Mister X

50

Pearl didn't really believe in God, not all the way. But she felt blessed. Lying in her bed with the light out, she contemplated why.

Not everything was going perfectly. The investigation seemed to present more of a riddle every day. Her mother figured to be a bigger pain in the ass even than Pearl had anticipated. And Quinn was taking her engagement to Yancy harder than he might have.

What right had Quinn to feel any remorse or regret? He and Pearl had been good together, but only sometimes. Other times…best not to think about those.

It was the sometimes that still bothered her. She turned over violently in bed, fluffed her pillow as if it were a pinata, and clenched her eyes shut. Her feeling of benevolence from above was fast dissipating. A person shouldn't think too much about life.

Pearl had always regarded life as a predicament. Lately, because of Yancy, it had seemed less so. Pearl had decided she could cope. The one sharp stone, the one thing in her new reality that prodded and bothered her, was Quinn. Why wouldn't he grow up? They'd been lovers, and now she was going to be married to someone else. That was the profound and simple fact. She could live with it, and Quinn would have to learn.

Her problem, though she seldom confronted it directly, was that despite her engagement to Yancy, the crashing finality of her relationship with Quinn, wasn't…well, final. Somewhere in her heart was an indestructible fondness for Quinn, and, try as she may, she couldn't ignore it.

She was alone in her bed, the one she'd once shared with Quinn. Yancy was in Albany at some kind of meeting or convention about alternative energy sources. Right now he was probably charming people and yammering about wind power, she thought. She smiled into her pillow. Thinking of Yancy-that was the antidote for Quinn. If her mother liked Quinn so well, let her marry him.

The thought appalled Pearl, and she rolled over again on her back.

She stared at the ceiling and tried again to feel blessed. Couldn't quite make it.

She didn't like sleeping alone. Never had.

It was something genetic, maybe. Like being human.

The Carver was impressed with this one. Lilly Branston was uncommonly strong. Kneeling on her arms had failed to prevent her from struggling. He'd had to knock her about, then rip some strips off a sheet and use them to bind her. Then, when he'd stuffed her panties into her mouth, she'd attempted to bite him. No quit in Lilly.

Breathing hard from his efforts, he assumed his kneeling position, his knees pressing down on her bound arms. He was safely back within the ritual.

In control.

He held up the thin-bladed boning knife he'd found in her kitchen drawer so she had to look at it. Grinning down at it, he pretended to pluck a hair from his head and slice it with one quick stroke of the blade.

He aimed his grin at her.

She glared up at him without fear. Without curiosity. She knew what was going to happen. She'd been tricked. She'd been had. There was going to be a penalty. As they locked eyes, a subtle glow came into hers. He recognized it easily as hate. Deep down from the depths of hell hate. It amused and excited him.

He moved the knife closer to her face so it was almost blocking her vision, but not quite. He wanted to see her eyes.

He smiled before her hate, and he knew that if she could break free she'd attempt to kill him.

He waved the knife from side to side. "I'm going to explain a few things to you while I'm doing them," he said.

When he deftly removed the first nipple she began to scream. Firmly gagged as she was, the sound could barely be heard in the bedroom, much less outside the condo walls. He adjusted the gag. He didn't want her to inhale any of the rich silk material and choke on it.

He placed the nipple in a small plastic bag, letting her see he was leaving the bag unsealed, and talked to her some more, taking his time, stringing out the enjoyment. There was no hate in her eyes now, only horror.

When he was finished, he was pleased to see that while Lilly had bled profusely, there was little blood on him. He'd been nimble and escaped most of the arterial blood when he'd slit her throat.

He was surprised to notice that he was sweating. Lilly's still body also was coated with perspiration where it wasn't bloody.

Hard work. She'd managed to make it hard work for both of them.

Well, she'd paid the price.

He climbed out of bed and went to the window, parting the drapes he'd closed before beginning Lilly's final ordeal. Then he opened the window as wide as it would go. This was part of his plan. The only facing windows were blocks away. It was highly unlikely that anyone would happen to glance out of one of them and into this particular window. He returned to the bed and stood by Lilly's body, noting as before with satisfaction that the angle of the drapes made it impossible to see the bed from outside.

There was a slight breeze in the room now, which he enjoyed as it played over his damp body. The open window would serve another purpose; he didn't want this one to be discovered too soon, and the stench of putrefaction and feces from the relaxed sphincter wouldn't be noticed right away in the building if some of the odor escaped through the window.

He began the methodical process of wiping away his fingerprints. He'd been careful as always, his mind neatly filing away in his memory everything he'd touched. When that was finished he'd go into the bathroom and use the shower, nude but for a pair of white latex gloves. When that was done he'd place the fresh lily he'd brought with him in his victim's hair. The finishing touch and a riddle for the police.

Then he'd get dressed and be on his way. Into the city. Into the night. Part of the dark.

He had to admire Lilly. She'd never really given up until her last, paper-thin breath. She'd been a fighter.

He bet Pearl would be, too.