Her face is about ten inches from the snake’s tank, and the rattler is not happy. His tail is twitching, he’s coiled in the far corner of his habitat, and his head is drawn back. Because of her proximity, the snake sees Farah as a threat. Another bit of irony. Farah isn’t in a position to be a threat to anyone.
I turn forward and touch the gas pedal. The Jeep creeps forward in the dark. My house is in civilization, but Farah’s latest boyfriend lives in the middle of nowhere.
On the bright side, there are no neighbors within sight.
The Jeep runs over a pothole, and the snake emits another angry hiss. Farah whimpers again.
I glance in the rearview mirror.
She’s fully recovered from being stunned, so why does she look woozy? I didn’t think her head wound was too terrible, but maybe I was wrong. Not that it will matter in the long run. She’ll be dead before morning regardless. But I would like to do the deed with my own two hands. In order to move on, I need closure, the up-front and personal kind.
A sheet of plastic covers my cargo hatch, and her head lies on a towel, so she doesn’t make a mess. Blood mats her hair from where she struck the edge of my kitchen counter. Can the snake smell it? The scent of blood attracts most predators. Always looking for an easy meal, they seek the wounded and weak. But snakes swallow their prey alive and whole. Maybe blood means nothing to them.
My headlights sweep to the right as I make a turn onto the rural road. We’re almost there. Excitement rushes through me. This is it. The night I’ve been waiting and planning for. My endgame.
Technically, Farah and the Flake’s endgame. Finale is a better word.
I try to take a deep, calming breath, but my nasal passages have swollen closed, forcing me to suck in air through my mouth. I should have iced it but didn’t want to take the time.
I slow the Jeep as we approach the driveway. Meadows flank the narrow lane all the way to the converted barn. With my previous victims, I planned how I would get into the house undetected. But the flaky artist hardly ever leaves. Tonight’s entry will need to be more direct. But that’s OK. I’m feeling ballsy. I ease off the gas and let the vehicle come to a stop where I can see the front and side of the barn in the distance. I raise my binoculars and scan the front of the building. His new vehicle is hot. Too bad he won’t be around to enjoy it for long.
The big windows that provide him the perfect light for painting are the same windows that allow me a view of his studio. With the studio lights on full blast, I can see him now. He stands before his easel, paintbrush in hand, swirling and stroking color onto the canvas in layers.
I haven’t watched him as long as the others, but I don’t think it’s necessary. I don’t expect him to be much of a challenge. Artists aren’t intimidating. He’s the sheriff’s brother, but I’ve never seen him with a weapon. He doesn’t run or go to the gym. At times, he barely eats or sleeps.
He paints.
I focus in on the window. He is utterly absorbed by his work. I bet I could walk right up to him without him noticing. For a few minutes, I watch him work, not for the first time. I’ve been closer. Close enough to see the details in his work. The process by which the painting takes shape is fascinating. He builds his image, layer by layer, nuance on top of nuance. It’s an intricate procedure. He doesn’t seem to plan. Does he see the finished product in his mind’s eye before he begins, or does he paint by instinct?
Maybe I’ll ask him before I kill him.
I switch off my headlights and turn into the driveway. But I’m not afraid he’ll notice me. He doesn’t even remember to lock his doors. I ease the Jeep around the side of his house opposite from the studio, so it isn’t visible from the road. After shutting down the engine, I haul my backpack from the passenger seat. I unzip it and check my supplies. Gloves, stun gun, zip ties, plastic wrap.
Handgun.
Now that I’ve done this twice, I’m developing a system. I just have to get into the house. Once I zap him the first time, it’ll be game over.
Incapacitate, restrain, suffocate.
It’s an alarmingly easy and neat kill. No bloody mess. Farah’s head wound and my bloody nose were enough to make me appreciate a clean kill. No mess, no fuss, over in a couple of minutes. I slip out of the vehicle. The freezing night air feels like I’m inhaling glass shards. My face aches. Though I’m wearing gloves, my hands quickly stiffen. The cold seeps from the ground through the soles of my shoes.
Pinpricks tingle in my toes as I bounce. I flex my fingers and shake my wrists to keep my blood circulating.
I feel like the sheriff and I have developed a relationship over the past few days. I kill someone, and she tries to catch me. But she isn’t even close to solving this case.
I lean back into the car. “She thinks you killed Spencer and Julius.”
Farah snivels and sniffs.
“She’s going to think you killed the Flake, then yourself,” I add. “I have it all planned out. Sadly, I won’t be able to suffocate you, though. People have used plastic bags to commit suicide, but I feel that would be difficult for me to pull off believably.” I touch the outside of my jacket pocket, where the gun is a solid, reassuring weight. “No. Your death will be a quick and painless bullet to the head. It’s almost a shame, really. The men you fuck die slow, agonizing deaths because of you, yet you get the easy end. This night is just filled with irony.”
I hope Farah’s current head wound doesn’t add confusion. I’ll have to make sure she shoots herself in the same temple to cover the gash and bruising. Thankfully, the gash is on the correct side.
My luck holds.
“You two wait here.” I snicker at my joke. “I won’t be long. Once he’s restrained, I’ll bring you in. You’re going to have a front-row seat to his death.”
She moans low in her throat, a desperate and almost feral sound of hopelessness. She’s moved beyond terror and accepted her fate. I can see the resignation in her eyes.
I’m not worried about Farah getting loose. I have her trussed tightly. She can’t move more than an inch. I tug on my gloves and hat and head around the corner of the barn. The wind howls as it sweeps across the open ground. The clear landscape ensures I’ll see anyone coming long before they get here. I creep to the front door, my breath fogging into the night. The knob doesn’t turn. He remembered to lock his door.
Disappointed—annoyed—I creep back to the shadows. Of course, I’ve made a contingency plan. The interior of the barn is one open room, with only a partial wall to separate the studio from the living quarters. There is just one window where I can enter and not be seen. I return to the Jeep for my stepladder. It’s only two steps, but that’s all I need. I unfold it under the window and climb up. I stop next to the bathroom window and take off my backpack. When I took my unsupervised tour of the barn the other day, I unlocked this window. No one checks the locks on their windows unless they open them. And Adam surely didn’t open his windows this week. The temperature has barely reached freezing.
Holding my breath, I push up on the frame. The window slides up easily. When I unlocked it, I also applied a bit of WD-40 to ensure a noiseless entry. I push the backpack through, then slip my upper body into the opening. My jacket and shirt ride up, letting the bitter cold slide around my waist. This is the tricky part. I wait for the wind to kick up in a good, loud howl before I drop the backpack and wiggle through. My hands crawl down the wall onto the floor. I slide the rest of the way like a baby giraffe slipping out of the birth canal.