Only with the morning light had the creature receded to become, again, his father’s rarely used clamp, his mother’s reminder of potential, painful punishment.
Now, as he held the push-up position, his cold body beginning to sweat and shake, he gritted his own teeth and forced himself to hold his muscles tight despite how hot they burned, regardless of the pain ripping through them.
Mind over matter.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The seconds passed and finally, when the drips of sweat running down his nose were nearly a stream, he released and let his body fall to the cold floor.
Naked.
Closing his eyes, he remembered the workbench again and held his arms wide, his legs straight, feeling hard wood against bare skin, reminding him that he had a purpose.
Reminding him there were others.
Even if Grayson lived through this night, he would eventually die. If not from these wounds, then new ones.
In the meantime, he could concentrate on the rest of them.
They needed to die. Soon.
Forcing himself from the mental comfort of the floor, he walked to the desk and retrieved the slashed head shot of the judge.
“Too bad,” he whispered without an ounce of feeling. He liked his trophy, but knew just what to do with it after carefully wiping it of any prints, any hint of DNA evidence. Snapping on latex gloves, his only article of clothing, he then set about his task, making sure no hair or skin was left behind. At this point he had to be careful.
The detectives and those nerds in the lab would have a field day with this, and he couldn’t risk any minute trace of himself on the picture.
All of his personal information, including his prints, were already in the system, and he knew exactly how it worked, how they would find him.
He would be just as careful of the envelope, which he planned to mail from Grizzly Falls, right under their noses.
At that thought, he smiled inwardly. Havoc would reign.
Satisfied that his envelope and contents were clean, he placed them into a plastic bag that he tucked into his duffel bag. Then he sorted through the head shots again. Unfortunately, the picture of the sheriff was still intact as the man was still clinging to life. “Soon,” he promised the photograph, as if the damned sheriff could hear him.
Then he sorted through the other pictures until he came up with the still shot of Regan Pescoli. She, too, was looking at the camera, never knowing she was being photographed. That was the beauty of high-tech cell phones.
They could become a camera with the press of a finger.
Which his had been.
In this shot, Detective Regan Pescoli, the bitch, was looking straight on, her eyes wide, her expression pensive, hair falling around her face. In a way, she was beautiful, he had to admit, though he hated the idea.
“You’re up,” he said to the photograph and felt his blood sizzle a bit at the thought of bringing her down. One shot, right between the eyes. That would do the trick.
Glancing at the clock mounted over his old desk, he realized he had to dress quickly and leave. Hours and minutes and seconds were passing.
His actions were being monitored, he was certain of it, so he had to be more careful than ever, couldn’t take the chance that someone might follow him.
Not here. Not to his private space.
Again, he glanced at the round face of the old-fashioned clock, the very timepiece that had been in his father’s shop, where he’d been stripped bare and forced to sleep, the place he’d come to think of as comforting.
He had so much yet to accomplish and, as always, time was running out.
Especially for Regan Pescoli.
Tick. Tick. Tick.