Jonathan stumbled when his sneaker connected with the edge of the asphalt. He found himself on hands and knees, palms stinging, wondering how he had gotten outside. His last memory was of thunder shaking the windows.
Rising wind ruffled his dark hair and he shivered. An upward glance showed him a menacing mass of dark clouds. He picked himself off the ground and tried to decide if he should head along the road, or jog back to the cabin.
The restless sky matched his restless soul. Surly grumbles from the oppressive cloud-cover grew deeper. He started walking along the verge of the road, reveling in the dangerous edge to the summer evening.
Rain lashed the ground and jagged flashes of light clawed the sky, leaving Jonathan night-blind. Wild glee filled him as thunder vibrated through his body. He raised his arms to embrace the sky and laughed while heavy drops pounded his face.
“‘Arise, ye sightless spirits of the storm,’” he shouted Shelley’s words in an exultant voice.
Jonathan took off at a run, but he didn’t want to escape the tempest. He wanted to run with it, now and forever. He wanted to arc into the sky like a lightning bolt, or perhaps be struck by one. He wanted… he wanted… he needed…
The glorious storm died to a dreary shower and Jonathan dropped into a walk. He knew what he needed, but he couldn’t admit it, even to himself. Surrendering to the need meant death.
Headlights swept over him, burning through the twilight rain. Tires sprayed him with oil-tainted water. He was already drenched, but this annoyed him. Then one of the bulky blurs swishing through the rain flashed an orange light and pulled onto the wide shoulder.
Someone was stopping to give him a ride? Why on earth would anyone stop for an enormous stranger? Curiosity overcame him and he hurried to the passenger-side door. He slid inside, bringing a little rain with him, and thanked the driver for stopping.
She was an African-American woman of middle years with hound-dog eyes and a serene smile. “It’s nasty out. I couldn’t leave you walking in the rain. What are you doing out on a night like this?”
He buckled his seatbelt as she pulled back onto the highway. He noticed a filigree-style golden cross around her neck and wondered if religion had anything to do with her stopping for him. “I was on my way home when my car died.”
“Don’t you have a cell phone?” Her motherly attitude endeared her to him.
He kept his smile sheepish. “My battery’s dead.”
“So, where are you headed?”
“Palos Hills.”
A pleased smile lit her face. “I live in Palos Heights. I’ll drop you off on my way through. I’m Donna Gibbons. What’s your name, hon?”
“Jonathan.”
Donna gave him a quick glance. “You hardly look old enough to be out of school.”
Jonathan smiled; clean-shaven, he looked younger than his years. “I’m twenty-one.”
She snorted. “Gangling boy like you? I’d bet sixteen, seventeen at most.”
He laughed.
“You gonna get in trouble with your mama when she finds out you’ve been joyriding in her car?” Donna asked with a sly smile.
A pang shivered through Jonathan. Following an impulse he didn’t understand, he decided to tell the truth.
“No, ma’am,” he said, both approving of and condemning himself for the catch in his voice. “My mother died when I was little.”
She made as if to pat his knee but quickly returned her hand to the steering wheel. “Ah, honey, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right. There’s no way you could’ve known.”
She was silent for a moment before she said, “What happened?”
His mind shied away from the truth, and he lied automatically. “A car accident. She died instantly. Broken neck.”
“What about your daddy?”
Having guessed she would ask, this question made him less uncomfortable. “Dad’s always working. I don’t see him much.”
She tsked. “Bad idea to leave a boy alone too much. Just look at the trouble you got yourself into.”
Recognizing that she spoke more to herself than to him, Jonathan said nothing. Instead, he wondered how he could extend this encounter. He loved being around women but rarely had the opportunity.
“Where does your father work?”
His mind went blank for a moment, then he said, “He’s a lawyer. When he’s working a case, he spends a lot of time at the office, and he has this one big case he’s working on right now.”
“What kind of lawyer?”
