Her Broken Wings by D.K. Hood
Thirty-Eight
He noticed the sheriff’s cruiser coming his way in the reflection in a storefront window. As it went by, he turned to get a better look. Sheriff Alton was at the wheel, and the woman wearing the FBI jacket, who he’d seen her with earlier, was riding shotgun again. He wondered if his time at the Old Mitcham Ranch had made an impression on them. He ran the exquisite pantomime through his mind, his payback to the big boss man who’d parked across the alleyway, blocking his truck. It had taken one question in Aunt Betty’s Café to discover where the crew worked. The girl who’d spilled his coffee had been the perfect bait, and getting her had only taken a small amount of his time. The moment he’d stepped out of the bushes, he’d strangled her just enough to keep her unconscious until he’d decided her time to die.
He’d headed out to the Old Mitcham Ranch. Late at night, the boss man and his smart-mouthed workers would be slow from drink and drunk from sleep. He’d driven right in with Ruby out cold in the back seat. The chairs, he’d found stacked up on the front porch and set them out just before reviving Ruby and puncturing her thigh. He licked his lips, almost tasting the memory of the kill. Ruby had screamed like a banshee and the men had come running, falling over each other to get to her. They’d argued over how to stop the bleeding and not one of them had called 911. He’d walked right up to them unnoticed, a weapon in each hand, and the big boss man had wet himself. Once he’d made them secure each other to the chairs, he’d had all night. The smell of blood had been like perfume filling the air in a heavy fog. His vivid recollections of the terror in the helpless men’s eyes, their screams of pain. The way they’d begged for mercy and twitched after he’d shot them had fed his hunger, but their faces he’d forgotten the moment he’d walked away.
He’d been so careful never to leave more than a single feather as a clue and laughed aloud when the sheriff and FBI agent dashed straight past him into a clothing store, cackling like teenagers. He slipped inside behind them and made his way around the store, so close he could smell the sheriff’s honeysuckle scent. He walked around like he owned the place, and went about choosing a woolen hat, a new pair of leather gloves, and a hoodie. His heart pounded with excitement, being so close to them, and at one point he brushed against the FBI agent as he reached for a coat on a rack. He listened to snatches of their conversation and heard enough to know the FBI agent was staying with the sheriff. How convenient.
The hustle around the sheriff’s department made him smile. He’d seen vehicles coming and going like buses at a terminal; better still the sheriff had called in the FBI. It seemed the law enforcement in town would be working long hours with eight murders to solve. Keeping them busy was a ploy he enjoyed. The dogged persistence and tunnel vision of law officers on a case meant that he had free rein to move around. He wasn’t concerned when the cravings came; he could act without the worry of the law disturbing him. They’d never suspected him and never would. The problem was the eight victims. He preferred to do things in threes, and eight… well, the number eight didn’t sit well with him. It had to be nine, or maybe twelve, before he satisfied the craving. He smiled and pulled on his new leather gloves, flexing his fingers. At this moment, the choice of who lived or died was in his hands. I own this town.