To see stripped away that infuriating self-importance they wore along with their badges and guns. And their hats. He wanted each of those hat-wearing, knuckle-scraping Neanderthals to see themselves for what they really were. Worthless failures.
Which was precisely why he’d staged these murders as suicides.
He’d known they’d miss the first victim, perhaps even the second. That they’d be so eager to close a suicide that they’d miss the clues he’d left behind. He didn’t know what had finally tipped them off, whether it was that they’d finally seen the clues or because they’d finally connected Martha to the other two. Regardless, they would soon know that there had been others, that through their carelessness they had missed two homicides.
Now they were on victim three of his six, halfway through the game already.
Because they had God complexes, they would blame themselves. They would know that if they’d been smarter, quicker, competent, they would have seen victim number one hadn’t killed herself. That they might have prevented the deaths of the others.
They’d begin to second-guess themselves, and each other. And as the body count climbed, all that they believed they were, the mirage of strength they’d built of their own hubris would disappear. Because their strength had never been.
He would move on, stronger through their weakness. And he alone would know the truth, because they’d never find the one who’d brought demise to their public façade.
But enough of that for now. They’d finally discovered Martha Brisbane, aka victim number three of his six, aka Desiree. The game had officially begun.
On to victim four. He opened his laptop and logged in to his new hunting ground. There was a great deal to be said about the supposed anonymity of Shadowland’s virtual “world.” His victims were there to play, their guard down. In the virtual world they could say and do things they’d never dream of doing in the real world. He could earn their trust more easily because they believed he didn’t know who they really were.
But he knew. It was why he’d chosen these particular six out of the millions online.
He knew their names, addresses, occupations, marital status, and-of great personal value-their phobias, their worst fears. He’d tailored each experience to the victim, so although he hadn’t put his hands around their throats or allowed himself release, he’d been able to stoke the first three to more intense terror than he’d ever achieved with his hookers.
In the past, the fears had been only in his victims’ minds, a byproduct of the ketamine he’d used to sedate them. Not so with these six. They played in the virtual world, but he’d make certain they died terrified in the real one.
His first of six had been so terrified of small spaces. After minutes in a box, Amy had been hysterical. Pulling that twine around her neck as her heart had thundered, her body unable to flee… It had taken real discipline to keep from losing control.
He’d managed to conjure the memory of her terror later, when he was back at home, alone. But his climax was only a pale shadow of what it would have been had he taken it as his first of six gasped her last. But one had to make sacrifices for the greater goal.
Samantha, his second of six, had been afraid of being buried alive. He’d had a bad moment when he thought she’d passed out, lying under feet of dirt, a snorkel her only access to air. He wanted her conscious when he killed her, completely aware. To his relief she’d struggled like an animal when he’d unearthed her. It had been magnificent.
Martha… not so much. She hadn’t been that afraid of water. So he’d made her pay in other ways. One had only to look at her apartment to know she was obsessive about the stuff she’d accumulated. Excepting her computer, nothing was of value, but its loss induced nothing less than sheer panic. So he’d forced her to throw it all away.
And she’d loved her cat. Those threats had resulted in extreme disturbance.
When he put Martha back in the water, he finally achieved terror. By the end, she’d begged him to kill her. He rolled his eyes. By the end, he’d been happy to oblige.
Christy Lewis would be number four of six. He had high hopes for Christy. Oh, yesssss. He chuckled aloud. Christy’s phobia was especially intense.
“Gwenivere, are you online tonight?” Of course she was. She always was. Christy wasn’t Gwenivere any more than Martha had been Desiree. But Shadowland’s motto said it all. Sometimes you want to go where no one knows your name. “Except me.”
Gwenivere was at Ninth Circle, the virtual club she visited every night. Here she was a former Miss Universe, a pianist as well as an avid dancer and witty conversationalist.
Shadowland was truly a fantasyland. Gwenivere, he typed. I’ve missed you.
Christy’s avatar smiled at him. Her avatar had one of Pandora’s nicer faces. He also had invested in a quality face and body-builder physique for his own avatar. Pandora’s Façades Face Emporium had good stock and wasn’t nearly as expensive as some of the other avatar designers.
After all, one had to look one’s best when hunting shallow, narcissistic fantasy addicts. But one also had to save a little cash for expenses. Like his Ninth Circle bar tab or his account at the Casino Royale’s most elite poker table.
Long time no see, Christy typed back. Where have you been?
Waiting for someone to find Martha Brisbane, he thought.
His avatar took the bar stool Christy had saved, his long legs easily allowing his feet to touch the floor. He’d chosen Pandora’s tallest, most muscular model because that’s what would most easily attract his prey. As the hunter, he had to choose the best bait, even when it sickened him.
Off on business, he typed. You know, bought an island, built a resort, made a million. Can I buy you a drink?
Christy’s avatar smiled again. Oh, maybe just one.
He’d chat with her awhile, get her talking. It never took more than a few minutes for Christy to abandon her Gwenivere persona and become herself. Once he’d “slipped,” telling her he lived near Minneapolis. She’d been surprised, revealing that she did, too.
Of course she did. That’s one of the reasons he’d picked her.
She’d suggested they meet several times, but he’d always put her off. He’d still been waiting for Martha to be found. Tonight he’d suggest they meet, just for coffee.
Just to talk. They always fell for it. Every single time. So why change what worked?
Sunday, February 21, 9:55 p.m.
“Normally we don’t allow visitors this late,” the nurse said.
“We’re sorry. It took longer to find Mrs. Brisbane than we expected,” Jack said.
“If Mrs. Brisbane is asleep, you’ll have to come back tomorrow. Department policy.”
“We understand,” Noah said. Martha Brisbane had chosen a nice place for her mother, he thought. Must’ve run Martha a pretty chunk of change.
Noah thought of his own mother who wintered in Arizona because of her health. Between his dead father’s police pension and a sizable percentage of his own salary, he’d settled her pretty comfortably. It was a financial sacrifice, but she was his mom and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He imagined Martha had felt the same.
“Will getting this news about her daughter’s death affect her heart?” Noah asked.
“It might, if she had one,” the nurse said, then sighed. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” She opened the door, revealing a woman who nearly disappeared against the white sheets. “Mrs. Brisbane, these men are detectives. They’re here to talk to you.”