Page 42 of Nothing Left

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

The acrobat knew how to break and enter. It was his life; it was his livelihood. He was no stranger to breaking in. But what he was a stranger to was the compulsion that had recently overcome him.

The dare.

It had consumed him, taking over his world, occupying all his thoughts.

What would happen if...?

That was how it had started and how the dark flower inside his mind had bloomed. What would happen if he stood over someone while breaking in, and they awoke? What would he do, and how would he make sure they never knew?

The seed of the idea had been planted years ago, and since then, the acrobat had found his fantasies growing more and more intense as he thought about it.

What would happen if he had to kill them? Could he?

The acrobat had practiced the ritual over and over, making sure that the stabbing motion became so much a part of his being that he could do it without thinking. That if he had to, he could use the weapon he had to hand.

He'd even found himself deviating from his usual MO. Instead of grabbing all the valuables he could, he'd ignored them and chosen only a few items, sometimes only one or two, those that were personal to the victim.

After all, it had never been about the money. He had a day job, and he earned a wage. At first, this had been a way of raging against the world, letting out his anger at authority. Then it had become an occasional lucrative sideline, but gradually, the thrill had taken over, and now it was all about the thrill.

That was what mattered, being an acrobat, breaking in, moving silently, and choosing that one special item that he knew would matter.

The night before last, he'd stood in that house, clutching the necklace, breathing hard. He'd dared the woman to wake. Perhaps in his mind, he'd willed her to, recognizing that, at last, this deadly dance needed to reach its finale.

And she'd opened her eyes. That was enough. She'd stared at him sleepily. He'd thought she was awake, but in retrospect, she might have been too drunk to really understand what was going on.

It didn't matter to him. That fluttering movement of her eyelids and seeing the whites of her eyes was enough. And he'd done it. Unhesitatingly, smoothly, with force and power and accuracy. As if it had been something he'd done a hundred times before. The power, the force, it all felt otherworldly, as if he was moving into a new and better existence. One where he was no longer just an intruder but where he could actually have an impact on the people whose places he entered. He could alter their lives. He was somebody now, making his imprint on the world.

He'd acted swiftly afterward, thinking clearly as if he'd been born to the job. Immediately, he'd seen the need for an explanation of events, something that would create a story. He had one with him, but he knew he didn’t need to use it, as he could create what he needed from this house alone. He’d seen the contents on the way in.

He'd picked the dead woman up and carried her to the bathroom where her friend was passed out, doing it easily because he was strong. He'd dumped her in the shower, and then he had found a knife from the kitchen and planted it on the sleeping woman on the floor, smearing it with blood, making sure her fingers had touched it. What a story it told! He knew that he'd gotten away with it, free and clear.

He felt a rush of exhilaration, although there had been a moment’s pity, also. The victim had been so defenseless, so vulnerable. Just like he had been long ago, before he made himself strong and before the weird thoughts and dreams consumed his mind.

He forced that pity out of his mind, fast. After all, she'd had the choice. She'd chosen to wake up. So really, he'd just done what she wished. If she'd wanted to live, she could have stayed asleep.

In any case, the acrobat couldn't let himself dwell on those feelings. He had to focus on his next move.

He was now in a small, outlying town. He wasn't stupid enough to go into Barcelona again. No, he knew he needed to change things, to keep on his toes, to make sure that the police never realized who he was or what he was doing. One arrest, long ago, had been a painful experience that he’d never forgotten. Now, he needed to be careful.

He shimmied up the drainpipe, using the window sill to brace himself, climbing swiftly until he reached the upstairs balcony. This was a woman he'd been staking out for a while. What was interesting about her was that she worked until late, very late. She was a dancer whose shifts started at eight p.m. and finished close to four in the morning. She only got to bed when the sun was up, and then she used blackout blinds to get her rest.

Perhaps, in a way, he hoped that those blackout blinds might mean she slept lighter.

After all, the dare had been so thrilling last time.

The acrobat worked on the balcony door, knowing he had to be silent, working with the practice of many nights and many doors. His movements were careful; his tools were precise.

The door opened, and he stepped into the darkness, quickly pulling the blinds closed in case any light streamed in.

Here he was. He could smell her perfume; he could breathe in the spicy aroma of whatever she'd eaten so early in the morning before finally getting some sleep. A stir fry, perhaps?

And he could see her. There, in the bed. His mind raced, and excitement flared in him so strongly it was almost paralyzing. This was his time, his chance. He was here, in her space, and now he could take something that was important to her.

He moved forward, looking, letting his eyes adapt to the dim light.

The nightstand was empty of everything except a lamp and a phone. But how about here, on the bookcase? What was this?

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