CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
The killer was furious.
How had this happened? His setup had been failsafe. Nobody should have been able to escape from it, and nobody should have known his identity. And yet somehow, now, he was facing disaster.
He paced the floor, knowing that below him was the basement where his collection was kept.
He'd set his plan in motion, followed the rules, thought carefully about all the necessary details.
He'd taken precautions.
But the last specimen had managed to escape. His mind still reeled at this thought. Somehow, during his tried and tested operation, she got away.
It had shaken him to his core and left him feeling vulnerable. He’d tried his best to chase after her, but she’d been a surprisingly strong swimmer. Dripping wet, he’d raced back to his car and driven around the lake, but by the time he reached the spot where she’d climbed out, she was gone. Disappeared into the woods.
He'd been so careful. He didn’t deserve this failure. Especially since he was used to success.
And there was another worrying factor. The police. He knew that law enforcement was thronging the area in their numbers, hunting for him.
For the whole of that day, the killer had stayed away from the lake, remaining holed up and out of sight.
He felt exposed, vulnerable, even though he knew that the escaped specimen could not lead the police back here, because she would have no idea where it was. That, at least, he felt confident about. She didn’t know where she’d been held at all.
Although he'd remained invisible, he had checked the news, and he'd heard the announcements on the radio.
They were talking about a killer, a psychopath.
At first that term had confused him, and he'd thought they meant someone else, because he was not that person.
His collection was beautiful and pure.
Worse still, he was not used to being the hunted. He was used to being the hunter.
That was the way it had always been. Except now, something had gone wrong.
But he was also an adaptable person, and he knew his master plan needed to be modified. It should not be difficult. A few changes, and he might be back in business again, with nobody the wiser.
He stopped pacing. He'd been walking up and down, like a man in a cage, in the secluded, dusty little building that concealed the gallery of his beautiful treasures. He hadn't brought them food today. They didn't deserve it, for letting one of them escape. All were to blame for one’s misdemeanors. That was his way of discouraging such behavior.
They had failed him, they had failed themselves, and they would have to face the consequences.
He was in a dark mood. Unfortunately, as he thought his predicament through, his mood got a whole lot darker.
He needed to calm himself by viewing his collection, he decided.
The killer walked over to the staircase that led down to the basement, to the brick rooms. He flicked the switches. Turning from one spy hole to the other, he watched his two captives blinking in the light.
The one he'd had for a long time looked as she always did. Calm. Her beautiful face was peaceful. Her blonde hair was soft, and the sleeves of her ragged white T-shirt fluttered in the dusty air like wings.
He watched her for a moment, feeling his rage ebb away. Her presence soothed him.
Then he moved to the next room, looking through the spy hole at his other treasure, who was his most recent find.
Firmly, he told himself he was not going to feel guilty at what he had to do.
She knew, of course. She watched him, a look of panic on her face. In the small space, she tried to run from him, which made him laugh, a harsh, mirthless laugh.
She had spirit but right now that was a quality he could not afford. He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him, shoving her to the floor.
She cried out and began to struggle.
"Please, no. I didn't mean it. Don't kill me!" she begged.