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He shrugged. “This is your dream, Faith. You tell me.”
Faith had an answer to that question, but she hated it. Still, it was only a dream. The real Franklin West was languishing in jail, waiting for the eventual end to the trial that would see him convicted of multiple murders and sentenced to multiple life sentences somewhere dark and cold and hidden from the rest of the world.
“I suppose I need your help.”
“It might be more effective to call me,” he replied. “After all, you’re only talking to yourself right now. Incidentally, you should probably ask your new therapist why part of your psyche is represented by a man who nearly broke you mentally, emotionally and physically. That can’t be healthy.”
The taunt in his voice caused anger to flash through her, but she controlled herself. If she was going to have this dream, she might as well try to bend her subconscious to help her. “I’m trying to figure out this killer. I can’t figure out how he’s choosing his victims.”
“You know, I read somewhere that a journalist interviewed Ted Bundy and asked him how he chose his victims. He told the journalist that he never chose a single one of his victims. They chose him.”
“I don’t think that was Ted Bundy.”
West flipped his hand. “Maybe not. It doesn’t matter. The point is, what did those victims do to leave themselves vulnerable to him? It’s worth noting that Bundy almost never forced his victims to go with him.”
“This killer’s victims were alone,” Faith replied. “Cassidy Holt was in a botanical garden at night and far from security. Samantha Reynard lived alone in her apartment. Lorraine Hayes walked home from the library at night down a secluded path. Are you saying we should encourage people not to be alone?”
“If you think that would help, then yes. But that’s trying to stop a flood by putting a log across a waterfall.”
“That’s the answer, though. He’s preying on women who are vulnerable. And he’s killing them quickly before they can fight back or call for help. So he’s a coward.”
“Perhaps,” West replied. “Or perhaps the killing itself isn’t important.”
“If it’s not important, then why do it?”
West clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Come on, Faith. Even as a stand-in for the baser aspects of your personality, I’m not going to make it that easy for you. You know the answer to that question. You tell me. Why kill them? If he doesn’t need to, then why go to the trouble?”
She thought a moment. “He wouldn’t. Unless not going to the trouble caused more trouble.”
“Ah!” West exclaimed. He leaned forward in his chair and grinned at Faith. “Now we’re getting somewhere. But what trouble could letting them struggle cause?”
“Well, they’d call for help. Or they’d escape. They would be able to identify him.”
“Maybe, but I think it’s even simpler than that.”
Faith thought a moment. Their killer was trying to achieve immortality. Eternal life. The idea that someone could believe in something so foolish was ludicrous, but Faith had met many killers insane enough to believe many ludicrous things.
So, let's say this killer was a true believer and really thought that he would gain eternal life by following this ritual. Once he had eternal life, nothing would matter, really. He could go to prison. He could be announced to the world to be a murderer, and so what? He'd outlive everyone and everything. He could languish in prison for a thousand years and walk from the rubble when the society that imprisoned him collapsed.
But until that point, the ritual had to be completed. Otherwise, this was all for nothing.
The ritual was what mattered. The Magnum Opus.
“They’d interrupt the ritual,” she said, “and they’d make it far more difficult for him to complete it.”
“Yes!” West shouted, excitement pouring from his eyes and crazed grin. “That’s the answer. You see, Faith, killers don’t kill because we enjoy death. Even the ones that enjoy death don’t really enjoy it in that unadulterated form. There’s always a reason. For Trammell, it was the delight of watching little things bleed. For me, it was the knowledge that I had utter and complete power over my victims. For Kenneth Langeveldt, it was a chance to pretend that his past mistakes hadn’t taken from him the only thing that truly mattered.
“And for this killer, it’s thefearof death that motivates his taking of life. Hemustcomplete this ritual. Hemustsurvive.
“But he also has self-control. He doesn’t act wantonly because he knows he will be caught. No, he prepares carefully. He ensures that he leaves no trace of himself behind. He chooses victims who are separate from the herd, and he culls them swiftly. I daresay the most frustrating part of his method is when he strips them of their clothes. Imagine the fear in his mind as he struggles to unbutton, untie or unzip an article of clothing, the muffled curses as they snag on a fingernail or a stone, the furtive glances over his shoulder as he finally tears the underwear off and can get to the important part of the ritual.
“Your killer is a coward, Faith. You’re not wrong. But it’s not his victims he fears. It’s failure.”
He grinned. “In that way, he is much like you. You never feared Trammell. Not the death he would bring you, anyway. You feared being made to feel smaller than he was. You never feared the pain I would cause you. You feared being unableto stop me. You don’t fear this killer. You fear that he’ll beat you, that he’ll complete the Magnum Opus and leave you with nothing more than the chance to clean up his mess.”
Faith ignored West’s feeble attempts at goading her. She found that increasingly easy to do the longer he languished in the prison she had sent him to. “I think I have what I need. Thank you, West.”
She expected the West avatar to shout in rage at her for ignoring him, but he only laughed. “I’ll see you soon, Faith. Very soon.”
