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He was anxious, but knew everything was in place. He’d been preparing for this moment for years. Years! And now it was about to come to fruition.
Finally.
The cool of the evening chased through the swamp, a soft breeze ruffling the leaves and causing the Spanish moss to sway ghostlike overhead. Insects buzzed and, somewhere hidden in the cypress trees, an owl gave off soft hoots.
He kept rowing.
Through the labyrinth of bayous, around trees and islands, slipping unseen by the few cabins where lights still glowed in the windows, he rowed steadily.
Quickly.
With purpose.
Stroke.
His craft cut through the water easily, but he was beginning to sweat and the injuries that whore Luna had inflicted ached, the scratches to his face, the bruise on his shin. They were healing, but the scrapes on his face were still visible. He’d have to cover them before he initiated the next step of his plan.
If only she’d died as she was supposed to. But instead she’d survived, been taken to the hospital, probably told all she knew to the cops.
Well, fine.
She didn’t know all that much.
And he was ready.
Still, it was irritating. A glitch in his perfect plan.
Because of those damned fishermen her death had been interrupted, he’d been injured and barely gotten away. But he had escaped. He took heart in the fact that he’d survived, that God was with him on his mission.
Stroke.
Under some low-hanging limbs, the moss trailing its light fingers over his scalp, he rowed and insects swarmed and a bullfrog croaked mournfully. He had packed his most precious belongings with him, the beads and piano wire, his hunting knife and his disguises—clothes and makeup—all neatly tucked into his duffel bag.
His destination was all part of his plan. He just hadn’t intended to move to his new hiding spot quite so soon. But it was ready, and maybe, just maybe, these sequences of events were preordained, maybe God, a test. And he’d passed with flying colors. Maybe he should be grateful rather than annoyed.
He’d been following Dr. Sam at a distance, seeing that cops patrolled her house more often, even spying more cop cars than usual as she left the studio. That was his fault for showing his hand.
But the cops, especially Rick Bentz, were thick as thieves, so he’d had to tread carefully, wear the disguises. He’d managed to change plates on the Impala again. It was simple enough to slip through the parking lots of big box stores and remove a plate, then reattach it to his Impala, but he’d taken care there, too, as these days there were cameras everywhere.
Another reason he had to up his timeline.
As he thought of his plan and Rick Bentz, always dogging him, he decided it was time to turn the tables on the detective. Bentz, like the fake radio shrink, needed to pay for his sins. Too bad his kid wasn’t killed in that attack that took her husband’s life.
Maybe he could do something about that.
Stroke, stroke.
Yes, he thought, the night feeling like a cloak around him.
Bentz’s Achilles’ heel had always been his family. Even more important to him than his reputation as a cop.
So why not kill two birds with one stone?
Yes, yes! His spirits soared.
He would set his plan in motion tonight. There was no time for rest and recovery. Because he had so much to do. So very much. He couldn’t be distracted. Nor waylaid.
Time was of the essence.
