Playing Dead

TWENTY-FOUR

The assassin watched the GPS tracking program on his computer. Claire was still at home. Good. He glanced at the clock. Nine thirty. It was getting late and he still had many chores to complete.

First things first. He learned long ago that he couldn’t keep the girls alive indefinitely. The first time, he’d had a warped idea that he could convince the young runaway to stay with him, to be his forever, and she had played along. Played with him. But the first opportunity she had, she ran.

He’d caught her, but it had been close. Too close. He wouldn’t trust another one, no matter what they said or promised.

His mother had promised she wasn’t going to die, and she died.

Bridget had promised he was her special man, and she lied.

He’d hoped someday Claire would come to him, stay with him, on her own, but that wasn’t going to happen. He could dream about it with the heart that loved her, but in his calculating mind he knew she’d never feel for him what he felt for her.

He could protect her from himself for only so long. With the discovery of Oliver Maddox’s body, there was a chance he could be exposed. He listened for the telltale police cars in his driveway, one ear cocked to the police scanner.

There was no way he would go to prison and leave Claire to someone else. It physically hurt knowing other men had slept with her, but he’d allowed it because he hadn’t been ready yet. Self-preservation drove his actions for years.

But if decades of secrets leaked out, he would have to kill her. Better to have her dead and buried than for him to be locked behind bars knowing another man had her body and her heart.

There was all the difference in the world between killing the runaways and killing Claire. First, no one missed the runaways. Claire had people who would look for her if she disappeared. Her employer, her friends. That made taking her dangerous.

But with Tom O’Brien on the run and the stress of these last months on her, coupled with the newly discovered information about her boyfriend, taking her now and making it look like she’d killed herself. . or run away. . was tempting.

He’d think about that.

For now, he needed to take care of the girl in the shed.

He left his house and crossed to the back of his property, protected by rows of trees that were a windbreak, as well as a sound barrier. Even if the girl screamed, no one would hear unless the wind was just right.

The evening was still warm after the hot day. Another reason he couldn’t leave the girl for long. Without food and water in this heat, she’d die and start to decompose. Flies would lay eggs and maggots would infest her orifices and her skin would get slimy and start sliding off.

He hated the dead.

He unlocked the shed. If it hadn’t been shaded by the trees, the girl would likely have died from the heat. She was kneeling where he’d left her early this morning chained to the wall. The white gown he’d put on her was dirty from sweat and the dust in the shed. He cleaned the place weekly, but still dirt accumulated. Her arms were bolted to the wall, body sagging to the floor. He had no desire to torture the girls, but he found that if he restrained them in a prone position they regained some of their strength. He didn’t want to have to explain any scratches or bruises she might inflict, and he couldn’t take sick time now.

“Hi, Claire,” he said. He never knew the names of the girls. They may have told him, but he never remembered. In his mind they were all Claire.

She whimpered, straining against the tape secured across her mouth. Her chest and neck were bruised. He felt bad about that. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, but it was inevitable when they had sex that she’d get hurt. It was something he was working on; he didn’t want to hurt Claire when he made love to her.

But if he wanted to feel anything, he had to hold them tight. Squeeze them. And like a treasured insect in a young boy’s hand, sometimes the life got squeezed out of them. It wasn’t his fault they were too fragile.

He touched her black hair. Longer than Claire’s, the way Claire used to wear it. Long and flowing.

He took scissors and cut it off. Held it to his face. He’d washed the girl’s hair in the same rich shampoo Claire used. He walked across the large shed and tied a pink ribbon around the thick lock of hair, then placed it in a drawer next to more than a dozen others.

He unlocked the restraints and brought the girl to her feet. “Claire, I’m sorry, but this is good-bye. I promise, you won’t suffer.”

He had wanted to bury her last night, but he’d kept her in his bed too long, until dawn, and he didn’t trust that he wouldn’t be seen. Even on his large property, it was better to do this task under the cover of darkness.

Her grave had already been dug.

His aversion to dead things held true. He had, two or three times, accidentally killed his girls while they were in his bed. He’d had to dispose of them immediately, and he couldn’t touch their flesh when he did it. Those times were the worst. He still had bad dreams. But he’d practiced and learned, and now he could make love without choking the life out of them.

He didn’t want them to suffer. He didn’t want Claire to suffer.

He put a blindfold over her eyes. She had the dark hair that Claire had, but not the blue eyes. He’d been in a rush, needing someone, and this one was close enough that he could pretend.

He was good at pretending. And he had the disks to play in the background. As a reminder.

But the blindfold wasn’t just to cover her eyes so he didn’t see them. He didn’t want her to see her fate. The first time. . he still heard the first Claire’s screams, every day, and that was fourteen years ago. .

He led the girl, naked under her white gown, to his garden. He breathed in the scent of roses. All white roses, because those were the flowers Claire loved best.

He’d excavated the grave with his backhoe. He’d gotten quite proficient with it over the years. It hadn’t taken him long. The smell of fresh dirt mixed with the floral aroma and he smiled. This was his favorite place on earth. In his garden. Surrounded by Claires.

“Good-bye, Claire.”

He pushed her into the freshly dug grave, a scream coming from her chest, but without the power to project beyond the dirt walls of her eternal prison.

He walked over to the backhoe and turned the ignition. He refilled the grave.

It was better this way. They died quickly, within minutes he was pretty certain. And he didn’t have to touch or see their dead bodies.

He drove the backhoe back to its place next to the shed. With a hoe, he returned to the fresh dirt and smoothed it out. Then he planted a new rosebush at the head of Claire’s grave. Finally, he spread the rocks out so no one at a glance could tell that there were fourteen graves in his rose garden.

By the time he was done, he was physically tired but mentally alive. He returned to his house and checked the status of Claire’s Jeep. Still at her house. Good. It was late, he doubted she’d be going anywhere tonight.

He showered under scalding water, scrubbing the dirt from his pores. Then he turned the water icy cold, before stepping out. He dried off and walked downstairs, naked. Poured a glass of dark, rich cabernet. Then he went back to his bedroom and lay naked on his bed, the air moved by the ceiling fan caressing his body. He turned on his special disk. Claire filled the screen. A teenage Claire nude in her old bedroom, standing in front of the closet trying to decide what to wear. He watched her dress and undress for hours, working himself up into a frenzy.

“You’re mine, Claire. I protected you. You’d be dead if it weren’t for me. Dead!”

That’s why he knew he could kill her now without remorse. She should have died fifteen years ago. But when he saw her photograph, he knew he couldn’t kill her.

All these years, she had been living on borrowed time. Time he’d given her.

He was ready to take it back.