Michael Prescott - Last Breath

He ran deftly through his series of stretches, working first the ankles, then knees, then hip joints, and so on, bending into pretzel shapes, tucking his legs behind his ears, enfolding himself in his thin, malleable limbs. He had to be careful not to dislocate a shoulder. As was typical of those who had inherited Marfan syndrome, his joints could easily pop out of their sockets when subjected to unusual strain.

On the computer Caitlin continued her equally rigorous program of self-improvement. Of all the things she did, her exercise regimen was the one that pleased him most. And if he could judge by the comments dropped in certain chat rooms and newsgroups that he frequented, there were others who shared his tastes.

It was funny. The two previous women had been highly promiscuous, even oversexed. Miss November, especially. She had switched bed partners on a weekly, sometimes semiweekly, basis. She invited all sorts of casual paramours into the sheets with her-overweight middle-aged men all too obviously picked up at singles bars, young studs with the hard, sculpted bodies of would-be actors who spent their lives at the gym, willowy artistic types who seemed, at times, more feminine that Miss November herself. In her bed, before the unseen camera’s eye, she performed magnificently with her various partners, executing every imaginable variation on the theme of heterosexual coupling.

Caitlin was not like that. In the month that Treat had watched her, she had slept with no one in her home, and she had never been out all night, except when she was working. Treat owned a police scanner and recognized her unit’s call sign; he knew when she was on the street.

She had been celibate for this month-perhaps for much longer. And yet, to Treat, she was the most alluring one of all. And he was not the only one who felt that way. Miss January had garnered more votes than any other contestant.

He supposed it was the appeal of the unknown.

Miss November had left nothing to the imagination. She had depersonalized herself until she was merely a hunk of flesh, not only in the eyes of those who watched her, but in her own eyes as well. Treat was sure of that. He had looked long and hard into those eyes before he killed her, and he’d seen nothing there beyond dumb fear and an animal’s helpless confusion.

Caitlin could not be objectified that way. She had maintained her dignity. Thus, paradoxically, she made a better victim. Killing animals was stupid, ugly work. Killing a genuine person, a person of self-respect and integrity, a person with an uncorrupted soul-well, that was ever so much more satisfying.

With a secret smile at this thought, Treat rose from the floor and began to pack, transferring tonight’s necessities from his bureau to the tote bag on his bed, ticking off each item on his inventory.

Set of tattoo needles in different sizes.

Two bottles of ink-one maroon, the other black for line work.

Homemade stencil in an hourglass pattern.

Flashlight.

Knife-for self-defense only.

Bottle of chloroform and a rag.

Syringe filled with succinylcholine, a paralytic drug-in case the chloroform failed to subdue her.

Roll of tape to pinion her wrists and ankles.

Eyeless hood to cover her head during transit.

And gloves, of course-black leather gloves for his strangling hands.

Finished, he zipped up the tote bag. He checked the computer screen again. Caitlin was stowing the exercise rig under her bed. He watched as she took off her workout clothes and tossed them into a laundry basket, then toweled herself dry in the bathroom. She spent a few moments selecting an outfit to wear, and during that time she was naked on the screen of his computer-and, no doubt, on other screens as well. There were others who liked to watch.

But only one who was not content with mere watching.

She chose a yellow blouse and beige cargo shorts. Treat studied her as she dressed. He did not turn away even when she sat on the edge of her bed and laced up her sneakers. It gave him a peculiar feeling of intimacy with her to know that he was preparing for his evening just as she made preparations for hers. Almost like a real couple.

Soon they would share an intimacy purer and more intense than any lovers’ tryst. They would know the closeness of predator and prey, of torturer and victim. They would share the wordless language of suffering, and together they would experience the final delicious frisson of death.

Treat shook his head, dispelling the vision his imagination had conjured. He looked around him. No more daylight filtered through his shuttered windows. Darkness had come.

He entered his walk-in closet and began to select his attire for the evening’s entertainment. A formal affair, so he would wear black.

For Miss Osborn, on the other hand, the event was strictly come-as-you-are.

C.J. was making dinner when the phone rang. She glanced at the clock on the stove. Ten minutes to six. Salesperson, probably. She almost didn’t answer, but on the third ring she picked up the cordless unit mounted by the fridge. “Hello?”

“It’s me. Rick Tanner.”

Tanner had never called her. “Hey, Rick. What’s up?”

“I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“How I’m doing?” Carrying the phone, she returned to the stove and used a wooden spoon to push around some stir-fry vegetables in her frying pan. “We just talked at the station a couple hours ago.”

“Yeah, but at the time I didn’t know what had gone down in that hostage situation. How you climbed in through the rear window and took away the guy’s piece.”

She turned down the flame under the saucepan. The broccoli was starting to scorch. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Pedro’s. I’m finishing up a Code Seven right now.” Completing his dinner break, he meant.

Pedro’s was a Tex-Mex diner frequented by Newton cops and Sheriff’s deputies who worked the Florence area. “Some guys from your division have been talking. I think you impressed them, Killer.”

“You’re not supposed to call me that, remember?”

“It was a slip.”

“Anyway”-she ladled the cooked vegetables onto a plate-“I wasn’t trying to impress anybody. I just didn’t want… well, you know…”

“Another SWAT screw-up? Like the warehouse in Long Beach?”

She took a long moment before answering. Sometimes Tanner really could surprise her. “How’d you know I was thinking of that?”

“I didn’t. My partner did. He had to walk me through it real slow. I caught on eventually.”

“I’ll bet you caught on sooner than you’ll admit. You’re not so dumb, Tanner.”

“That’s what I keep telling everybody. But do they listen? Nah.”

There was an uncomfortable pause when both of them realized they had temporarily run out of conversation.

“Look,” Tanner said, “that’s all I called to say. And, uh, I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Ask away.”

“Is it a problem for you-me being SWAT? I mean, is that why… well, you know?”

“Why I’ve been sort of unfriendly?”

“Right. Not that I don’t deserve it. I probably do. I’m an asshole. Even my best friends tell me so.”

“They might be underestimating you.” She looked out the kitchen window, into the darkness. The sun was long gone. Again she found herself wishing night didn’t come so early in the winter. “Look, you SWAT guys have a job to do, and most of the time you do it well. Anyway, you had nothing to do with the warehouse. That was LAPD Metro’s deal.”

“Sure but, you know, once we put on our vests and goggles, we pretty much all look alike.”

She laughed. “I don’t have anything against you. Rick. I’ve just been… cautious since my divorce.”