He hadn’t.
Yes, it would feel spectacular to actually place a blade to her throat, probably her favorite little paring knife, and watch her blood spurt into the ice water. For her, things would be different. Special.
While she was bustling in the kitchen making breakfast, unaware of his ultimate plans for her, and the aroma of coffee was seeping through the house, he watched every bit of information he could find online. He kept the volume low, of course.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “Did you see this?”
“What?” He tried to sound bored.
“On the news! Some woman found dead in a block of ice! At the church! Our church!”
“Oh, yes.” Calmly, he got up from his desk and found her standing, empty coffeepot in hand, water running into the drain as she stared at the small screen of the TV she’d placed on an old microwave stand in the corner near the table. “I was there,” he said, turning off the water and hearing the old pipes creak as he turned his attention to the small screen, where a reporter stood in front of the church and explained that the frozen body of an unidentified woman had been found in the nativity scene at the Presbyterian church just outside of town.
She was young and beautiful, holding her microphone to her glossy lips, wide eyes staring into the camera.
“You ... you were there?” his wife said.
“Driving by. Stopped to see what the commotion was all about. No one knew anything, of course.”
“I’m surprised you stopped.”
“Well, there was a roadblock, I was detoured so I thought I’d check it out.” Now she was interested in what he did. Of course.
“Preacher Mullins and Lorraine? The girls? They’re okay.”
“You heard what she said. The body they found was unidentified.”
“It’s awful,” she whispered and reached for the faucet again, then filled the glass pot. Carefully, not spilling a drop, she poured the cold water into the coffeemaker’s reservoir. “I don’t know why this keeps happening here. It’s as if Grizzly Falls is jinxed or something. Like there’s some curse cast over the town.”
“Why what keeps happening?”
“Murders! Someone killed this poor woman! And just last Christmas and the one before ... you remember. Horrible!”
“This seems a little different to me,” he said, tamping down his anger. “More planned out.”
“Because the body was left at the church?” She shuddered. “That’s worse. The church should be a place of comfort and solace, a haven. Whoever did this made a mockery of everything I hold sacred.”
His blood began to race in his veins and he knew arguing further would serve no purpose and she, a woman with an IQ so much lower than his, might suspect something. “That might not have been the intention,” he said as the screen flickered to an advertisement. He reminded her, “Breakfast?”
Turning, she looked up at him and some of her indignation fled as their gazes met. He saw that tiny widening of her pupil, an indication of fear. Good. She knew her place but sometimes needed to be reminded. He placed a loving hand on her shoulder, feeling her flesh through the thin bathrobe and lacy nightgown beneath. Then he squeezed. Not too hard. Just enough to gain her attention.
She wanted to yelp. He felt her muscle tense. But she didn’t cry out. “Of course,” she whispered, lowering her gaze. Good girl. She knew better than to draw away.
“Perfect.” He rained a smile upon her and patted her shoulder, then playfully wagged a finger under her nose. “Don’t dally.”
“No, no ... of course not.” Blinking rapidly, she turned back to the cupboard, where she pulled down another tin of coffee. Her fingers shook a bit, but she didn’t spill so much as one bit of grounds as she measured out the scoops.
His world righted again, he returned to the den and checked several news Web sites as the aroma of brewing coffee mingled with the smell of wood smoke. Minutes later the sizzle of pancake batter hitting the griddle. The cakes themselves would be perfect four-inch discs, all smooth and golden. The syrup would be
warming, homemade, in a jar his grandmother had used for just that purpose. The woodstove would still be burning, warming the old kitchen and smelling of a nostalgic past ... his youth, with his grandmother and her mother, perfect ... unmarred by the other one, the bitch who had borne him.
He wouldn’t think of her now, pushed her far away, to a corner of his mind reserved for the darkness and the pain. Once again, he forced his attention to the streaming newscast.
His stomach rumbled, but he kept his eyes on the computer screen. The clock built into his computer reminded him that he still had two minutes until breakfast, so he ignored the hunger pangs as he watched yet another short clip.
He wasn’t completely satisfied with the coverage of his work. Most disappointing was that, so far, there was no footage of the sculpture itself. None! All his painstaking work, his meticulous attention to detail, his perfection ... and not a glimpse.
So far ...