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As much as he wanted to take them himself, sometimes he would wish for that to happen. Sometimes he would linger in the pleasure of the fantasy, imagining them screaming and hurt and him not even touching them. As if he had made it happen with the power of his mind alone.
Ah, but it never had happened that way, not yet. So he would continue to remember, wrapping himself in the memory like a favorite blanket: how he had appeared to them and made their hearts race, flushed them with fear, the adrenaline surging in their veins. How they had begun to walk faster, even to run from him. Then the chase was on, the hunt, and he had pursued them, letting them think they were getting away. Letting them think that they had a chance.
Of course, he had already decided where he would pounce. He had chosen it all ahead of time, like picking out the menu for a five-course meal. And he took them when they came to the right spot, just like he was plucking rich and delicious berries right off the vine.
And then he devoured them whole.
His fingers twitched at the memory and he stirred, opening his eyes to look around and check he had not been observed. He opened the paper bag containing his sandwich and took it out, starting to eat it now that his recollection for the day was done.
It was always like this. At first, the memory was so fresh and so strong that he would feast off it for weeks and weeks, even months. But gradually, it would start to lose a little of its shine. He would shelve it alongside the others and bring them back into rotation, going over his favorites time and again. But then the years would pass, numbering in the multiple instead of the single. And he would start to feel like there was nothing new in those memories. Nothing worth re-living.
He would start to feel like he needed to make new memories. To scratch that itch that he felt deep inside, that urge that would not allow him to rest. He would start to feel like his lunch break was too long. That he needed something to fill it.
And then he would start to make a plan.
He was trying to be good, but things were harder and harder these days. He wanted to be good. He wanted to keep his hands clean. But there were all these little things, tiny things, that built up over time, like a wall made of matchsticks. And when they built up high enough, he had no choice but to knock it all down the only way he knew how.
To set it all on fire, and watch someone’s life burn out of their eyes.
He shifted in his seat as he took another bite, thinking. Tonight, he could go out again and take a look at the route he had chosen. There was a lot to be practiced, tested, tried. He needed to make sure that his hiding places contained enough shadow. You couldn’t simply turn up and hope for the best. You didn’t want to be startled by a motion-sensor light coming on if you stepped back further from the road than you had before. You had to test things properly. You had to know if there was a security guard or if there was a hangout where local youths would break in to share beers on weekends. You couldn’t just leave it to chance.
“Hey!”
A shout broke his concentration. He looked around, leaning his head out of the side window, wondering balefully who dared to disturb his lunch break. He caught sight of the young guy, the new one. He clearly hadn’t learned yet. He didn’t know that lunch breaks were sacred. He was too young and eager, willing to give up his own time even when they wouldn’t get paid more for it.
“Boss wants us back at it,” the kid called over when he knew that they had made eye contact. “He says there’s a big job coming in and we need to be all hands on deck or we’re not going to finish it by the end of the day.”
He scowled, unhappy at the interruption and the disruption of his routine. He looked at the sandwich in his hand. This wasn’t right. He was trying to be good, and things like this happened. Stealing his time. Taking his only rest and pleasure.
Well, only one way to make up for this kind of dissatisfaction. He would just have to make sure his lunch breaks counted for a lot more in the future by coming up with a new, fresh memory to treasure.
He shoved the rest of the sandwich into his mouth in one bite and got out of the half-wrecked car, trudging back towards the workshop with only darkness left in his mind.
CHAPTER FIVE
Laura caught her breath sitting on the step next to the man who had run from them, glancing around surreptitiously in the hope that the whole thing wasn’t going to collapse in a shower of rotten wood and beetles. Nate stood guard in front of them with his arms crossed over his chest, enough of a menacing presence to seriously dissuade their fugitive from trying to go on the run again.
He was more of a boy than a man, now that he had his hood pulled down from over his ears. That, too, was disappointing. Laura had only seen the face of the attacker for a flash or two in her vision, but she knew he wasn’t a kid. He was a fully-grown adult. So, unless her vision took place ten years in the future, this wasn’t the man they were looking for.
“It wasn’t occupied,” the boy muttered crossly. “I didn’t think anyone would mind. I swear. I’ll just go.”
“We’re not here because you’re living in the hut,” Laura said, trying her best to be patient. “Although, you shouldn’t. It’s not safe. The whole thing looks like it could give way at any moment, and it can’t be warm at night.”
“Warmer than the side of the road,” the boy muttered, still in that same surly tone. He crossed his arms over his chest defiantly, tucking his hands under his armpits as if to keep them warm.
Laura glanced to the side for a minute, looking at the trees and thinking. He wasn’t their killer. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be a witness.
“Have you seen anyone else hanging around here?” she asked. “Anyone who you thought was suspicious, any time of day or night?”
“No,” he said. He shrugged. “Not many people come around here since the murder.”
“The murder?” Laura asked, her heartrate flying through the roof suddenly.
“You don’t know about it?” the kid asked, looking at her sideways and pointedly glancing at the FBI logo on her windbreaker. “I thought that was why you might be watching this place. Like, maybe you thought I was the guy who done it.”
“No,” Laura said, distantly, her mind running overtime. Why was he talking about something in the past? Was the case linked to the one she had seen, the one that hadn’t yet happened? “No, that’s not why we’re here. But – do you know anything about this murder?”
“Only that there was a girl who got strangled,” he said, lifting his chin and pointing it towards their right. The place where Laura had seen the attacker leap on the woman in her vision. “They found her over there. Some people say it’s haunted or whatever but it’s just an old hut. Not a lot of people come around here since then so I get to have some privacy.”
