Gallery of the Dead

Seventy-Nine

The door closed behind him with a muffled thud, but the man didn’t move. Not for a while. He simply stood there, admiring the room he had created with his own hands.

It had taken him almost two years to transform the space down in his basement into exactly what he wanted, but the time and effort he had put into it had clearly paid off. The room — his gallery — was nothing less than magnificent.

The man closed his eyes and breathed in the stale air inside the oddly shaped room. As the air traveled into his nostrils, bringing with it a very familiar chemical scent, his skin turned into gooseflesh.

The man adored that smell.

He kept his eyes closed for a full minute, savoring every second, allowing the anticipation to build up inside him. He could feel his lungs expanding and collapsing with every breath, his heart beginning to increase its rhythm, his muscles tensing ever so slightly.

Satisfied and somewhat intoxicated by the ecstasy of it all, the man reopened his eyes, switched on the lights and refocused on the wall across the room from him. It was lined with long wooden shelves which had been divided into separate, different-sized compartments, each holding a clear glass jar illuminated by a special light, designed to best bring out the details of the jars’ contents.

As the man approached his gallery he paused, smiling, admiring his own work... his unique collection.

The man lifted his right hand and allowed the tips of his fingers to brush against one of the jars. As his skin came into contact with the smooth, clear glass, a new wave of exhilaration shot through his body, filling him with energy.

He pulled back his hand and stared into the empty jar.

His plan was almost complete. His most audacious plan yet. Soon, that jar would be filled, but first he had to teach the FBI a lesson — one that they would never, ever forget.