The Chemistry of Death

Chapter 3

Ziggy watched his administrative assistant through the glass office door. She was young, twenty-five max with breasts too large to be natural, a mane of platinum-blond hair, flawless skin, and full red lips. She was also good at her job. He gave her more responsibility than others would, and she was up to the task. Usually, they worked well together, but it was fall, and he never worked well with anyone in the fall. Fall was hunting season.

When the leaves started to change and the air got a cold bite to it, he changed into another man. As a child, he would be sent away, full of hope, to a boarding school every fall. Every year a different one and, before he could settle in, his mother would pull him out and bring him home to finish his studies by her side. Fall meant hope and failure and, now, hunting.

For most of the year, he ran the company with ease and humor. He would walk by his name on the door and know he made a difference in the world, that he was remaking nature and man according to his wishes. Everything meshed.

Once the summer temperatures started to drop and the leaves began to die, nothing fit. Every year he vowed to take a vacation in the fall, let things run themselves or run themselves down, and start again in the winter.

But he didn’t. He stayed at his desk, knowing he’d probably drive his assistant to quit, and that he would have to work like a demon once the snow fell to catch up on the work left undone. This cycle would continue until the day he died, an event he worried was too far in the future, but inching closer every day.

He went to the window and pulled it open. It wasn’t easy to find a building with windows that opened anymore, but he’d insisted on it. Cold air gusted into the room. The air smelled of the chemicals people pumped untrammeled into the atmosphere every day; of cold, high winds; and, he fancied, a faint undertone of dried leaves. He inhaled the mixture, letting it ground him in the poisoned, autumnal world.

Then he sat in his new leather chair and called up his email. He had many things that he should respond to, but he wouldn’t, not until the kills were behind him. He had to hunt soon.

He hadn’t hunted successfully in almost a year. A few months ago he’d tried to hunt outside of the fall season. But he’d failed. The hunt had been badly planned, the victim different from all his other kills, the setup different, too. It hadn’t been a stranger, that was his first mistake. It hadn’t been a grief-stricken woman, his second. The victim had been whisked away before the drug had time to work, his third and final mistake. It had been too risky, so Ziggy had let that victim go. Since then, he had vowed to stick to his established hunting season.

Out in the main office his assistant lifted a stack of papers and stood. Today he noticed that, from the back, her ass looked like a peach: round, firm, and begging to be bitten. The deep-green suit clinging to her curves showed him where he wanted to bite first. He shifted in his chair to give his burgeoning erection room to grow.

Just this morning, he’d thought of installing a spy camera behind her desk so he could make a highlights tape of her bending over to get files, walking down the hall, maybe touching up her lipstick. He’d researched it enough to know it was possible, but decided that if he were caught, the political blowback would be too unpleasant. The Internet had plenty of sleazy images. Besides, he was breaking so many big laws that he needed to be careful about the small ones.

She turned around, and her lips tightened. She’d caught him looking, but what could she do? Looking wasn’t against any sexual harassment law, and she still enjoyed the vestiges of summer goodwill.

She crossed the ash-gray carpet on her long legs and stood in front of his door. She lifted the papers, a question on her face.

“Come in.” He rolled his chair up against his antique mahogany desk and smiled. She smiled back. The expression never made it to her eyes. As far as he was concerned, it didn’t need to.

Tight, controlled steps brought her to his desk. She was a master of moving in those high heels. He bet she had ballet training.

Her fragrance enveloped him, musky perfume, a trace of face powder, and a note of lipstick. Not 999, but the lipstick’s scent still tickled his nose.

“These are for you to sign.” She handed him a sheaf of papers. “I flagged the signature lines with sticky notes.”

“Thank you, Miss Evans.”

“Mrs. Evans,” she corrected.

“Where do I sign?”

She leaned closer, and he breathed in her scent, quietly so she wouldn’t notice. One long, crimson nail pointed at a blank signature line next to a yellow arrow. The sticky note.

Without reading, he slowly signed his name. She flipped several pages and pointed to another location. This time, he signed it even more slowly, forcing her to stand next to him and wait. Her warm form tensed with irritation, but he didn’t care. He liked having her there.

The phone on his desk rang. Ordinarily, screening his calls was her job, but he reached for the phone himself. She’d have to stand there while he talked or come back to show him where to sign the papers. That’d help him through the day.

“I’ll get that.” She hurried toward her own desk, although she could have answered the call at his.

Her ass cheeks bounced as she walked, and he waited until she was sitting in her own chair before he looked away. He had to control himself in the office, but each day was more difficult than the last.

He needed to hunt the tunnels soon.