Page 8 of Collect the Pieces

I’m not delusional. I don’t think I’m a savior or better than anyone else. I just don’t want to see another kid brutalized and murdered.

With my breath trapped in my lungs, I tiptoe across the tile floor. Even with my shoes on, it feels gritty or dirty under my feet.

Bam!My hip slams into something solid. A scrape of furniture against floor rips through the air.

My body freezes. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait. Blood pounds through my ears.

The awful moans and whines from the television continue.

In small increments I ease my body away from the kitchen chair I’d bumped into and edge forward. Silently, I slide the backpack off my shoulders and rest it on the chair I’d knocked away from the table. Feeling my way with gingerly outstretched hands and soft sweeps of one foot in front of the other, I continue toward the flickering blue light.

The living room is straight ahead. Long dark curtains cover the windows facing the street.

There he is.Dimly lit by the glow of the television. Unruly tufts of hair sticking out all over his head. No awareness that I’m creeping up behind him. Guilt and unease about invading someone’s private space prickle around the edges of my conscience.

No.He doesn’t deserve peace or privacy. The state of New York might think he’s “paid for his crime” but I strongly disagree. I’d bet my life Hoyt’s parents would agree with me.

I pull a syringe out of my pocket and uncap it. Two more full syringes are rolling around in my pocket—just in case. Full to the brim with a popular tranquilizer I’d helped myself to at the lovely veterinarian’s office when we did a pickup there last month. The poor man had a heart attack while tending to the animals overnight. One of the dogs who’d been boarded at the vet’s office stood guard over the old man’s body all night long. The vet techs had to gently coax the pup away so we could tend to the body. I suffered a twinge of guilt at the theft, but I didn’t have an easier way to get my hands on what I needed, and I knew this man had to be dealt with soon.

A sharp bleat of pain from the television’s speakers almost jolts my soul from my body. In the chair, Mr. Gade moans.

With great reluctance I turn toward the screen. Maybe my subconscious already knows what’s playing and my brain refuses to accept it. It takes great effort to force my gaze toward the sound of the awful noise. Finally, I take in the images. My stomach plunges.

I slam my eyes shut and bite back a whimper.

Children.That’s where the horrible sounds have been coming from. From children. Young ones. So small. Grainy images on the television. Being forced to do things no child should ever witness or be part of.

My fear and determination slip away, replaced with a sorrow that fills my heart, yet also leaves me frozen and empty.

Then my gaze drops to Mr. Gade. His hand shoved down the front of his sweatpants. His slack jaw and glazed eyes focused on the screen of horrors in front of him.

Enjoying himself.

Anger blazes my fear and sorrow into ashes, leaving nothing but the bone-deep need to end this sick creature’s life.

He’s so engrossed in his disturbing home movie, he hasn’t even noticed me.

The high back of his chair partially blocks my aim. I have to sneak in close—too close for my comfort—yet somehow he doesn’t see me in his peripheral vision. A dark, angry shadow about to plunge a needle into the side of his neck.

Now!I pierce his skin and jam the plunger down.

Stunned, he turns and jerks to the side, staring up at me with wide, confused eyes. His shoulder twitches up as if he wants to bat the needle away but his wrist is still trapped in the waistband of his pants.

His body jolts, the tendons in his neck standing out. Completely rigid, he slumps to the side of the chair, eyes wide and staring at me.

I’d been worried a dose meant for dogs might not be enough for a human, but it seems to have stunned him for now.

His lips move like a fish gulping air, but no words come out.

“Who am I?” I taunt. “Is that what you want to know?”

More fish-gulping.

“A friend of Hoyt’s,” I answer. “I’ve waited a long time for this night.” I tilt my head toward the screen without looking at it again. “I see you haven’t changed at all. The world’s going to be a whole lot safer with one less pervert in it.”

His limbs jerk as if he’s willing his body to move or run away. Still worried I might have the wrong dosage and he could escape, I pull out another syringe. Usually I’m sucking fluidoutof bodies, but I still know exactly where to poke—right into his fat, juicy jugular vein.

He chokes and gurgles, his body curling in on itself like a dried leaf.Whoopsie. Maybethatwas too much.

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