“Personal injury.” He let out a shuddering sigh. “I know we need the money, but I wish Dad didn’t have to work so much. It gets lonely all by myself.”
After a moment of awkward silence, he made a visible effort to shake off his counterfeit melancholy. “But it’s not all bad. I can listen to my music as loud as I like when Dad’s not home.”
Donna all but pounced on the safer subject. “What kind of music do you listen to?”
“I like Korn and Limp Bizkit. Dad likes country.”
“Your music must drive him crazy.”
“He says it sounds like cats being strangled.”
As he hoped, that made her laugh. She had a delightful laugh, warm and earthy.
Jonathan’s stomach rumbled almost as loudly as the thunder had. He flashed his most charming smile and said, “I’m so glad you stopped for me. I would’ve been pretty hungry by the time I got home on my own.”
“Are you and your daddy going to have dinner together?”
“Dad won’t be home until after midnight. I have some frozen dinners.”
That seemed to be more than her maternal heart could take. “You come on home with me, hon. You can have a nice home-cooked meal with my family.”
He gave her a hesitant smile. “I wouldn’t want to impose…”
“Nonsense. Let a boy go home to an empty house and frozen dinner? We’d be glad to have you.”
“Thank you, you’re very kind.” He kept his voice as humble as he could to hide the baffled triumph. Would he ever understand people?
Donna continued to chat with him, telling him about her husband and two kids. She had a small daughter and a son only a few years younger than Jonathan, which explained both her motherliness and her reluctance to let him go home alone. There was a bruised hesitancy about her when she mentioned her husband that made Jonathan fiercely eager to meet the man.
They pulled to a stop outside one of many two-story prefabricated homes lined along the street, with nothing but the color and sometimes neat gardens to distinguish one from another. Donna’s home had purple pansies edging the short driveway and longer sidewalk.
She opened the door and called out to those inside. He followed her from the foyer into the living room, brushing his fingers over a tiny statue of the Virgin Mary. There were more religious icons in the next room, along with good-quality furniture drifting toward shabby. It was lit only by the television until Donna snapped on the overhead light.
“Guys, this is Jonathan. He’ll be joining us for dinner. Jonathan, this is my husband, Richard, and our kids. Make yourself at home. I’ll go get everything started.” With that, she bustled into the kitchen across the way.
Jonathan glanced around the room, his eyes skipping over the sullen-looking youth engrossed in his Nintendo Switch and the subdued girl who looked too old to be sucking her thumb. He fixed his attention on the shapeless lump of man-flesh who glowered at him from the far end of the couch. Judging from the smell, the beer Richard Gibbons held was far from his first. Mean eyes, tight mouth—Richard reminded Jonathan a little too much of his father.
After a glance at his sodden clothes, Jonathan squelched across the carpet and seated himself close enough to Richard to annoy him. Unless he had badly misjudged the woman’s character, Donna would merely cluck her tongue and bring him a towel. Jonathan wanted to avoid upsetting her if he possibly could—but he wanted to provoke her husband so he could see if he’d made the correct guess about the man’s temperament.
He was bored. He needed someone to play with.
Richard scowled. “Where’d she dig you up, boy?”
Jonathan gave Richard a look of wide-eyed innocence. “I was walking along Route 20 after my car broke down and it started raining and then Mrs. Gibbons stopped and gave me a ride and brought me here. If she hadn’t, I’d be eating alone, since Dad doesn’t get off until midnight.”
“Don’t know that it’s a good idea to bring home a stranger when people have been turning up dead a lot around here.” Richard took a large swallow of beer.
“That’s an unfair generalization.” Jonathan’s temper simmered out of sight when both kids reacted to his challenge by giving their father quick, uneasy glances.
“What’re you talking about?”
A slow, icy smile bloomed. “Humans have always killed each other, it’s true, but there aren’t significantly more murders now than there were a few years ago. Chicago’s a dangerous area.”
