Chapter 1

 

 

 

      He knew he should feel remorse over what he was about to do. After all, killing a person was morally wrong and against the law. At the very least, killing someone he knew should stir some regret. Instead, he was calm, ready. The serenity surprised him, as it had been years since he had killed anyone. When he received the message earlier that day, he knew what he had to do, but he worried it would be difficult. Could he still do it? Could he kill an innocent woman? Now that he was here, standing outside her window, he realized it would not be a problem.

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      He was not happy about the situation, but it was necessary. Too bad for her. Just the way things go sometimes. When he considered it, he was probably doing her a favor. She was sixty-four, and although she still got around fine, how much longer could that last? In recent years, she had started to gain weight, and with her age, it was bound to lead to health problems. 

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      It was not like she had anyone around to care for her. Her husband had been dead for over a decade, and her only son never came home. He wondered how many friends she still had?

      Standing next to the house, he had a clear view through the living room window. She was sitting in a worn, easy chair, eating dinner on a tray while watching an old John Wayne western on TV. It had been years since he had seen the movie, but he was pretty sure it was El Dorado.

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      Living alone in an isolated house like she did was not smart, especially at her age. Perhaps he should break her hip, make it look like she fell and leave her to die on her own. That way, he would not have to deliver the final blow. However, if someone came by and she survived, it would mean the end of everything. No, he would have to finish her tonight. He might as well get started.

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      Leaving the window, he went around to the front. The hinges on the screen door squeaked when he opened it. The door was locked as he knew it would be, but the door and frame were at least forty years old. Weathered and neglected wood that would not hold up. He stepped back and kicked the door, shattering the frame around the lock. The door exploded inwards. 

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      He quickly moved inside. His victim, Rebecca Morrison, was starting to get to her feet. She took one look at him and turned away, moving as fast as she could toward the corner of the room. That surprised him. The phone was on the stand next to where she was sitting. He had expected her to try to call for help. Instead, she moved away from the phone towards a hutch in the corner, a dead end. When she reached the hutch, she jerked a drawer open, placed her hand inside and withdrew a gun and a damn big one.

      Shit. Figures a sheriff’s widow would choose a gun over a phone. He ran towards her. Before he finished tonight, he would kill her, but first, he needed something else so he could not shoot her yet. She was fumbling with the gun. The safety was on, and she was not familiar with it. Who knew how long it had been since she last used it? As she raised the gun, he reached her and, with a vicious backhand, hit her across the jaw. She spun, losing the gun she had tried so hard to reach. Her body smacked against the wall face first, and he crashed into her from behind, pinning her there.

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            She struggled and yelled. No one would ever hear her or come to help. He had all the time in the world. Holding her against the wall, he felt aroused. He looked at her again. She was heavier now, and he was sure she dyed her hair to hide the gray, but the intricate angle of her jar and facial features revealed that she used to be beautiful. Even now, she was not ugly, only old for his taste. Perhaps he should have his way with her, an extra perk for what he had to do. Then he thought about DNA and all that CSI crap and decided he would be pushing his luck. It was better to get what he came for, kill her, and get out.