of clothing, a toiletry kit and a well-thumbed thriller novel he’d skimmed through on the flight home. Since reclaiming his holdall from where he’d hidden it, he had placed his cigarettes, wallet and cellphone in his jacket pockets. But that was all he carried. He was a big man, but there was nothing distinctive about him that would attract attention, or even more than a cursory glance from any airport staff. He walked out through the arrivals exit confident that no one had paid him any attention.
He had three choices: he could take the BART into the city, hail a cab or plump for the next bus to come along. He had taken precautions while in South Dakota, ensuring that there was no record of his visit to Whitehead, having hired a car under false credentials and paid his bill in cash. Back at this end there was of course a record of his flight, but he’d already told a couple of his work colleagues that he was heading off on a hiking trip for a couple of days, and that he was going to visit Mount Rushmore. His trip to South Dakota was no secret, only his real agenda. The chances of his presence in the state being flagged against the brutal murder in a backwoods town would be nil. Nevertheless, the fewer points on his trail that could be identified the better, so he had elected to leave his car at home and travelled to San Francisco International Airport via public transport, thus leaving no record of his vehicle in the airport car park. Now he thought he might have been overcautious, and all it meant was a slow return home. He was wiped out from the adrenalin buzz, needed rest, but was due in work at six the following morning. He decided to taxicab it to his house in Clarendon Heights, despite the cost of the fare.
One bonus was that the roads were quiet this late in the evening and the cab was winding its way up Market Street and ready for the turn on to Twin Peaks Boulevard before he realised how close to home he was. Minutes later he was outside his house. He climbed out of the cab yawning, paid and thanked the driver and gave him a hearty tip. Then he trudged up the slight incline towards his front door. He checked the mailbox on the way up, but found it empty. He was pleased; even if there had been mail it would have had to wait. Killing was tiring work, he’d found.
His house was a narrow wooden structure with a peaked attic and a veranda at each of the three floors. Built just after the great earthquake it showed its age in the slight lean of its walls, the faded paint on the rails and in the way in which the front porch steps had drooped at their centres. His grandfather built the house and – though he’d never lived here – his father had inherited it. When his father died, it had been passed on to the son. The killer had never wed, had no children, but he didn’t feel out of place in a house large enough for an extended family. As a child he’d grown used to the seclusion, because after his father disappeared there had been only him and his mom, and for all the notice she took of him he could have been alone in the world. Until she brought home her male drinking buddies, that was, and suddenly he was the centrepiece of their evening entertainment. The cigarette burns on his body had scarred him less than those wounds on his mind.
When all this was over with, when he’d sufficiently punished the others, then maybe he still would have purpose. Dan Lansdale had begged him to stop killing; even when he’d slipped the knife between his ribs and twisted it, the old man had pleaded that he end his killing spree. But he would not. Once vengeance was his, he would take his fight to those sick-minded bastards his mother had introduced him to. He had trained all of his adult life for this, acquiring the skills that would ensure he’d never be a victim again; it would be a shame to waste them.
It was cool inside when he entered the house, and dark. He flicked on lights as he progressed through the house to the
He had three choices: he could take the BART into the city, hail a cab or plump for the next bus to come along. He had taken precautions while in South Dakota, ensuring that there was no record of his visit to Whitehead, having hired a car under false credentials and paid his bill in cash. Back at this end there was of course a record of his flight, but he’d already told a couple of his work colleagues that he was heading off on a hiking trip for a couple of days, and that he was going to visit Mount Rushmore. His trip to South Dakota was no secret, only his real agenda. The chances of his presence in the state being flagged against the brutal murder in a backwoods town would be nil. Nevertheless, the fewer points on his trail that could be identified the better, so he had elected to leave his car at home and travelled to San Francisco International Airport via public transport, thus leaving no record of his vehicle in the airport car park. Now he thought he might have been overcautious, and all it meant was a slow return home. He was wiped out from the adrenalin buzz, needed rest, but was due in work at six the following morning. He decided to taxicab it to his house in Clarendon Heights, despite the cost of the fare.
One bonus was that the roads were quiet this late in the evening and the cab was winding its way up Market Street and ready for the turn on to Twin Peaks Boulevard before he realised how close to home he was. Minutes later he was outside his house. He climbed out of the cab yawning, paid and thanked the driver and gave him a hearty tip. Then he trudged up the slight incline towards his front door. He checked the mailbox on the way up, but found it empty. He was pleased; even if there had been mail it would have had to wait. Killing was tiring work, he’d found.
His house was a narrow wooden structure with a peaked attic and a veranda at each of the three floors. Built just after the great earthquake it showed its age in the slight lean of its walls, the faded paint on the rails and in the way in which the front porch steps had drooped at their centres. His grandfather built the house and – though he’d never lived here – his father had inherited it. When his father died, it had been passed on to the son. The killer had never wed, had no children, but he didn’t feel out of place in a house large enough for an extended family. As a child he’d grown used to the seclusion, because after his father disappeared there had been only him and his mom, and for all the notice she took of him he could have been alone in the world. Until she brought home her male drinking buddies, that was, and suddenly he was the centrepiece of their evening entertainment. The cigarette burns on his body had scarred him less than those wounds on his mind.
When all this was over with, when he’d sufficiently punished the others, then maybe he still would have purpose. Dan Lansdale had begged him to stop killing; even when he’d slipped the knife between his ribs and twisted it, the old man had pleaded that he end his killing spree. But he would not. Once vengeance was his, he would take his fight to those sick-minded bastards his mother had introduced him to. He had trained all of his adult life for this, acquiring the skills that would ensure he’d never be a victim again; it would be a shame to waste them.
It was cool inside when he entered the house, and dark. He flicked on lights as he progressed through the house to the
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