With narrowed eyes, he lowered his head and sucked one of her nipples. His tongue flicked and played with it until he bit down hard. Very hard. Eyes on hers, he kept biting as he pulled and twisted her other nipple. Her muffled screams, streaking tears, and horror-filled eyes pushed his brutality further until he was hard as granite. Heavy panting, gagged yells, and her body thrashing against the sheets pierced the stillness of the quiet neighborhood.
After several hours, her abused body lay still on the saturated bed sheet. He straightened up and swatted her ass. “Get up,” he ordered.
She groaned as she pushed off the mattress, and he grabbed her roughly and took her into the en suite bathroom. A yellow toothbrush rested on the shelf in the medicine cabinet.
“Here. Brush your teeth, tongue, sides, and roof of your mouth. Now.” He glanced out the window. The blackness in the east was beginning to fade; he needed to be finished and out of the house before the sun rose. He’d been so worked up that night, he’d taken much longer with her than he’d intended.
When she handed the toothbrush back to him, he shoved it in his pocket and pushed her toward the shower. Checking the water, he made sure it was warm before he shoved her in. He watched as she scrubbed her body. Some of his women scrubbed themselves raw, as if trying to wash away what had happened, and others did a crappy-ass job and he’d have to help them out. This one was scrubbing hard—he wouldn’t have to get wet.
After she patted herself dry, he took the towel and shoved it into a plastic bag, then told her to go back into the bedroom. He collected all evidence that may have any of his DNA, then stared at her. The rush of exhilaration that normally surged through him as he prepared to leave was missing. That rush was what he craved and needed until the monster resurfaced and he went hunting again.
Slipping the knife out of his pocket, he came up behind her and yanked her head back, forcing her to look at him.
“You promised you wouldn’t kill me. You told me if I did everything you said, you’d leave. I did everything you said.” Her voice hitched before soft sobs filled the air around him.
Without a word, he sliced her throat, then let her drop to the floor with a thud. Gasping breaths and gargling blood through her severed windpipe were the only sounds in the room as he watched blood squirt out of her carotid artery while she lost consciousness.
As he left the room, he laughed out loud.Someone’s going to have a real mess to clean up.
On his way home, his body was still vibrating from the high he’d had when he’d cut her throat. In that one swipe, all the tension, all the pressure, had just vanished, dissipated. He was on top of the world. He switched on the radio and sang along loudly.
Pulling into his garage, he decided to hold on to his euphoria for as long as he could until the monster came back and overtook him.
Humming, he opened the back door and went inside.
Chapter Thirty-One
The stairs groanedas Detective Barnard and Sheriff Wexler slowly walked up to Joyce Gillen’s bedroom. A couple of deputies stepped aside as the two men walked into the room. The lifeless body of the seventy-five-year-old victim was on top of a red-stained carpet. The gap in her throat told Barnard that her death had been quick. Running his hand through his short hair, he bent down and shook his head: her right nipple looked as though it’d been chewed off, and her body was covered in bruises.
“The fucking bastard has escalated his violence. I was afraid this was going to happen,” he said to Wexler, who’d turned away.
“I knew Joyce. She was a great lady. My grandkids and hers are friends. Shit, I can’t believe she died like this. Such an upstanding woman. She’d do anything to help someone out. We gotta find this fucker.” His voice shook with anger.
Barnard straightened up, then put a hand on Wexler’s shoulder briefly. “We have a monster on our hands and no solid clues. If only we could get a damn break.”
The CSI team from Durango came into the room then, ready to begin their systematic search for any incriminating evidence. Barnard went up to the supervisor, Carlos Torres. He’d worked with Carlos on many rapes and homicide cases in the past; he knew if the sick bastard left any evidence, Carlos and his team would find it.
“I hope we get something,” he said.
Carlos nodded. “We’ll work the scene hard. What kind of a sick person is he?”
“Who the hell knows. I just want to find him before he does this again. To think she went through the ups and downs of life, raised her kids, helped out with the grandkids, and survived the heartache of losing her husband only to end up on the floor, naked, raped, and killed. There’s no fucking rhyme or reason in this goddamn universe.”
“Seems that way in our line of work. I’ll let you know if I find anything,” Carlos said.
“Thanks,” Jack replied as he walked out of the room.
He found Wexler talking to a middle-aged man in the living room. A woman in her early fifties sat on the couch, wiping her nose and cheeks as her gaze fixed on the sheriff. The detective went over to Wexler and the man.
“It looked to be a dark SUV, parked across the street and several houses down. I didn’t get a license number, but when it passed, I noticed a shiny hood ornament. The way the streetlight hit it, I could see it pretty well. It was an American eagle. The wings were spread wide. I’ve seen a lot of cars around here that have the same ornament.”
“Did you see who was driving the vehicle?” Wexler asked.
The man shook his head. “I didn’t get a good look at him. It looked like he had a hood or something over his face.”
“Like a ski mask?” Barnard interjected.
The guy nodded. “Yes! It was a ski mask. I didn’t really see anything else. I was captivated by the hood ornament. I guess I should’ve paid more attention, but it was dark. There was some light in the sky, but it was still too dark to make out anything more.”
