Читать книгу Cause to Kill - Blake Pierce, Блейк Пирс - Страница 7

He sat in an office cubicle – superior, victorious, more powerful than anyone on the planet. A computer screen was open before him. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes, and remembered.

He recalled the cavernous basement of his home, more like a garden nursery. Multiple varieties of poppy flowers lined the main room: red, yellow, and white. Many other psychedelic plants – each one accrued over countless years – had been placed in long troughs; some were alien-like weeds or intriguing flowers; many had a more common appearance that would have been overlooked in any wildlife setting, despite their potent abilities. A timed watering system, temperature gauge, and LED lights kept them thriving.

A long hallway made of wooden beams led to other rooms. On the walls were pictures. Most of the pictures were of animals in various stages of death, and then “rebirth” as they were stuffed and positioned: a tabby cat on its hind legs playing with yarn; a white and black spotted dog, rolled over and waiting for a tummy rub.

Doors came next. He imagined the door on the left opened. There, he saw her again, her naked body laid out on a silver table. Strong fluorescent lighting lit the space. In a glass case were many colorful liquids in clear jars.

He’d felt her skin when he’d rubbed his fingers along the outside of her thigh. Mentally, he reenacted each delicate procedure: her body drained, preserved, cleaned, and stuffed. Throughout the rebirth, he took photos that would later cover more walls saved for his human trophies. Some of the photos had already been placed.

Tremendous, surreal energy flowed through him.

For years, he had avoided humans. They were scary, more violent and uncontrollable than animals. He loved animals. Humans, however, he discovered to be more potent sacrifices for the All Spirit. After the girl’s death, he’d seen the sky open, and the shadowy image of the Great Creator had looked at him and said: More.

His reverie was broken by a snapping voice.

“You daydreaming again?”

A grumbling worker stood overhead with a scowl on his face. He had the face and body of a former football player. A sharp blue suit did little to diminish his ferocity.

Meekly, he lowered his head. His shoulders slightly hunched, and he transformed into a forgettable, diminutive worker.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Peet.”

“I’m tired of the apologies. Get me those figures.”

Inwardly, the killer smiled like a laughing giant. At work, the game was almost as exciting as his private life. No one knew how special he was, how dedicated and essential to the delicate balance of the universe. None of them would receive an honored place in the realm of the Overworld. Their everyday, mundane, earthly tasks: dressing up, having meetings, pushing money around from place to place – were meaningless; it was only meaningful to him because it connected him to the outside world and allowed him to do the Lord’s work.

His boss grumbled and walked away.

Eyes still closed, the killer imagined his Overlord: the shadowy, dark figure that whispered in his dreams and directed his thoughts.

A song of homage formed on his lips, and he sang in a whisper: “Oh Lord, oh Lord, our work is pure. Ask and I give you: More.”

More.