“It’s been gone a while, and I thought I lost it in the move ... Now I’m not so sure.” She was twisting the cup of tea in her hands, a cup from which she hadn’t taken so much as a sip. “But then, I’m not sure about anything anymore.”
Deep in his cavern, he worked. Diligently. With dedication, ignoring the signs that he was beginning to become sleep deprived. So what? One had to suffer for his art, and so he would keep at it, finding deep reserves of strength when other, lesser men would succumb to the demands of the body.
Mind over matter, he told himself, working feverishly, already sweating though the temperature in his underground studio was below freezing, of course.
To calm himself, he listened to one of his favorite carols and hummed along with the strains, the words playing through his head as he worked.
Silent night, holy night.
All is calm, all is—
Bark! Bark! Bark!
The damned dog was at it again, destroying his concentration as he chiseled the most intricate part of his sculpture. It might have been a mistake stealing the beast, but the opportunity had arisen when he’d been searching for something valuable, something personal from that bitch of a cop when he’d broken into her home. The first time had been easy, nothing had gone wrong, even the dog just watching from his damned crate as he, the intruder, had climbed the stairs to her bedroom, where the smell of her had teased his nostrils, that same faint scent of perfume he’d noticed when she’d ignored him, years before, dismissed him as if he were nothing.
Nothing!
She’d find out differently.
As soon as she got his little present in the mail. He smiled at himself as he’d thought how clever he’d been. A few days earlier, before pouring the water over his current work of art, he’d carefully, lovingly hooked a chain around her neck and let the tiny locket fall delicately between her naked breasts. It had been painstaking to prop up the half-dead woman, posing her just so, then adjust the limited lighting in the best way to show off the jewelry. He’d waited until just the right moment, until she’d rolled her uncomprehending eyes to look at him, and he’d snapped the digital shot.
It wasn’t as satisfying as the actual sculpting, of course. Oh, no. But it would give the cop something to think about when she picked up her mail at the station, an early Christmas card, sent anonymously.
Oh, what he would do to see her reaction!
It would almost be worth it to be at the station about the time the mail was delivered ... He could come up with a plausible excuse, a complaint about a neighbor or the traffic or ...
No! Don’t indulge yourself! It’s far too dangerous and you have too much important work to do! Stay focused.
He pulled himself out of that particular fantasy. He would get his chance with the cop; he’d just have to wait for it. Thankfully that lunatic Junior Green hadn’t killed her and destroyed his plan. That’s all it took, one psycho with a gun, and all the best-laid plans were destroyed. But she’d outwitted the sicko, she and that new man she was seeing.
Oh, yeah, he’d met that one, checked him out.
Dylan O’Keefe better not get in the way.
Not after all this work.
Again the dog began to howl and the killer swore under his breath. He’d nabbed the mutt during his last mission, to confuse Alvarez, but then that kid had shown up, running into the house, and he’d been forced to flee out an upstairs window, the boy following not far behind him.
It had been a disaster, but, of course, he’d managed to escape. And now he had the dog, a scruffy shepherd of some sort, not clean lines. He glanced at the beast and it had the naiveté to wag its damned tail at him.
Half grown, the animal seemed brainless ... but would serve his purpose.
Ignoring the dog, he went back to work. Humming again, trying to find that peace of mind that came with sculpting. Sweating, willing his hands to be steady, for this, his most incredible piece of art yet, he softly tapped his chisel, right over the nose.
The dog whined.
“Hush!” he said under his breath, working carefully ... gently shaving the ice away, making the sculpture perfect. Just one more tweak and—
Bark!
The damned mutt let out an anxious cry, and he hit the chisel a little too hard.
Craaack! The ice began to split, one fine line splintering into a dozen and filtering all over her face and neck.
“No! No!” In horror, he watched his work destroyed. Days of labor, weeks and months of planning, all ruined as the cracks, like an irregular spiderweb, marred the beauty of his creation.
His fingers tightened over his chisel and he glared at the mutt. “Shut up, you stupid mongrel!” he snarled, wanting to strangle the beast. The animal was more irritating than his Bible-thumping wife! “Just shut the hell up!”