Richard snorted and stormed into the kitchen. Jonathan could hear him growling at Donna while he rummaged through the fridge. When Richard returned with another beer in his hand, he said, “Too many psychos around here, or don’t you watch the news? First that wacko murdered all those girls and that Gacy nut prancing around like a clown from hell, now we’ve got some lunatic butchering people. I hope the cops shoot him when they catch him.”
Jonathan managed to maintain his smile, though the effort made his teeth hurt. “Aren’t there two lunatics? One dismembering random people, and the other killing young women. Besides that, we have gangs and drugs and—”
Richard glowered at him. “That a racial slur?”
“White men have gangs too, and Hispanics. The last druggie I met was a white chick. Race has nothing to do with it.”
“Donna, why the hell’d you bring a smart-ass cracker into my house?” Richard hollered before chugging his beer.
From the safety of the kitchen, Donna called back, “Stop being so sensitive. Jonathan doesn’t mean any harm.”
Richard muttered for a moment, shooting dark glances toward the kitchen.
Jonathan wondered what the man’s response would have been without a stranger to witness his behavior. “What do you do for a living?”
Anger flashed in Richard’s dark eyes. “None of your damn business.”
Jonathan guessed the man was probably unemployed. When Richard lit a cigarette, Jonathan made a face and heaved himself up from the couch. He “accidentally” stepped on Richard’s toes on his way to the kitchen and tightened his hold on himself when Richard swore and threatened to smack him.
“Can I help?” Jonathan asked Donna, hoping nothing of the predator showed in his smile.
She smiled in return. “Sure thing, hon. Open up those green beans and set them in the microwave for a few minutes.”
He did what she asked, wondering what she might say if he kept silent.
“Don’t mind Richard,” she said after a few minutes. She selected a small onion and diced it while she spoke. “He doesn’t mean any harm. It’s been rough for him since he got laid off.”
Jonathan noticed that she pitched her voice low. He matched her tone. “How long has he been out of work?”
“Not long.” She turned her head away. “It’s not his fault. He tries so hard.”
He’d heard a similar sentiment, a similar tone, expressed in another woman’s voice, spoken from a busted mouth. Cold fury washed through him, and he struggled to check his temper. He needed to be sure before he acted, and he had no proof—Donna’s skin was too dark to show bruises.
He smiled slowly, his eyes glittering with malice. Fortunately, Donna had her back turned while she breaded pork chops and didn’t see the predator in Jonathan rise to the surface. He didn’t want to scare her.
He wanted to protect her.
Stilted conversation and tension filled the meal, but the food was delicious. Jonathan praised the cook, angered because her family took the wonderful meal for granted. The children didn’t speak unless spoken to. Richard found fault with everything, growling and complaining like a petty tyrant.
Jonathan insisted on washing the dishes when dinner was over, then Donna drove him home. He didn’t direct her to the little cabin that had once belonged to his father. He never took anyone there, never admitted he lived in that secluded area. Even his mail went to a post office box rather than his cabin.
Instead, he had her drop him off at a neighbor’s house—a man who worked the night shift and kept a spare key under a flowerpot.
“Thank you for dinner.” He unbuckled his seat belt and hesitated. “I know it’s none of my business, but… don’t let Richard get to you. You’re a wonderful woman, and he’s lucky to have you.”
Donna patted his hand. “You’re a sweet kid. You ever need anything, you let me know, okay, hon?”
“Sure thing.” He smiled and climbed from the car. As he expected, Donna waited for him to get safely inside before she pulled away.
Once her car disappeared into the distance, he slipped out of the house. He replaced the key and jogged the quarter mile to the cabin he had inherited from his father. It was built at the edge of a small state forest because it provided seclusion without being too far from the city and everything it offered.
The cabin was a one-story structure with two bedrooms. Two sheds stood in the back, several yards from the house. One was small and roughly built, housing tools for yard work and maintenance. The other was better constructed and twice as big, intended for butchering. It held a rack of hunting rifles and knives, fishing equipment, and a chest freezer. It also contained a heavy wooden trapdoor, held closed with a thick metal bar and a palm-sized padlock, leading into the storm cellar.
