Читать книгу Evidence Of Marriage - Ann Voss Peterson - Страница 9

Laundromats made good hunting grounds.

Alone, for now, he sat back to wait, listening to the empty rumble of the drier and the tinny radio tuned to the blues. He liked a little blues on a hunting trip. The music was gritty and real and full of pain. Like the sweetness of a dying scream.

He’d never guessed how invincible killing could make him feel. The godlike power of holding life and death in his hands. It had taken a mentor to teach him. To guide him. Until he’d become brave. Until he’d become strong. Stronger than he’d ever imagined he could be.

But it had been too long since he’d tasted that strength. Eight months of fantasizing. Eight months of lying low, waiting for warm weather, waiting for the police and press to grow bored, waiting for word.

Now he was hungry to feel his power.

The glass door swung open and for a moment the rush of traffic outside eclipsed the low thunk of the bass guitar. The door closed, and a blonde shouldering a duffel trudged past the vending machines and between rows of whirring washers.

He took a deep breath. The air smelled sweet with detergent and fabric softener. Not as sweet as her hair would smell. Not as sweet as the scent of her blood. He’d never understand why women who would never walk down a dark street alone would brave a night like this to wash their laundry. Clean clothes were damn important to some people. He smiled as she came closer.

He could see she was older than the three he’d done last fall. Delicate crow’s-feet touched the outer corners of her eyes. Her mouth held the pinched look of a woman who had to work hard to make ends meet. She was probably in her mid-thirties, maybe close to forty. He didn’t like older women. They were smarter, not as easily misled.

She glanced at him with narrowed eyes. As if she could see something in him that bothered her.

For a moment he considered walking out, checking the Laundromat down the street. The last thing he wanted was for her to figure him out and give his description to the police. He couldn’t afford to give them a gift they didn’t deserve.

She opened one of the small, top loaders and sorted whites into it. Bras. Lacy panties.

She was the one.

He looked at her again, more closely this time. If her hair were a little lighter in color, if her lips were set in a cruel smile, she would look like his mother. He liked that thought. It got his blood pumping. Maybe he could even dress her in the slutty miniskirts his mother used to wear. And one of those oversize shirts with big shoulder pads that had gone out in the eighties.

He shifted in his chair. If he went on fantasizing about what he was going to do, his growing arousal would tip her off for sure. Besides, after eight long months, he’d fantasized long enough. He wanted action.

Humming along with the radio, she pulled a small bottle of detergent from her duffel, measured it into the cap and poured it into the machine.

He stood up and crossed to one of the machines whose wash cycle had finished. Pulling out wet jeans, he threw them in a drier near the woman. He pasted his most innocent and pitiful expression on his face. “Excuse me.”

She glanced up at him, offering a stranger’s smile, brief and insincere.

“My girlfriend told me to get some of those drier sheets. She says she doesn’t like the smell of my clothes. If you don’t mind my asking, what kind do you use?”

She dipped a hand into her duffel and pulled out a pink box. “These are the best. They smell the best and do a great job controlling static. Do you want to try one?”

Crossing the aisle, he reached into his pocket. He had to be fast. He couldn’t let her catch on. Not until he had her where he wanted her. He tilted his head at the pink box, as if he really gave a damn about fabric softener. “Oh, I’ve seen commercials for that kind.” He reached out as if he intended to take a closer look at the package. Instead, he grabbed her arm.

Her eyes flew wide. She pulled back, trying to free herself, trying to fight.

He whipped his hand out of his pocket and stabbed the syringe into her arm. He held her as she fought. Finally the drug took effect, and she swayed and stumbled into him.

Moving quickly, before anyone else wandered into the Laundromat, he pulled his laundry bag over her head. When he’d pulled it down past her waist, he positioned her swaying body next to a laundry cart and flopped her over. Lifting her by the hips, he heaved her into the cart.

A tinge of pain shot through his back. They were always heavier when they were deadweight. Once he let her loose in the forest, once she was fighting for her life, he wouldn’t have to worry about back strain. Then the pain would all be hers.

He stuffed her feet into the oversize bag, pulled the drawstring closed and tied it. Smiling to himself, he wheeled the cart to the exit and his waiting van outside.

Yes, Laundromats were great for hunting. And he’d just bagged himself some prey.