What about Dali? What if he hadn’t painted a single canvas? It would be interesting to see what a novel would have been like had Dali written instead. On the contrary, what if Edgar Allen Poe had only painted and never wrote a single word? How mad and dark would his paintings have been?
This, Elmore understood, described him. He was an artist of sorts. One that dealt with flesh and the human condition. He knew he was brilliant because everyone had needs and yearned to have them fulfilled. For Elmore, it was easy because he simply took the needs that required fulfillment. That alone placed him above the rest.
With the bucket filled with fresh water, he returned to the area where Jackie had bled out.
He recalled the day when he was twelve and his mother had stopped him from painting anymore images of women with injuries. He had explained that it showed fragility and beauty in one image. She had projected that he wanted to hurt women.
“Well, you were wrong, mother dear,” he said to the empty basement. “I didn’t want to hurt women, and never have. They do it to themselves. I’m only the messenger. The female condition has nothing to do with me.”
He continued mopping and scrubbing for the next hour until it was time to take a break.
After cleaning his hands aggressively, he headed to his office and fired up his Mac where he began his routine browsing. First the financials of his vending machines in Japan. Then to Twitter to browse the newspapers that had defined his life.
Newspapers, the broadcasters of everyone’s dirty laundry. Death and mayhem. When he was twelve, after he wasn’t allowed to paint anymore, he had taken up reading the local newspaper and it had completely redefined him. It soon became an obsession. Across Toronto, rape after rape took place and got front lines in the Toronto Sun Daily. It aroused him to read all the details of how a man had gone after what he had wanted and taken it. The truth, Elmore felt, was that it belonged to him. That was why women were created and, at that early age, Elmore realized that he would one day be the same way. But he’d be smarter about it and make sure he never got arrested because it was socially unacceptable to have sex with a woman against her will. They enacted laws against it to protect women, yet it still happened every day. Politicians did it and got away with it. For the right price, you could buy anything you wanted in large cities like Toronto. But Elmore would never pay. Paying for something you could take belittles the spender.
While waiting for the Toronto papers to load on his screen he examined the last nails he’d ever get from Jackie. He placed them in the black container and closed it for later use.
With his right hand on the mouse, he used his left to pick at the scab on the side of his head and wondered what the next girl would look like. The excitement leading up to the caging of his next subject caused him to be permanently aroused.
“Days, it’ll only be days, and then I’ll have a plaything again,” he whispered out loud.
Across the room Sarah Roberts’ face stared back from all the pictures he had plastered on the walls. He smiled at her and blew her a kiss.
“One day…”
The computer screen filled with the latest news.
The image of Sarah Roberts stared back at him from his monitor.
His eyes widened. The nail on his scab stopped scratching and pushed down on the piece he’d been working on.
The caption said there had been a stampede at the Rogers Centre, and the root of the problem had been the failed apprehension of one Sarah Roberts by American authorities.
He couldn’t believe it. The scab fell away in his fingers and blood trickled down the side of his head.
This was his chance. Sarah Roberts had surfaced in Toronto. She was downtown. It couldn’t have been set up better. If things went well, he could have her locked up before the end of the day.
He looked again at her face on the Sony JumboTron at the Rogers Centre.
“Yes. Sarah Roberts. That’s you. How pretty.”
American authorities. What do they want with her? Why are they up here in Canada hunting her?
He’d have to play that angle if he needed it.
He turned off his computer and headed upstairs to get dressed. He would finish cleaning the basement after he had Sarah. She took priority now.
He reveled in the odds. How was it possible that Sarah could be in Toronto?
He changed into his authentic Toronto Police uniform and donned a suit over that. He grabbed his police scanner off the bureau and got behind the wheel of his four-door sedan that resembled an unmarked cruiser with its Plexiglass shield between the front and back seats. He drove off his property with thoughts of Sarah.
“Sarah, it’s only a matter of time now.”
Chapter 11
Sarah ran along with the crowd, Drake following close behind. They were on a street called Blue Jay Way, running around car after car and hundreds of people as they all left the stadium at the same time. She stopped at a wider street called Spadina, turned and headed north, walking away from the lake.
She was free. Rod had been left behind. The bracelet had been removed and there was nothing he could do about it now.
“How did you know who I was?” Sarah asked.
Drake caught up and walked beside her. “I saw your picture on the front page of the newspaper two weeks ago. I remembered thinking how I’d love to meet you one day. It was very brave what you did.”
They approached a red light. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
“It’s the truth.”
“So you saw a picture of me and two weeks later you see me at a ball game and that’s it. Here we are.”
“Yeah, that’s what I expect you to believe because that’s how it happened. Wait, why are you here?”
The light changed to green and they continued north over Front Street and then up to King Street.
“I came to save your life,” Sarah said.
“My life? Why? How did you know I needed saving?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Tell me. I have time.”
Sarah looked at him. “Maybe one day.”
She surprised herself at how she felt. Drake was gorgeous, if that was possible for a man. He seemed strong, witty, and brave, but she had no time to be interested in men. Someone tried to shoot him thirty minutes ago and he wasn’t crying like a baby.
“I see fire in your eyes,” Drake said.
“What?” Sarah turned to look the other way. Compliments sucked because they made everything awkward.
“Fire in your eyes. Your hair is stunning. Sarah, I remembered your face because it’s rare when a man sees a female as beautiful as you.”
“Drake, stop. Don’t give me any pick-up lines. I’m warning you, this could turn out bad. You are only looking at me — you aren’t seeing the real me. I’m dangerous. People have a habit of dying around me, or I end up having to kill them.”
He remained silent for a few steps, then said, “It’s an honor to know you, Sarah, but you don’t know anything about me. I just survived a grueling experience. An ex-girlfriend from high school, who I thought I would marry one day, tried to kill me, so I’m not afraid of your warning. I know it sounds corny, and we just met, but I feel I’ve known you for a long time and since you just saved my life, I’m indebted to you, or at least until I can save your life one day.”
Sarah snuck a glance at him. “Great. Look, I don’t want to sound unappreciative, but who writes your material?”
It was out before she could take it back. A part of her had no problem with such a hot guy hanging around and attempting to save her life, but the truth was, her way of life was too risky for others. Her stomach twitched, but not from fear or nervousness. It came from a place of anticipation, one borne of being a woman and feeling desired.
What the fuck are you thinking? A boyfriend? Are you crazy? You’ve never had one of those things. You don’t want one of those things. Fight it.