Jonathan went to the larger shed first. The blood had drained from the turkey he’d shot early that morning. He plucked the bird and removed the bits he didn’t intend to eat. He saved the down for pillows and tossed the scraps into a metal bucket.
Whistling, he went into the cabin with the bucket. Once inside, he was greeted by his dogs. They danced around him and bumped into him, making small, excited noises.
“Hi, guys, great to see you.” With his free hand, he patted flanks and scratched behind ears while he made his way to the kitchen in the center of a furry swarm.
The dogs backed off and stood a few feet away when he entered the kitchen. Here and there, a tail waved gently.
Jonathan glanced at them, smiled, and picked their dishes from the floor. He had five dogs, and their presence kept him from longing for other companionship. He took the special meat from the fridge, mixed it with fresh turkey scraps, and dumped an appropriate amount into each bowl, along with an equal portion of dry dog food.
Gypsy, the elkhound mix, wriggled with excitement when he set the dish on the floor. Gypsy’s half-grown pup, Thunder, strongly resembled his wolf father. He bared his teeth in a token challenge, but subsided when Jonathan growled at him. The German shepherd, Rufus, attempted to dive snout-first into the bowl before Jonathan even put it down, forcing Jonathan to give him a rap on the nose, since the move broke discipline. Rufus then waited until Jonathan set the bowl in front of him and straightened before he began to eat.
Missy, the Rottweiler, was more polite. She waited for him to step back before she approached the bowl. Jonathan’s heart twisted with sympathetic pain and remembered fury every time he looked at her. He pushed away memories of how he’d acquired her and set the last bowl on the floor for Goliath. More accurately described as a pony, Goliath was a scruffy-looking mottled brown mutt.
While the dogs ate, Jonathan refilled their water bowls and took the scrap bucket to the meat shed. He rinsed the blood off the shed floor with a hose, watching the water flow from pink to clear as it swirled down the drain. Then he rinsed the bucket and put it away before returning to the cabin.
Jonathan poured himself some water, turned on the television, and settled onto the couch. Missy jumped up beside him and laid her head on his leg with a contented sigh. A few minutes later, Goliath padded over and squeezed himself into the space between the coffee table and couch. Jonathan propped his feet on the table and Goliath settled into his favorite spot beneath Jonathan’s legs.
The local news came on. The top story was the disappearance of fifteen-year-old Owen Sinclair. “Police have no leads,” a man in a business suit said, “and his family is pleading that anyone who might have information on Owen’s whereabouts step forward.”
A small, satisfied smile flickered across Jonathan’s lips. He knew tomorrow’s news would reveal what had happened to Owen, though it would be a while before anyone realized what they had found was all that remained—barring the special meat in the freezer, marked with the initials O.S.
He stroked Missy’s head and side, his fingers tracing the edges of the spots where her fur had been shaved for easy tending of the cuts and burns. He whispered, “I made it right, sweetheart. Could you tell?”
She licked his fingers and gazed at him with adoration.
He took a long swallow of water as the story switched to coverage of an ongoing police investigation. A serial killer was prowling the Chicago area, a predator the media had dubbed the Reaper. Between him and the Midwest Maniac, the media was doing its best to keep people nervous.
Jonathan sat back to watch the coverage; his midnight-blue eyes unreadable. The press couldn’t seem to decide which monster warranted more attention.
The Reaper had killed four young women. The most recent victim was sixteen-year-old Kristin Smith. Like the others, she had been found in a scenic area; in this case, an orchard. She had been placed with a purple silk scarf covering the deep gash across her throat and a small bouquet of daffodils on her chest.
The Midwest Maniac had killed ten people, but the murders were more gruesome. Not one victim had been identified because not much was ever found. Only black garbage bags dumped along the road, each with clean bones inside.
