John Lutz - In for the Kill

After the play he'd studied Quinn's rugged face briefly in a lobby mirror. Quinn did seem to have understood the play.

The killer concentrated again on Courtneypub. biz on the screen of his laptop.

There was Anna's photo alongside her brief profile. She was smiling, head tilted to the side, looking beautiful. Her company profile didn't reveal her age, but she was younger than he might have wished. She'd graduated from Sweetbriar with a journalism degree, been with Courtney Publishing two years, and loved her work because she loved all kinds of puzzles. Her ambition was to set the world on fire, but not so the flames couldn't be controlled. Her likes were red convertibles and gin martinis with olives. Dislikes were dogs that bit and people who deliberately insulted.

The Butcher noted that the profile didn't list her fears.

Bocanne, Florida, 1980

Alone and lost and lonely.

That was how Sherman felt.

Sam had been gone for three days, and Sherman hadn't been the same. He didn't go fishing by himself, and of course there was nothing to read now that the swamp had claimed Sam's Civil War books. He tried to watch television, but reception wasn't good, far as they were from town, and he didn't want to see quiz shows and soap operas anyway. His days were hot and boring, and he felt so strange, like something was about to happen, like he was on a speeding train and another one was on the same track, headed toward him so they were bound to meet.

They would meet at night sometimes, in his dreams, and he'd spring awake wondering if he'd screamed out loud and stirred his mother from sleep.

The worst part was, he was afraid and wasn't sure why.

Evenings TV reception was better, and whenever they were on, Mom would let him watch The Rockford Files or Magnum, P.I., but none of it seemed as real to Sherman as the Battle of Gettysburg. He knew none of it was that real. There was a special on PBS once about the Civil War, but soon as she noticed what he was watching, Sherman's mother made him switch channels and watch some quiz show. He knew all the answers the contestants missed, but he kept quiet so as not to rile his mother.

Sherman thought about what she'd said the night they gave Sam to the swamp: "Bad don't figure into it, Sherman. It's about survival."

Sherman guessed she was right. A person first of all had to do everything possible just to survive. But it seemed to him they'd been doing that okay with Sam alive.

If there were only somebody he could talk to about how he felt inside, somebody like Sam, it would sure make things easier. He knew he couldn't talk to his mother. He'd considered it a few times, but then he'd see her standing with her fists on her hips, looking at him in a funny way that scared him. Other times he'd think that maybe if they talked about things, whatever was in her eyes that was scaring him would go away.

Or maybe it would get more scary.

He'd seen that look in her eyes before and knew what it might mean, though he didn't want to admit it to himself.

On the fifth night after Sam was gone, when Sherman was undressing for bed, he saw that he'd soiled his underwear. This was about the only situation that prompted Sherman to voluntarily change Jockey shorts, so he removed the shorts he was wearing and tossed them in a corner with some dirty socks, then went to his dresser for clean underwear to sleep in and wear tomorrow.

But he was out of underwear. His mother had fallen behind in the wash, and there were only clean socks and T-shirts. Sherman remembered stuffing some not-too-soiled underpants into his closet with some other dirty clothes, and he decided to retrieve them.

Rumpled and dirty clothes were piled two feet high on the closet floor, and the Jockey shorts were buried somewhere in there. Sherman got down on his hands and knees and began digging.

His fingertips slid over a surface unexpectedly smooth. He scooted deeper into the closet and pushed away some of the rumpled clothing and saw something glistening and black. More digging through the clothes revealed black plastic trash bags and his dad's power saw.

This was odd. Other than trash, there was only one use Sherman knew of for the bags. And he was the one who was always sent to the toolshed to get the saw.

He drew in his breath, and his heart broke like fragile glass as meaning came to him.

Sam…the look in his mother's eyes. She knew Sherman understood what she was doing-at least most of it-and after Sam died he'd questioned her about it as he never had before. She knew Sam had been different, had changed things forever, and Sherman would continue to question her. Sherman was getting older, getting ideas of his own.

Dangerous ideas.

After his initial attempt to escape into the swamp, his mother had caught him, whapped him over and over with the bamboo rod so hard he could still feel it, and made him swear an oath to obey her without question.

He'd sworn the oath when the pain was at its worst, meaning it at the time with all his heart.

He knew he had to break that oath now.

It was about survival.

Forgetting about underwear, he quickly struggled into his jeans and moccasins, a dirty T-shirt from the closet floor.

It was well past sundown, plenty dark outside. This time he wouldn't wait until the middle of the night when it was more likely his mother was asleep. She was in the living room watching a quiz show now-she loved quiz shows because just like him she usually knew the answers ahead of time-and she wouldn't want to leave even to check on him. And concentrating as she was on the TV, she wouldn't hear Sherman remove the screen and climb outside.

More quietly than last time, he worked the screen loose and leaned out to prop it against the house, well alongside the window where it wouldn't trip him up when he was leaving.

As an afterthought, before climbing out the window, he arranged some wadded clothing and his pillow so it looked at a glance as if he might be sleeping in his bed. He'd seen it done plenty of times on TV, and it might work.

Making only a soft scraping sound as the sole of his right moccasin slid over the sill, he wriggled from the window and lowered himself a few feet to the ground.

Ahead of him loomed the blackness of the swamp. Though his heart rattled up into his throat, he didn't hesitate. He began walking toward the dirt road that wound between the lush foliage and the canopy of vines and moss-draped branches. The night sky was cloudy, with only a sliver of moon, so the swamp was almost at its blackest. This morsel of luck buoyed Sherman's spirits as he passed into darkness.

Behind him there was an explosion, and something like a flight of birds rushed through the leaves very near him.

Sherman knew it wasn't birds-it was buckshot.

"Sherman, you come back here!"

His mother! With the shotgun!

He bolted and ran down the narrow road, now and then splashing through spots where the swamp had spread fingers of water across it. His back muscles were bunched so he could barely move his arms. Any second the old double-barreled twelve-gauge might loose another load of shot his way.

But there was no second shot.

He heard instead a grinding sound, and the engine kick over on the old pickup. The truck had a poacher's searchlight mounted just outside the driver's side window, and he knew his mother would use it to locate him.

There was a loud roar, then a metallic grating noise, like a mechanical monster clearing its throat. Sherman knew what it was. First gear.

The truck was coming.

The roar of the truck engine drowned out the other sounds of the swamp. Headlights played over the trees and undergrowth. Sherman's heart was a banging drum in his chest. The only reason the headlights hadn't picked him up was because the road was curved. He knew he had only seconds.