His eyes skipped down to his shriveled penis.
If she hadn't giggled…
Hurriedly, he showered and wiped down everything he'd touched – the headboard, the dresser, the stained sink in the bathroom where the toilet had run throughout the entire episode. He gathered his clothes and tossed one last look around the room. The whore's pulpy face mocked him from her position on the bed.
She shouldn't have laughed.
He performed a few deep breathing exercises, calmed himself, and eased out of the room. Nothing but a speed bump in the road. A short foray into the randy enticements of a low-born slut wasn't his fault and he wouldn't allow it to sidetrack him.
The drive south of Sacramento to his isolated, three-story home offered plenty of time for him to finalize his plan. When he arrived, he destroyed every trace of his sacrifices, all evidence of his punishments. The furnace in the basement of the stone mansion roared for a long time with the flames of his deeds.
His decision to eliminate everything calmed him further, made him feel untouchable again. As peace washed over him, he poured a glass of Pinot Noir and relaxed in the den. He hadn't felt such serenity since the first time, over four years ago. A girl, he remembered. She was one of the many who broke their vows of chastity and fidelity.
After he'd dug the shallow grave and placed her body in it, the vein at her neck still pulsating with life, he'd experienced a satisfaction he'd never known before, the greatest tranquility. He knew he'd taken the first step on his Path, the first rung on the ladder of his holy mission.
He'd ignored the thundering arousal the experience brought.
The answer to his current dilemma was so simple he wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. Only one obstacle thwarted his chosen Path, only one person stood in the way between mortality and transfiguration. Olivia Gant.
She'd plagued him from the beginning, he now realized. With her sensuous body and her come-hither looks, she'd wanted nothing more than to seduce him. Desired nothing less than complete capitulation from him. He'd thought her cute, innocent, harmless. Virginal, even.
And he'd held her at bay for several months. But no more. In a flash of revelation, he understood that Olivia was meant to be his final sacrifice. His greatest offering.
The deputies escorted Burrows to his jail cell while Slater dug in to find out everything they could about Dr. Howard Randolph. Torres, whose computer skills were much better than anyone else's, pitched in to help. The only thing she muttered while hunched over the keyboard was "Damn, I really liked Vargas for this."
Apparently Diego Vargas and his henchman Santos had crossed the southern border on an unexpected trip to Mexico. "I'll get the bastard sooner or later," Torres said.
Jack left the precinct while she cross-referenced the university's school calendar over the past five years against the dates for the deaths of the first five victims. Jack knew his own time was better used another way. Tracking.
Finding a timeline for the deaths and referencing that against the professor's leaves of absence or sabbaticals, or hell, just plain sick days made no difference to Jack.
He knew what he knew.
Although he had no hard evidence to persuade a skeptical district attorney, his infallible instinct told him they'd found the Dead Language Killer. Not Bill Gant, not Diego Vargas, but Howard Randolph. Let Slater and Torres check for alibis and addresses. Let them find the probable cause necessary for a judge to sign an arrest warrant. Let them get a search warrant and tear Randolph's house apart to find enough evidence for Barrington to bring charges.
Jack had a better plan.
Since he'd been in California, he'd gradually altered the drug dosage Invictus had tailored for him. He believed that was why he'd been able to control the Change around Olivia even while his mind and body wracked with the animal's need to hunt. Now was the time to unleash the beast. Olivia was safe. The quarry had fled, but the beast would find him.
First, a double-dose of the red pills to increase the primordial state. Then, hopefully, the blue pills to promote the necessary visions to track the killer back to his den. A man capable of what Randolph had done wouldn't be trapped by ordinary police procedure and written records. The secret to his dark fantasies lay in a distorted mind and twisted psyche. And that's where Jack intended to go.
Into the monster's mind.
Now that Olivia was safe, he had one less distraction. He wouldn't have to worry about her witnessing the full effect of the Change. The last thing he needed was her watching his transformation when he hunted the killer. Although he'd tried to explain it to her, even he had trouble voicing the degradation and bestiality of it all.
In Slater's guest house he dragged his briefcase into the kitchen where he took the dosage of red pills along with a glass of orange juice. Fifteen minutes passed. Nothing at first. Then the tiny thrill of an endorphin release in his brain, an ever-so-slight altering of mind and mood. He returned to the kitchen and swallowed several more of the reds and, after a moment's hesitation, a handful of the large blue capsules. After memorizing the layout of the living room, he turned off the lights, opened the drapes, and sat on the sofa. He gazed sightlessly through the window pane out into the dim gloaming of the night.
Then he waited. And waited some more.
Minutes passed. Or hours. He had no sense of time or place as his brain accommodated the altered sensory perceptions. The heavy odor of freshly mown lawn wafted to him through the open window. He breathed deeply and steadily.
The man who occupied his body metamorphosed into another creature as he gave himself over to the vision. Vines wrapped around his legs and their tendrils crept steadfastly upward to his thighs and waist. Something was wrong.
He jerked at the entangling greenery, but it tightened like sodden leather dried in the sun. Tugging at its vise-like clutch, he finally broke away and ran. Ran faster than the wind, his legs and arms throbbing with the exertion. Bare feet pounding on hard, packed earth, lungs gasping for every breath, he galloped on.
This was wrong, he thought. He was supposed to be the hunter, not the hunted. He remembered his earlier dream. Was that when it had changed? He stopped abruptly in confusion. All wrong. He'd never felt so… mortal in a vision.
What the hell was wrong?
The clanging of his cell phone jarred him awake. He fumbled with the contraption, flipped it open, and barked into the receiver. "What?"
"Jack?" Slater asked.
Jack swiped his hand across his brow and pulled his fingers away dripping wet. He was drenched with sweat. His heart raced in his chest, and a blinding, debilitating pain pierced his right eye socket. He coughed and cleared his throat. "Yeah, what's up?"
"I have information on Randolph."
Jack heard the shuffle of papers over the line. He rose, stretched his body, and struggled to shake off the aftereffects of the dream. "What?"
"Each of the first four murders coincided with a time when Randolph was out of town on school business or holiday."
"Did you get an address on him?"
"A little place called Sequoia Falls, south of Sacramento off Highway 99. Torres says matching the dates to Randolph's absences is enough to obtain a search warrant. Deputy Harris and your two agents are getting Judge Davis' signature on a night-time warrant right now."
Slater paused. "Will that work for you?"
Hell, Jack didn't care if Slater called out the entire National Guard. Randolph wouldn't be found at his residence. He'd be hiding in some den he'd specifically chosen for this occasion.
"Sure, check it out and get back to me," Jack said, fidgeting with the phone, wanting to get back to the only productive action. "They might not find evidence at the house, not enough for an arrest warrant."