Page 30 of The Hunted
He hoped he maneuvered them in a way that looked like a couple going out on the town. The way Amra was sniffing around him, this would be fuel to add to her fire.
“I guess I’ll have to deal with her eventually.” He hoped she’d leave him alone, but she was like a dog with a bone. It meant she was good at her job because she knew he was hiding something, but he’d see her dead before he allowed her to blow up his life.
He drew closer to his front porch and spotted the brown box waiting for him. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled and he braced himself. He knew what that box contained. The need to drop his baggage and run over to grab it was strong. He could feel Denise Miller slipping from his hold, but he held her steady over his shoulder.
“Oh where oh where did you go?” he whispered, turning around to see if the Reaper had stayed behind to watch him. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing down. He spent all of his free time here, grew accustomed to the noises that surrounded his home, so he knew what to look for when something didn’t belong.
He tilted his head and listened, waiting for a rustle of leaves or a snap of a twig—even the soft sounds of someone breathing.
But nothing came.
The night was eerily still, and he couldn’t shake the idea that the Reaper was lurking in his foliage, watching him, waiting to see his face as he picked up the box and looked inside. It also annoyed him a little to know if the Reaper was out there they had just seen him with the body draped over his shoulder.
There were ways he could up the ante, and he had an idea of how to make things interesting, but the element of surprise was gone, and well…now he was sad.
He opened his eyes and turned to head to his cellar. His workshop had been out of commission since he met most of his marks on their territory and left them there to rot, but he still had his tools here, still found comfort in the familiar.
Denise’s breathing started to change and she stirred in his hold. Good. He wanted her awake at least long enough for the first handful of incisions. Those first few screams, the begging and the tears, felt like a drug to him. They slipped into his body and fed the gnawing in his stomach, leaving him completely sated.
For a moment he knew what freedom tasted like, his body weightless and unshackled.
Santino had switched his methods for killing, a necessity so he wouldn’t become predictable, but he missed the intimacy of carving flesh with a knife.
“But we get to do that with you. No Midnight Strangler here. It’s back to basics for the two of us,” he whispered, making quick work of opening his cellar door and heading downstairs.
He kept the area clean in case he ever had the chance to revert back to his beginnings. He gently placed her on the floor while he set up a tarp on the metal table. He moved quickly and efficiently, bringing her back to the table. He laid her out like a star and cuffed her wrists and ankles.
Once she was secure he rushed back up the cellar steps and jogged to the front porch. He half-expected the box to be gone, but it was there, still waiting for him. He picked it up with gloved hands and used his pocketknife to rip into it. The smell hit him instantly, and he recoiled even though he expected it.
The missing part to their blonde Route 160 victim was staring back up at him, but that wasn’t what made his insides crawl. It was the laminated note that was tucked on top of the leg.
What was once a Saint
Turned into a clever Devil
You’re playing a game
That has no rules
So even if I gave you an extra leg
You’ll come in second
Unless you figure it out
And I’ve already given you a clue.
How well have you stayed hidden
Maybe you don’t even know the truth.
“What was once a Saint,” Santino read the first line out loud a couple of times. Something about that first line and the last two triggered a memory that was so close and yet completely out of reach. It felt like the same memory he had about driving on Route 160, but something was off about it. It felt like someone else’s life and not his own.
He barely had any vivid memories of his time before his guardian took him in. He’d been in foster homes, that knowledge had been available to him when his guardian made it clear she wasn’t his mother or anything that resembled a parent.
“Oh no, mijo. I am not your mom and don’t have a parental bone in my body. In fact, I actually hate kids. But you? I see a lot of me in you and bringing up someone to carry on what I do seemed like a good idea. It rights the wrongs of this world.” She shrugged. “You will be better though. But don’t mistake me teaching you and giving you the basic necessities to stay alive as a mother’s love.”
A laugh bubbled out of Santino and he cleared his throat. He’d been shocked that his guardian had laid it out so bluntly but even back then, he appreciated her honesty. It felt refreshing to his young mind, and he always knew exactly where he stood with her.
