The police still didn't have her name. She was, in the media, referred to as Jane Doe. A picture had been released. Her death was either murder or some kind of weird sado-sexual thing.
He just happened to be driving near the bar where he picked her up earlier in the week.
A martini for her, a pineapple juice for him.
She'd still be alive if she hadn't been brash enough to fling open his closet in search of a robe. Modesty. That's what'd killed her. She'd have seen the outfit that he'd worn at Solitude Creek, when he'd moved the truck to block the exit doors. At that point, the announcement had not been made that a witness had seen him--so he hadn't thought anything of it. Shortly thereafter, at the movie theater, he'd learned that the public had gotten the word. (Why on earth they'd released his description to the public he still couldn't fathom.) The police's disclosure not only saved him at the theater incident but it also got Calista dead. As soon as he'd left the McDonald's near the theater, after learning of Ms. Agent Dance, he'd taken a drive to Calista's motel in Carmel. Hoping she hadn't heard the description broadcast. And no. She'd been pleasantly surprised to see him. He asked if she wanted to take a drive. And once they were under way, how 'bout an adventure? Some little no-tell motel?
"You naughty boy..."
You're so fucking handsome...
And then...
Sorry, Calista.
"No, no..."
He pictured her on the floor of the cheap place, shivering as she died. The plastic bag over her head. Five, six minutes was all it took.
He now tucked away the memory and continued to one of the places he'd found a few days ago, perfect for another attack: a church reception hall.
It was astonishing to him the number of people killed in stampedes related to religion.
Mecca. Never do Mecca.
How anybody could manage to hang on to faith after hearing about those deaths was beyond him. Thousands had died.
India was pretty bad too, crowds of hundreds of thousands. Oh, what he could do with a herd like that...
Ahead he could see the venue he'd checked out earlier. There was a church supper planned there tonight. The site was particularly good. Two exit doors that could be bound shut with flower-arranging wire. Perfect.
This also happened to be an African American church. And someone in the area, conveniently, had been targeting ethnic facilities just like this. That meant the people would be particularly paranoid, fast to escape if there was any sign of threat.
Fast to crush their fellow congregants to save themselves.
Here, he'd start a small fire outside, just like he'd done at Solitude Creek. That would be enough, smoke wafting in. They'd be thinking the neo-Nazis had returned and, tired of simpleminded graffiti, were now intent on doing the real thing. Burn them to the ground.
March thought it would be--
But, no, what was this?
As he approached he noted a sign on the billboard out front: Dine with Jesus Supper Postponed. Join us for Services next week. Pray for the victims of Solitude Creek and the Bay View Center.
March sighed. He guessed he should have anticipated that. The bigger theatrical venues were probably robo-calling ticket holders and reporting that shows were being canceled.
He wondered if Kathryn Dance was behind this.
Maybe not behind. But involved.
Well, he certainly couldn't leave the area just yet. So, what to do? Outthink them, outthink dear Kathryn. Well, performance venues were out, reception halls too. Maybe weddings were going on but they would probably have been moved outside--the weather was temperate enough for that.
What venue wouldn't be closed down?
Movie theaters but they wouldn't work. After the abortive attempt the other day, sure, cineplexes with substantial crowds would have guards, if not police.
What else would remain open?
Ah, wait. Here's a thought: Management of hotels would resist closing, certainly on a nice Sunday afternoon, ev