was that he knew where he really was and why he was here.
Whether he wanted to be here was of no consequence.
She suggested, as always. The woman at the bank who wouldn’t approve the car loan. Send for her.
She was only doing her job.
But you hated her in that moment. And you remember that hatred.
Involuntarily, he thought of her.
The numberless windows of the building’s exterior pulsed with light.
A window opened.
Power, not light, sent through. And returned.
And the woman was in the arena. Huddled in the dirt, too confused to sense fear.
The unseen crowd murmured in anticipation.
He stared down at the woman, concentrating, channeling the power within his brain.
She screamed, as invisible flames consumed her being. Her scream was still an echo when her ashes drifted to the ground.
He looked for movement among the bleachers. Whatever watched from there remained hidden.
Another, she urged him.
He tried to think of those who had created him, this time to send for them. But the arena remained empty. Those he hated above all others were long beyond the vengeance of even his power.
Forget them. There are others.
But I don’t hate them.
If not now, then soon you will. There is an entire world to hate. And, he understood, too many nights to come.
Some are Born to sweet delight,
Some are Born to Endless Night.
—William Blake, Auguries of Innocence
An Awareness of Angels
He surrendered so meekly. It was over so quietly. It was anticlimactic.
Sheriff Jimmy Stringer certainly thought so. “Please.” And there were tears quavering his voice, but his hand with the .357 was steady. “Please. Just try something. Please try something.”
But the killer just stood there placidly in the glare of their lights, blood-smeared surgical gloves raised in surrender.
In the back of his van they could see the peppermint-stripe body of the fourteen-year-old hooker, horribly mutilated and neatly laid out on a shower curtain. Another few minutes, and all would be bundled up tidily—destined shortly thereafter for a shallow grave in some pine-and-scrub wasteland, or perhaps a drop from a bridge with a few cinder blocks for company. Like the other eleven they had so far been able to find.
“Please. Do it,” begged Stringer. One of the eleven had been an undercover policewoman, and that had been Stringer’s idea. “Come on. Try something.”
But already there were uniformed bodies crowding into the light. Handcuffs flashed and clacked, and someone began reading the kid his rights.
“Steady on there, Jimmy. You’re not Clint Eastwood.” Dr Nathan Hodgson’s grip on his shoulder was casual, but surprisingly strong.
His own hand suddenly shaking, Stringer slowly lowered his Smith & Wesson, gently dropped its hammer, and returned the revolver to the holster at his side. His belt was a notch tighter now, needed one more. He’d lost fifteen of his two hundred pounds during the long investigation, despite a six-pack every night to help him sleep.
More sirens were curdling the night, and camera flashes made grotesque strobe effects with the flashing lights of police and emergency vehicles. They’d already shoved the killer—the suspect—into one of the county cars.
Stringer let out a shuddering breath and faced the forensic psychiatrist. Dr Hodgson looked too much like a television evangelist for his liking, but Stringer had to admit they’d never have nailed this punk tonight without the shrink’s help. Modus operandi was about as useful as twenty-twenty hindsight; Hodgson had been able to study the patterns and to predict where the psycho most likely would strike again. Like hunting a rabbit with beagles: wait till it runs around by you again—then, bang.
“Suppose now that we caught this little piece of shit, you’ll do your best to prove he’s crazy, and all he needs is some tender loving care for a couple of months.”
Stringer’s freckled face was sweaty, and he looked ready to hit someone. “Dammit, Nate! They’ll just turn the fucker loose and call him a responsible member of society. Let him kill and kill again!”
Dr Hodgson showed no offense. “If he’s guilty, then he’ll pay the penalty. I don’t make the laws.”
An old excuse, but works every time. Stringer tried to spit, found his mouth too dry. The bright flashes of light hurt his eyes. Like kicking over a long-dead dog on the side of the road. Just a bunch of wriggling lumps, all bustling about a black Chevy van and the vivisected thing in its belly. Lonely piece of two-lane blacktop, an old county road orphaned by the new lake. Old farm fields overrun with cedar and briar and a couple years’ growth of pine and