neighbors around to notice a strange vehicle.
The house itself was a simple structure, with straight lines and a rectangular shape that made it look like it could have come right off an assembly line.The paint was fresh, the yard immaculate, but there wasn't a single flower or decoration to be seen.It looked like something out of a catalog rather than a place where people actually lived.
"Looks more like a model home than a real one, doesn't it?"she asked, trying to shake off her unease."Like it's just waiting for someone to move in and make it their own."
