AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The same man who was now hunting the mayor’s family and friends?
She veered off the concrete trail, taking to the sand, her feet unsteady due to the way the terrain absorbed her footfalls. She reached a small, stone wall facing the known killer’s home. A small palm tree sprouted from the ground next to an aqua feature. Little orange fish floated on the water.
Not in.
On.
Dead. Every one of them. Their gossamer fins like wilted petals, useless in the rippling, stagnant water feature.
She frowned and hopped the fence, glancing off towards the couple doing their morning routine. But neither glanced at her. No one in the houses flanking Anton’s address seemed to note her either.
She approached the glass door in the back, moving cautiously. A small statue of a black cat sat on the back steps, staring at her with dull, gray, unpainted eyes.
She frowned at the cat, feeling a flicker of discomfort crawling up her spine. She stepped over the horrible thing and reached a metal railing by a staircase that descended into a second entrance to the bungalow. She clambered on top of the rail, peering through the window into a living room.
A couch. No television. No microwave in the kitchen.
In fact, instead of lamps or lights or even light switches, she spotted a kerosene lantern and a wood burning stove. She vaguely detected the scent of cinnamon emanating from inside the house. Was the killer awake? It almost smelled as if he was cooking oatmeal. No electrical outlets in the house either. She noticed the walls were bare. A couple of spots where the outlets had been were pasted over. She just about detected the shape of a rectangular receptacle papered over by floral wallpaper.
Her breath fogged the glass as she peered into the dark space. She cleared it with her hand. The blinds were half lowered, but even a man like this—who clearly desired privacy—couldn’t avoid the allure of the beach and the ocean beyond.
And then, she spotted movement. She jerked back, breathing heavily, still balanced on the rail. As her feet adjusted, a few flakes of rust fell from under the bar she stood on. But as she secured her position against the wall, peering in once more, she spotted a man, moving about inside the living room now.
For a moment, she thought he was dancing. But then she realized, he was practicing shadowboxing. His fists moving quick. She watched his footwork. Also impressive.
She winced, staring. Anton matched the picture in his driver’s license photo. A thick unibrow and sharp features. A pronounced nose like a hawk’s beak. A chin to match. He was shirtless inside, displaying a very muscled physique. He kept punching, moving side to side. He was slick with sweat, suggesting he’d been working out for some time now, even before the crack of dawn.
A man of discipline then.
At least,somediscipline.
Serial killers rarely had much in the way of self-control. She studied him through the glass as his dark hair whipped about his forehead, carrying droplets of sweat as he did. Pivoting from one foot to the next. Jab, jab, uppercut, switch.
Jab, jab.
She frowned as he continued to flow about the room, moving rapidly and picking up pace.
She dropped off the railing. Deciding that her best point of entry, now that she knew where the homeowner was, would be to enter through the door leading into the basement—the second entrance she’d spotted earlier.
She crept down the steps, gaze attentive for any hidden cameras.
But she supposed that security systems for a criminal were a double-edged sword. One, they could help detect the approach of any threats. But secondly, if tapped or taken, they could witness to the crimes being committed on the premises.
Perhaps this was the man’s aversion to electronics. He didn’t trust them because he didn’t want them to tattle on him.
According to Saul, they already had good reason to think he’d killed three people. Was it possible that he’d killed six?
More?
She reached the door at the bottom of the stairs and leaned against it briefly, face against the cool metal, ear to the door.
No sounds from within. No sounds from above, either. The faint scent of cinnamon had now faded to be replaced by distinct mold...
And then...a faint mewl.
She turned sharply. The cat? No. Damn it. A plastic cat. The mewling grew louder...but no...not a mewl. Not the keening of some feline. But rather a moan.
A human sound. Coming from the basement.
