Stupid.
The word ricocheted in his head as he passed the intersection of Highway 32 and State Route 411.
Stupid.
If he needed any proof that God was on his side, it came in the timing of it all. He had been headed for the site of the fourth murder-what would become his fourth city-when he saw the police car heading down State Route 411. When he saw it, he kept heading straight down Highway 32, his heart hammering in his chest.
Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe the cop was on routine patrol, looking for speeding drivers.
Or maybe they had found the pole. He knew they were investigating him; he'd seen the Scarecrow Killer stories in the papers but had not bothered to read them or watch the snippets about his work on television. He was not doing this for the attention or publicity. He was doing this to spread God's wrath, and to teach the world about love, mercy, and purity.
Of course, the police would not understand this. And if they had found the site that had been destined to raise up his fourth city, it could be over for him. He would not be able to finish his work and that would not please God.
The fourth site would have to change. Maybe it would help him, in the long run. Perhaps the police would be so preoccupied with trying to find him at this fourth site that he could finish out his work elsewhere without risk of being caught.
He came to a convenience store on Highway 32 and turned his truck around in the parking lot. He headed back toward the intersection and passed through without giving State Route 411 a passing glance.
With his sacrifice already chosen and readied, he could still build his fourth city tonight, as he had planned.
He would continue his work elsewhere.
*
She opened her eyes and a flare of pain exploded in her head. She cried out and found that her voice sounded odd-muffled, almost. She tried lifting her hand to her mouth but realized she was unable to do so. She realized there was a cloth gag over her mouth, tied tightly and cutting into the corners of her mouth.
She blinked rapidly, trying to make the pain in her head go away. As her eyes started to focus and the haze of grogginess departed, she started to get a sense of where she was. She was on a hardwood floor that was layered with dust. Her arms were tied behind her back and her ankles were also tied together. She had been stripped to her underwear.
It was this last fact that brought everything slamming back into her memory. A man had come out of nowhere last night as she had gotten home. It had been four o'clock and she had…God, what had she done?
But the bright pink bra she was wearing made it impossible to forget what she had done last night. She had tried her best to convince herself that an escort was different from what those other women did. She was classier, more controlled.
But at the end of the day, she'd done the same thing those other women did. She'd been paid handsomely (hey, fifteen hundred dollars for an hour and a half of "work" wasn't too shabby) and afterwards had not felt as bad as she'd expected to.
But then there had been that man, coming out of the shadows. He'd only said hello and then his arm had wrapped around her neck. She'd smelled something for a moment and as she had slipped into blackness, she heard him whispering into her ear about sacrifices and bitter waters.
And now she was here. Her panties were still on and there was no pain, so she was pretty sure she hadn't been raped. But still, she was in trouble.
She tried getting to her knees but every time she came close, her tied ankles made her tip over, slamming her shoulder into the floor. She lay there, weeping, and tried to remember the last thing the man had said to her before whatever he had placed to her nose and mouth had pulled her under.
Slowly, she remembered it. And surprisingly, the lunacy of it made her want to sag and give up rather than figure a way out of this.
Don't worry, he said. I will build a city for you.