The story cut to a young Hispanic reporter with a cute haircut. “Police received a letter from the Midwest Maniac a few days ago and have analyzed it at length, trying to create a profile of the killer. They believe him to be a white male in his mid-to-late forties.”
Jonathan straightened and smiled slowly.
“I’m here with Detective Arlen Spencer, who has prepared a statement on the progress of the investigation. Detective?”
The reporter turned to the man who stood beside her, and Jonathan leaned forward, his feet dropping on either side of his dog. Spencer was a grim-faced man with bags under his bloodshot eyes and dishwater hair that was starting to retreat. Jonathan felt a stab of sympathy for the exhausted detective.
“We have a task force working around the clock to find this monster,” Detective Spencer said. “He’s arrogant enough that he’ll make a mistake eventually, and when he does, I can guarantee he’ll answer for these heinous crimes.”
“What did the letter say, Detective?”
“The usual things you’d expect from a psycho. Taunts and egoism, threats and narcissism. We’re not dealing with anything that hasn’t been seen before, and we have all the tools we need to find him.”
Jonathan snorted, amused. The letter had been a diversion, designed to throw the police off track.
“That’s all I have to say at this time. Thank you.” The detective turned on his heel and strode off-camera before the reporter could reply.
Jonathan rubbed Missy’s ears and stared into the distance. “I think it’s time I paid a little visit to the good detective. I bet that’ll perk up his day.”
* * * * * * *
Detective Spencer was wrung dry. Shortly after his statement on the evening news, a call came in that another Maniac victim had been found. He stayed late to review the medical examiner’s report. He missed dinner and knew if he didn’t go home and at least try to sleep, he’d be useless.
His apartment was cold and empty. He had more pictures of victims scattered around than he did of his family. It sometimes bothered him, but since his wife kicked him out, he rarely allowed himself to think about it.
After he threw together a quick meal and gulped it down, he staggered off to bed.
Something strange woke him. Heart pounding, he at first had trouble making sense of his surroundings. There was something cold and thin against his throat, something—sharp.
“Sorry to disturb your sleep, Detective.” The low voice came from somewhere close to his ear.
Spencer realized there was a knife at his throat. “Who—what—”
“I have been called a monster many times before, most recently by you.” The warmth in that voice remained steady. “Lately, some have been referring to me as the Midwest Maniac.”
Ice rushed through Spencer’s veins. “What do you want?”
“I thought we could have a nice chat since you seem to be so interested in me.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“I don’t believe I shall answer that question at this time. Do you have any other questions for me?”
“Yeah. Who are you?” Spencer glanced sideways to see if he could get a look at his visitor without moving his head. All he could see was a bulky, human-shaped shadow.
“‘I am that merry wanderer of the night.’”
“Your name. What’s your name?”
“‘I am become Death, destroyer of worlds.’”
Spencer gritted his teeth. “Who are your victims, then? What are their names?”
A soft laugh puffed against his ear. “You would be able to figure out the pattern that way, and that won’t do. But I will tell you that you’ve found Owen Sinclair.”
“He was just a kid! Why kill him?”
“Hardly a kid, and he was old enough to commit murder.” The Maniac’s voice turned cold before the knife’s edge vanished from Spencer’s throat.
Spencer shifted, thinking of the gun under his pillow. Or at least, he tried to shift. Panic flooded his system when he realized he couldn’t move.
“The knife was just to command your attention until the ketamine took effect. Now we can talk more freely.”
Spencer let out a strangled sound, halfway between a growl and a scream.
“Don’t worry,” the Maniac continued. “I gave you a very low dose. You’ll feel spacey, but there won’t be any harm. You should get more rest, Detective. You have to be a special kind of exhausted to sleep through injections.”
“I haven’t been sleeping,” Spencer said through clenched teeth, “because I’ve been working overtime trying to find you before you kill again.”
Another huff of laughter. “Well, you found me. Or rather, I found you. Are you happy?”
“I won’t be happy unless you get the death penalty and they let me push the plunger myself.”
