He checked his watch. It was close to six o'clock.
The sun was still out and people were everywhere on the massive lawn.
He sat against a tree along Killian Court on the MIT campus. Easily seen among the shade of the high foliage, he wore a cap and glasses.
His destination had been reached only a few minutes before. Problems at the office had facilitated a last-minute spreadsheet for his boss. Often, he asked the All Spirit why his boss couldn't be killed, as well as anyone else he deemed a nuisance. Without a word-only through strange sounds and disturbing images-the All Spirit had let him know that his thoughts and feelings were meaningless: all that mattered were the girls.
Young. Vibrant. Full of life.
Girls that could release the All Spirit from his prison.
A temple of girls, college girls ready to take on the world, a spring well of thriving, potential energy easily given over to the All Spirit, enough power to break through his interdimensional realm and reach the Earth as a physical presence. No more need for apostles and minions. Freedom. At last. And all those who helped him? Those who were patient and strong, who had built the temple of these young college morsels out of love and care? What about them? Well, they would be assured a place in Heaven, of course, as gods in their own right.
It was Tuesday, and on Tuesday night, Tabitha Mitchell always went to the great dome library to study with friends after class.
At six fifteen, he spotted her. Tabitha was half Chinese and half Caucasian. Pretty and popular, she was laughing with friends. She flipped her dark hair and shook her head at something that was said. The group walked across the lawn.
There was no need to follow. Her destination was already known-back to the dorms to change, and then out to the Muddy Charles Pub for the Tuesday Special: Ladies Night. All girls drink for free. Tuesday was her favorite night to party.
He took a sip of a smoothie, closed his eyes, and mentally prepared.
* * *
The build-up was his favorite part, the waiting, the yearning, and the near explosion of his desire. Love was an emotion easy to feel with these girls. Every one of them had vivacity of spirit and energy and an incredible purpose they all shared, bigger than anything they could have ever achieved on their own. They were princesses in his mind, queens, worthy of his adoration and perpetual worship.
The rebirth was hard for him.
After they'd been changed, they were no longer his own. They had moved on to become sacrifices for the All Spirit, building-blocks in the temple of his eventual return, so all he had to remember them by were pictures, and the memories he had of a budding love cut too short, as always cut too short.
He stood along the Charles River and stared out at the rolling waves of water. Night had come and he was always the most introspective at night, before the induction. Behind him, across Memorial Drive, Tabitha Mitchell walked with her friends to the Muddy Charles Pub. They would stay there for at least two hours, he knew, before they all split apart and Tabitha headed back to her dorm, alone.
Stars were barely visible in the dark sky. He spotted one, then two, and he wondered if the All Spirit lived in those stars, or if he was the sky itself, the universe. As if in answer, he saw the image of the All Spirit: a darker shadow among the sky that seemed to encompass the entire sky. There was a patient, expectant look on the All Spirit's face. No words were spoken. All was understood in that moment.
At around nine, the killer headed back toward the pub and waited on a narrow passage between the bar, which was in the large, white-columned building of Morss Hall, and the Fairchild Building. The area wasn't well lit. A number of people ambled about.
At nine thirty-five, she appeared.
Tabitha said her good-byes in front of the hall. At the bottom of the steps, they all went their separate ways. Her two friends turned toward their apartment on Amherst Street, and she turned right. As was her habit, she moved into the passway.
Regardless of the many people nearby and on the street, the spirit of an actor embodied the killer. He took the persona of a drunkard and ambled over to Tabitha. In the palm of his hand, attached to his fingers by silver rings, he cupped a handmade plunger-needle.
Quickly passing behind her, he simultaneously stung the back of her neck, gripped her neck so she wouldn't move, and pulled her in close.
"Hey, Tabitha!" he said in a very familiar, loud, phony British accent, and then, to lower her guard, he added, "Shelly and Bob told me you'd be here. Let's make up? OK? I don't want to fight anymore. We belong together. Let's sit down and talk."
Initially, Tabitha jerked and attempted to dislodge herself from the assailant, but the quick-acting drugs made her throat numb. In the seconds that followed, the names of her friends confused her. Combined with the dwindling speed of her mind and body, she hopefully thought that her sorority sisters were playing some kind of joke.
He was meticulous about how he held her. One hand wrapped around her back to catch her from a fall. The other hand, which held the anesthetic, placed the needle into his right cargo pants pocket, and then he cupped her cheek. In this way he held her up with his strong arms and continued to talk as if they were truly an arguing couple on the verge of a possible mend.
"Are you drunk again?" he declared. "Why are you always drinking when I'm gone? Come here. Let's sit down and talk."
At first, many people on the street or walking through the grassy breezeway-directly past the killer and Tabitha-believed something was obviously wrong: her unnatural movements said as much. A few even stopped to watch, but the killer was such an expert in his handling of Tabitha's body that after the initial injection and her brief struggle, Tabitha appeared like any other intoxicated college student being helped by a best friend or lover. Her feet tried to walk. Her arms grasped at him-not in an aggressive way but as if she were in a dream and needed to shoo clouds.
Gently, lovingly, the killer led her over to a wall, sat down with her, and stroked her hair. Even the most watchful and vigilant passersby soon assumed everything was fine and continued on with their evening.
"We'll be happy together," the killer whispered.
He kissed her softly on the cheek. The excitement he felt was even stronger than with Cindy. Strangely aroused, he peered up into the dark sky to see the All Spirit, watching him with a grimaced look of disapproval.
"All right." The killer blanched.
A deep hug brought Tabitha closer to his body. He smelled her scent, squeezed her arms and legs. Slight moans came from her lips, but he knew they would be fleeting; the drugs would erase her mind in just over twenty minutes.
Two boys played Frisbee Golf right beside them. A group of rowdy college freshmen sang songs. Cars raced by along the Charles River.
Amid the populated area, the killer picked Tabitha up and slung her over his shoulders for a piggy-back ride. Although her feet dangled, he held her hands on his chest and jogged to his car, which was parked on Memorial Drive.
"Come on!" he cried in his accent. "Put your legs around me! You're making me do all the work. At least help me out a little bit? Please?"
He continued the dialogue by the blue minivan, where he rested her on the car, opened the passenger door, and gently placed her inside.
For a few seconds, he remained squatted by the door, not only to keep up the concerned-boyfriend charade, but to observe her features, to watch her chest rise and fall, and to wonder-as he had so often-what it would be like to kiss her, for real, and to make love. The All Spirit grumbled from his heavenly position, and the killer, with a sigh, closed the passenger side door, took his place by the steering wheel, and drove away.
