Left To Die by Lisa Jackson Page A

near the fire, sit in the smooth wooden chair, feel the varnish against my bare skin. When my body is unfettered by clothes, my mind is sharper. Clearer.
    I study my maps carefully. Using a magnifying glass, charting my course. The worn, marked pages spread upon the table near the kerosene lantern glow softly. Scattered upon the scarred planks are the astrological charts, birth certificates and recent clippings of the deaths that no one will ever trace to me. In the articles the beautiful release of souls is described as brutal slayings, the work of a psychopath.
    Reporters, like the police, are idiots.
    I can’t help but smile at all their wasted efforts.
    The authorities are morons.
    Cretins.
    Fools who are so easily toyed with.
    Burning wood crackles in the grate, anxious flames devouring the mossy chunks of oak and pine. The scent of wood smoke is heavy in my nostrils as I reread the stories about the “victims,” tales that have been carefully construed by the stupid cops to ensure that no details they wish to keep from the public have slipped into the articles. They have worked diligently to hold back information, clues that will keep every nutcase around from claiming ownership of my deeds.
    For if that should happen, the short-staffed sheriff’s department would have to sort it all out, spending valuable hours dealing with the fraud. Officers would have to expose him or her as just some whack job trying to get his or her fifteen minutes of fame. The department would lose a lot of time uncovering the false murderer, a lunatic pretender who in no way could understand the divinity, nor the complexity, of the painstakingly executed sacrifices.
    Sorry, imbeciles.
    You’ll have to find some other killer to emulate.
    “Killer.” The word tastes bitter. As do “criminal” and “psycho.” Because what I do isn’t a crime, not just a “killing,” not some psychotic whim, but a necessity…a calling. However, those who are unenlightened can never understand. What I’ve done, what I will do again, is misunderstood.
    So be it.
    A window rattles against a gust of wind and I feel a sudden chill slither down my spine. Glancing up from my work to the icy panes, I see fluttering flakes of snow in the steely day beyond. Feeling the storm seep through the cracks in the walls, the cold air taunting my skin, I envision her again.
    Beautiful bitch.
    Soon you will be mine.
    God and the Fates are on my side.
    I lick my lips as a thrill steals through my bloodstream. Turning back to the table, I see her picture. In black and white, the surroundings out of focus, her features clear and crisp.
    In the glossy photograph, she appears happy, though, of course, her smile is a frail façade. She looks almost flirtatious.
    A lie.
    As I stare deeply into her eyes, I detect a shadow, a small hint of darkness that betrays her fear.
    In that fragile moment when the camera captured her, she sensed that her life was far from what it seemed.
    And yet she couldn’t possibly comprehend the truth, then or now. Little does she know what is about to happen: that her fate has already been sealed, that she will soon join the others….
    Carefully I read the charts once more. The stars are in the right positions; the groundwork has been done and December, with its cold, stinging kiss, will soon be here.
    As will she.
    She will arrive before the turn of the calendar’s page.
    Closing my eyes I imagine our meeting: Her chilled flesh will press against mine. Her skin will have the salty taste of fear, her cheeks even more so, with the tracks of tears.
    A frisson of expectation sizzles through my blood.
    I glance down at the photograph again.
    So clear.
    So sharp.
    So ready.
    “Soon,” I whisper, not saying her name aloud, not wanting to hear it echo through the rafters. “Very soon.”
    My groin tightens with expectancy.
    Winter and Death are about to meet.
     
    Jillian stepped on the accelerator.
    Her medium-size station wagon engine whining,