“So feisty.” The man drew closer. Spencer couldn’t hear him move, but he felt the warm breath against his ear. “You’re right that I will be caught. It’s only a matter of time. You walk a thin, dangerous line when you do what I do, even if you do it well. I do hope you’re the one who catches me. You deserve it. You’ve been working so tirelessly.”
Spencer said nothing.
“You need a break, but there isn’t much I can do for you right now except give you a good night’s sleep.”
Before Spencer could reply, he felt something cool and wet against his inner arm. Then the pinch of a needle. The feel of a killer’s hands on him while he lay helpless made his skin crawl, but he clenched his teeth and gathered what impressions he could from the fleeting contact. Strong hands, with a professional touch.
The Midwest Maniac leaned back. “You’ll be out for a while once my little cocktail takes effect, but you’ll feel great when you wake up. Don’t worry, it’s a fresh syringe.”
“Where did you get—”
“That would be telling.”
“What did you give me?”
“A sleeping potion.”
“What’s in it?”
There was a soft laugh. “Various herbs. Completely harmless. Works quite well; I use it myself.”
“Can you leave the syringe?”
A moment of silence. “I’m sure you’ll be able to gather some sort of evidence from it, but I’ll leave it if you answer one question for me—and answer honestly.”
“Sure.”
“Who do you think is more dangerous? Me or the Reaper?”
Spencer considered for a few moments. “You. You’ve killed more people, and you’re more vicious. You’re more of a monster than he could ever hope to be. At least he treats his victims with respect.”
“I see.” There was no inflection in that velvety voice.
Spencer waited to see what would happen next, but darkness pulled him under a few moments later. With his last conscious thought, he wondered if he would even wake up at all.
* * * * * * *
Jonathan drove to a late-night gas station in Palos Heights. He parked in a vacant lot across the way, bought a few energy drinks and power bars, and began to walk.
With only a few blocks between him and his objective, the trip was a pleasant one. He passed many homes with no lights on, increasing his assurance that nobody would notice him despite his suspicious size.
The house he wanted had pansies along the driveway and sidewalk. The snowy curtains were trimmed with pale green lace. It was a lovely home, carefully maintained, as if the beauty of the outside could conceal what lurked inside.
Jonathan didn’t yet know what form that evil took, but he knew it existed. He had grown up surrounded by darkness and knew the darkness inside himself. He needed to find out what was going on with Donna and Richard Gibbons.
Only upstairs lights were on in most of the houses, but a sullen light flickered in the downstairs of the Gibbons home—Jonathan guessed that Richard was watching TV.
Satisfied that no one was paying attention to the world outside their snug little homes, Jonathan walked over to the sturdy tree standing to one side of the lawn. He pulled himself into the lower branches and froze.
No unusual noises, nothing to indicate he had been noticed. He climbed a little higher and found a spot where the leaves would screen him from casual view, but where he could keep the house under observation.
Jonathan had a hunter’s patience. The passing time meant nothing to him, and he could ignore the physical discomfort. An hour passed before the downstairs went dark, then an upstairs light came on for a few minutes before going out again.
Jonathan recognized the veiled viciousness in Richard’s eyes, having seen it often enough in his own eyes. Once he had the proof to support his gut instinct…
He had certain items in his bag which would aid him in his task—including tiny video cameras with audio feed. All he needed was the opportunity to plant them. They were only intended for short-term surveillance; he doubted he would need eyes in the Gibbons’s house for long before he found the evidence he needed.
Jonathan dozed while he waited, and when dawn lightened the horizon, he shook himself awake. Gulping the double-shot of espresso he’d purchased the night before, he watched the house with predatory intensity. He watched, motionless, while newspapers were delivered and dogs let out. He watched the breadwinners head off to work and the kids to school. He waited.
Donna left early, before her kids got on the bus. A few hours after the kids left, Richard did too, leaving the house empty.
