He smiled.
The park was nice for other reasons. People felt safe in this park. The wide paths and frequent lighting gave them a sense of security. Unarmed patrols of rent-a-cops bicycled through periodically, heightening that perception of safety.
But it was all an illusion.
No one was safe from him.
That made him smile even wider.
He’d been watching them pass by for over an hour now. Short, tall, fat, thin, beautiful, ugly. Didn’t matter. They were all bitches, every one of them.
Every womb of them.
He chuckled to himself, despite the burning anger in his chest. Was that really what he was doing? Showing every one of these bitches what he should have taught his mother instead? He would have, too, if she hadn’t been put in the ground by cancer before he got the chance.
How many of these surrogate sluts would it take before he could believe that his mother got the message? How long before she heard the news in hell?
He drew in another deep breath of the cool night air that was stroked by the river. Maybe it didn’t matter, he decided. Every time he did it, the pressure went away for a little while. Sure, it came back even stronger, but there was still some relief.
And there was something else. The first time, it was all about relief. But after that, he realized something was happening. Only a little at first, but it grew by leaps and bounds, until it was now even stronger than that pressure in his chest.
He liked it.
He liked the power. Their screams. The begging. He liked to inflict pain. To control the fate of the bitch in front of him.
It made him strong.
Important.
Hell, if he believed in God, he might even believe that he was one with God in those moments.
But since he knew there wasn’t a God, what did that make him in those moments?
His cheeks ached. He realized that he’d been smiling so hugely that the muscles in his face were fatigued. With purpose, he relaxed his face into what he hoped was an open expression. He pretended to stare out at the river while watching for women walking through the park.
But inside, he answered his own question.
It makes me a god.
The frequency of foot traffic had dwindled significantly since he first sat down. He’d seen a few candidates pass by, but none were quite right. There were a variety of reasons that might be. He was smart and not about to make a mistake that would allow the clueless police department to catch him. So if there were too many people around to see, he let the ones pass who were otherwise perfect. He let the ones with too much confidence pass on by, too. He’d learned from the teacher not to underestimate anyone.
The river flowed lazily in front of him. It had the help of a small dam at the west end of the park. In the distance, though, he could hear the rush of water. Most of the park was really an island, bordered on the north by the river in its true form, crashing over rocks with a powerful current. But the south side of the park enjoyed the quiet, slow roll of the part of the river controlled by man.
Eventually, though, after the waters passed the island park, they flowed back into one crushing current, tumbling over the rocks and headed toward a waterfall just before the Post Street Bridge.
He was like the river, wasn’t he? Some things nature controlled, some things he controlled. He could channel the river, his hatred. He could bottle it up and slow it down. Make it beautiful for others to see. But eventually, the fork in the river flowed together again. It always did.
He changed his thoughts, moving more toward the moment at hand. The park was good for other reasons, more practical ones. While there were several footbridges that provided access to the island, there were escape routes from every part of the park. All of the city streets that bordered the one hundred acres were arterials. They all had places to park a car. Bus stops were a dime a dozen. A man could slip out of the park and melt away into the city.
The light clacking of footsteps roused him from his philosophical contemplation. A short woman came into view on the other side of the river. Her quick steps brought her to the wide foot bridge and headed in his direction. She carried a folder of some kind under her arm. The footbridge was well lit, so he was able to see her conservative business attire easily.
Probably a secretary, he thought. Working very late. Maybe with the boss, the slut.
She continued north across the footbridge. He couldn’t see her features exactly at this distance, but as she drew nearer, he gave a small gasp.
Jenny.
His girlfriend.
Ex-girlfriend, he reminded himself.
Dark anger rose up in his chest. Who did she think she was, anyway? Breaking up with him? Like she was something special. She was just another stupid, worthless bitch. Just like-
He glanced at her again.
It wasn’t Jenny. She was built the same, had the same hair, but it wasn’t her.
Still…
When she reached the end of the footbridge and turned his direction, he made his decision.
He rose from his seat and walked up the pathway eastbound, approaching the huge clock tower that reached upward into the night sky. At the clock tower, he could continue east or turn north. North led up a small rise and another path. East led to the Washington Street overpass about thirty yards farther on. Under the overpass was about fifteen yards of darkness.
He turned left and headed north, up the hill.
Trying not to appear like he was hurrying, he took long strides. His ears strained for the click-clack of her heels. He canted his head slightly and searched for her out of his peripheral vision.
She continued east.
Maybe she was headed toward the bus stop on Washington. A steep set of winding stairs led from the park path to the street above. He had marked that earlier as an excellent escape route. Now, it might just be her destination.
When he reached to top of the short hill, he turned east himself, following another path. His heart thudded in his ears. Excitement caused his fingers to tingle.
A slutty secretary. Or maybe some hoity-toity business bitch. Either way, he was going to lay the whammo on her. He was going to lay it on her so hard that Jenny would feel it wherever she was. And his mother was going to feel it from her ringside seat in hell.
As soon as he believed he was out of her line of sight, he sprinted. There was no overpass at the top of the hill because Washington became a three-block tunnel. He hurried east. Once he’d gone far enough that he was sure he’d passed over the tunnel below, he cut south through the low, trimmed bushes. He had to get to the east side of the overpass below before she did. That would be the best place.
The bushes became larger as he continued south. The neatly trimmed standard fell by the wayside, with chaotic natural growth taking its place. He scrambled through them and around a few trees. This would be a better place, but how was he supposed to get someone into this thicket? He could see the river below, but not the overpass yet.
She couldn’t have made it through yet, could she?
He looked further along the eastbound path below and saw no one.
She had to still be coming. Had to be.
He ducked beneath a tree limb and around a thick shrub. He was definitely on a downward slope now. The few trees gave way again, leaving only bushes in his way. He continued forward.
The steep set of stairs came into view, thirty or forty yards ahead, by his reckoning.
No sign of her.
He smiled. He was going to make it. He was going to peek around the corner into that dark underpass and see her shadowy form coming toward him. Her clicking heels would echo under there. He’d wait until she was three quarters of the way to him, then he’d charge her. One crack in the mouth and she’d be quiet. Then he’d push her face into the wall and nail her.