According to the late Dr. Albrecht, this fear falls under the basic fear hierarchy of ego-death. Fear of humiliation and the collapse of one’s worthiness. I learned this from London.
Lawson fears this failure so deeply that it’s triggered a physical response within him. He’s becoming agitated, angry. And what is anger but the natural reaction to fear? It’s our mind processing the information so we can make decisions.
It’s that simple.
What’s more, how do we use his fear to manipulate the outcome we want?
I mark the date and time on my newspaper as the bus pulls to a stop. Lawson is carried away to his evening destination, and I follow.
The bus ride doesn’t take long before we’re in the heart of the port district. I continue to follow Lawson as he exits the bus and heads in the opposite direction of his home.
I round a corner, and that’s when it happens.
A man in a business suit recognizes me.
It’s a slow realization at first. He glances up from his phone, then back down, and then his eyes snap to my face and widen in recognition. It’s unmistakable, that moment when all the senses heighten, adrenaline rushing.
There’s no sense in trying to run or hide, or to deny who I am. My only option is to discover his next move.
His mouth twitches, a natural, nervous reaction, as he says, “Good job.” He gives me a thumbs-up.
I tilt my head as I gauge his body language, his facial expression. He’s not a threat.
He won’t call the police. This man believes I’m a vigilante. The Angel of Maine. A hero. Taking out the trash.
I’ve read all the articles online and in the paper. Reporters citing citizens that claim I’m doing what the police fail to do.
Let’s clarify something: I’m not a fucking hero.
My victim selection is not based on any obligation to rid the world of filth. My victim selection is purely self-serving—an intelligent formula devised not to arouse suspicion.
Over the years, serial killers targeted prostitutes not because of their contempt for women—though some did suffer this defect—but mostly, because prostitutes wouldn’t be missed.
Of course, the police have wised up to this method, and so picking off hookers is no longer a viable option.
As such, my victims are scum. Sex offenders and the dregs of society loathed with such vitriol that authorities won’t waste resources to investigate their murders.
It doesn’t make me a good person. It just makes me smarter than the rest.
But, whatever helps people sleep at night. Trusting the big bad boogie man is out here hunting the evil of the world. Truthfully, I only see it as another means of cover. One more way to hide and secure my objective.
I give the man a curt nod before I pass him, saying none of this.
The interruption costs me nearly a minute before I can recover Lawson. I catch up to him as he’s heading farther into the port district. I tail him to the same bar he’s gone to for the past two nights. It’s his pattern, his routine—to unwind from his hectic day with two beers and then go home to his family.
I don’t go inside. Instead, I take up the corner of the building, jotting down the time on my paper, then start toward Portland.
For a year, I fantasized about how London and I would work in tandem. Partners. Accomplices. Lovers. There are obstacles, there always are, but her incredible talents have given us a way to overcome them, turn them into opportunities.
A carefully staged chessboard, where all players are pieces. Even London is purposely positioned to be moved on our board—she’s my favorite piece.
We need a pawn.
Building a trap is like courting a lover. It doesn’t have to be all hard frames and mechanics. You have to finesse the design. Nurture it into animation. Romance it with delicate strokes, and graceful strategy. Dance with your lover and she’ll fuck you good and hard.
Because that’s always the outcome we want.
Before London, I was too forceful. I was a brute. All physical strength and conceit in my knowledge, trapping my victims by coercing them to make a choice.