Jonathan crouched beneath the tree for a moment, alert for any activity. All was quiet, so he rose and made his way into the back yard. Nimble as a squirrel, he climbed onto the little roof sheltering the back door. From there, he slipped in through a second-story window.
Three cameras, three points of observation. After a brief tour, he hid one in the upstairs hallway smoke detector, one in the kitchen smoke detector, and the third he taped to the underside of the TV stand. He checked the video angles, adjusted where necessary, then pondered his next move.
In and out was usually best, but he didn’t want to leave without his evidence. The cameras didn’t have much range. Besides, he was tired. He ignored his grumbling stomach and wandered until he found the trapdoor stairs to the attic. He pulled the stairs up after himself, selected an out-of-the-way spot, and went to sleep.
Angry voices woke him some hours later. He rolled to his feet and crouched, listening.
One shrill voice, one a little lower, and both young. The words were garbled, but he knew without a doubt that the children were fighting. Some tension drained from him, but he lost none of his animal wariness.
A male voice rose above the squabble, a threatening edge vibrating through every word. The children fell silent, and the only sound in the house was the distant mumble of the TV.
Nothing conclusive about Richard’s character—yet. Jonathan’s stomach growled, and he silenced it with one of the power bars.
More than an hour later, shouts echoed from downstairs. Richard’s voice, hard and angry. Donna’s voice, trembling with fear. Other noises, too muffled for him to identify with any certainty, though he had his suspicions. After a few moments, a woman began to sob. He heard thudding feet on the stairs. A door slammed, and the sobs became stifled.
Anger swelled in Jonathan as he guessed that Donna had retreated to the bedroom to cry into her pillow. The anger might have ebbed, if he hadn’t heard Richard yelling at the kids. The little girl started to cry. Jonathan heard a sharp sound, and the anger turned cold when the girl howled in earnest. Like her mother, she fled to her room.
Jonathan’s eyes narrowed; his teeth bared in a silent snarl. He embraced the icy, calculating fury like a long-lost lover. Tonight, he would make his move. Richard’s own temper had sealed his fate.
Soon, Jonathan promised himself. He prowled to the attic stairs and settled down to wait.
The house gradually fell silent. He checked his watch; ten o’clock. Not quite yet. Last night, Richard had been up until after midnight. Jonathan wanted to catch him while he was still awake, but only after enough time had passed that he could be sure everyone else was asleep.
At eleven-thirty, he lowered the stairs. Alert, he descended into the second-floor hallway and paused to listen.
Nothing but the murmur of the television.
He crept silently to each bedroom door—they were all closed—and pressed his ear against the wood. He heard nothing, so he raised the attic stairs and retrieved his camera from the smoke detector.
The TV was loud enough for his cautious descent to go unnoticed. He padded through the dining room, paused near the living room, and lowered his bag from his shoulder. He carried certain items with him whenever he went hunting; items he regularly needed. Tools of the trade.
Jonathan crouched beside his bag and removed a zippered case. He opened it swiftly, under cover of an explosion in the action movie Richard was watching. The lack of light didn’t bother him; he knew where everything was by touch. He ran his fingers over the syringes, found the one he wanted, and lifted it from the case. He ran the fingers of the other hand over the row of ampoules, counting until he touched the right one. Getting the correct dosage in minimal light was tricky, but he’d had a lot of practice. When he felt he had filled the syringe correctly, he pressed the button on his watch and eyed the syringe in the pale light.
A little too much. He wanted to knock Richard out, not kill him—at least, not yet.
Jonathan held the syringe upright, tapped it, squeezed out a tiny bubble of air and a little fluid. Perfect.
There was no room for mistakes. It was like defusing a bomb. A single mistake could ruin everything.
His eyes inhuman, he glided forward. Richard saw him a moment before Jonathan lunged, but he only had a chance to squeak before a strong hand clamped over his mouth and a syringe jabbed his neck.
“It’s fast-acting.” Jonathan’s voice was a lethal purr. “You think you’re scared now? When you wake up, I’ll teach you what real fear is all about.”