Her Broken Wings by D.K. Hood
Thirty-One
He peered over a boulder on the top of the small ridge overlooking the Old Mitcham Ranch and smiled. The old backroads had cut the distance from the highway in half and made for a fast getaway. Even so, the view through his scope had been worth the risk of running into the sheriff and her posse. He’d watched her move her men around like chess pieces across the board he’d created. He’d waited patiently to see their reactions to his art—and it was art. He wondered if they would’ve enjoyed watching the shocked faces of the men he’d mutilated as much as he had. The way they’d run around in panic as the girl bled out made him chuckle. They’d tried to save her and hadn’t seen him coming. The moment they laid eyes on him they’d sealed their fate. They’d acted tough, throwing out threats as if they could manipulate him. He laughed at the memory. They couldn’t escape—no one ever escaped—and after a few well-placed shots, they’d have strangled their own mothers to get away from him.
He didn’t hear pleas, promises, or prayers; in fact, the more they tried to reason with him, the more pain he needed to inflict. Seeing people die made his memories go away. It was as if each one ticked a box on an imaginary list of things to do. If the cops ever caught him, he’d have difficulty remembering all his kills. At the time, it was like watching himself from afar, as if he hadn’t cut the girl’s throat or used an ax to remove body parts. By tomorrow, he’d forget them, only remembering them like a person would recall a slice of excellent pie or a strong cup of their favorite coffee.
He’d enjoyed this kill. It made up for Robinson. He took no immediate pleasure from a quick kill, and the exhilaration seemed delayed, coming later in a rush of technicolor images as he rode on an adrenalin high. He’d once thought everyone was like him but discovered being able to walk right up to a person and kill them was a gift. He’d gotten close to his targets with ease. No one ever questioned what he was doing, or why he was there. Why? Because he walked into every store, business, restaurant, or home as if he belonged there.
He cast one last look over the porch, seeing everything as he’d left it. It was his donation to the curse of the Old Mitcham Ranch, and it would outshine all the others. He could see the headlines now: Mass Murderer Commits Halloween Mayhem. Yeah, I’d like that.