Читать книгу Some Choose Darkness - Charlie Donlea - Страница 10

THE AFTERMATH

Chicago, August 9, 1979

WHEN HE CAME BACK TO THE PRESENT, HE GASPED FOR AIR, BUT none would come. In a panic, he searched with his foot for the edge of the stool until his toes found the flat wooden surface. He stepped onto it and relieved the pressure from his neck, taking huge swallows of air as his victim sunk to the floor in front of him. Her legs no longer supported her when she reached the concrete. Instead, she crumpled in a heap, the weight of her body pulling his end of the rope until the thick safety knot lodged on his side of the pulley, keeping the noose slack around his neck.

He pulled the soft nylon over his head and allowed time for the redness to leave his skin. He knew he’d gone too far tonight. Despite the protective foam collar he wore, he’d have to find a way to hide the deep purple bruising on his neck. He needed to be more careful now than he’d ever been before. The public had started to catch on. Newspaper articles began to crop up. The authorities had put out warnings, and fear was rising above the warmth of summer. With the public’s heightened awareness, he had begun to stalk more carefully, plan more deliberately, and cover his tracks more thoroughly. The bodies he could hide, he had found the perfect location. The Rush was more difficult to contain, and he worried that the veil covering his secret life would be pulled away by his own inability to conceal the elation he carried in the days after his sessions. He would be smart to shut things down. Lie low and wait for the panic to calm. But The Rush was too much to ignore. His existence depended on it.

Sitting on the stool, he turned his back to his victim. He took a moment to bring his emotions under control. When he was ready, he turned to the body to begin the cleanup and preparation for transport the next day. When he was finished, he locked the place up and climbed into his vehicle. The ride home did little to tame the residual effects of The Rush. When he pulled to the front curb, he saw the lights of the house extinguished. It was a good thing tonight. His body was still trembling, and he could not have managed normal conversation. Inside, he dropped his clothes in the washing machine, took a quick shower, and climbed into bed.

She stirred as he pulled the covers over himself.

“What time is it?” she asked with her eyes closed, head sunk into the pillow.

“Late.” He kissed her cheek. “Go back to sleep.”

She slid her leg over his body and draped her arm across his chest. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. It usually took hours for him to settle down after he returned. He closed his eyes and tried to control the adrenaline that coursed through his veins. His mind replayed the past few hours. He was never able to remember it all, not clearly and not so soon after. In the weeks ahead, the details would come back to him. But tonight, behind closed lids, his eyes fluttered in wild saccades as the memory center in his mind offered brief sparks of the evening. His victim’s face. The terror in her eyes. The nylon noose at a sharp angle around her neck.

The images and sounds swirled through his mind in a fast flurry, and as he further played out the fantasy, the sheets stirred next to him as she woke. She curled farther into his side. With The Rush pounding in his veins, the flushing of endorphins through the dilated blood vessels audible in his ears, he allowed her to kiss his neck, then his shoulder. He permitted her hand to sink to the waist of his boxer shorts. The Rush overtook him, and he rolled on top of her. He kept his eyes closed as she let out soft moans, which he blocked from his mind.

He thought of his workspace. Of the darkness. Of the way he could lay himself bare when he was in that place. He took on an easy rhythm and focused on the woman he had brought there earlier in the night. The woman who had levitated like a ghost in front of him.