The Chosen. BEVERLY BARTON

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       Chapter 7

      He had spent the night at an inexpensive motel in Jackson, used a phony ID, and paid in cash. As he so often did on the morning of a “kill,” he woke early, eager to play the game once again. The drive from the state’s capital to Tupelo had been uneventful, the stretch of Interstate 55 between Jackson and Batesville desolate and dull. He’d used Highway 278 to go from Oxford to Tupelo, a medium-sized Mississippi city.

      In the past, he had taken more time to study the pretty little flower before he severed her life-giving stem. But that had been in the beginning, when time had been of no importance and the years stretched before him, seemingly endless.

      Odd how that five years could pass so quickly. He supposed the old adage about time flying when you were having fun was true. What had begun as a lark had turned into a passion far greater and all-consuming than he could have ever imagined. Who knew that life-and-death game-playing could be so exhilarating?

      Participating in “The Dying Game” gave him a high unlike anything he’d ever experienced. And it was as addictive as any of the drugs he had experimented with over the years.

      He hated to see it all come to an end, but the game would be over in less than two months. And he intended to be the winner. His life depended on it.

      As he drove the Ford Taurus—rented using his fake ID— along the street where Sonya Todd lived, he recalled the information he had collected on her. She was thirty-five, divorced, no children, and lived alone. She was the high school band director, but since this was Saturday and no band contests were scheduled for Tupelo High, there was a good chance she would be at home.

      Should he make contact with her today? Introduce himself into her life as a nonthreatening stranger? Or should he simply study her from afar during the day and wait for the perfect moment later on, perhaps tonight, to surprise her?

      During the long, boring drive here, he had worked up a couple of different scenarios. His favorite was simply to ring her doorbell, introduce himself, and ask about houses for sale in the neighborhood. If there was one thing he knew how to do—and do well—it was playact. As a youngster, he had entertained his sisters with his antics, keeping them amused so that they wouldn’t torment him with their teasing: Rolypoly. Fatty-fatty. Pudgy-wudgy.

      He had learned how to turn their taunting into self-inflicting jokes that endeared him to Mary Ann and Marsha. They considered him a funny little brother. Fat and rosy-cheeked. Easily manipulated. Mary Ann never knew that he’d been the one who had poisoned her pet cat, Mr. Mackerel. And Marsha still thought one of the servants had stolen her prom dress, the one their mother had bought on a shopping spree in Paris. But he knew better. That dress, which he’d ripped to shreds, was buried in the woods near their family home, along with the bones of numerous small animals he had taken great pleasure in torturing to death.

      He didn’t see much of either sister these days, only at weddings, funerals, and an occasional holiday. Both had married well, reproduced darling little brats like themselves, and lived in the same type of social whirlwind their mother had thrived on.

      Reciting Sonya Todd’s street numbers in his mind, he slowed the car almost to a standstill when he came to 322. A woman wearing hot pink sweats and man in a heavy jacket stood on the front porch, holding hands, looking dreamily into each other’s eyes. The hulk of a man kissed the woman, then headed down the steps onto the sidewalk. When he was halfway to the SUV parked in the drive, he glanced over his shoulder, grinned and waved. The woman blew him a kiss, then waved back at the guy.

       Guess that big oaf got lucky last night.

      Naughty, naughty of you, my little pink rose.

      The midthirties’ Sonya Todd bore a striking resemblance to the young woman in the old Miss Magnolia photograph he had brought with him. Still slender and shapely. Still a blonde, although the shade was now darker, richer, more golden. But a blonde was a blonde, be she platinum or dishwater. And every blonde was worth fifteen points. Killing Sonya would put him in the lead, one step closer to winning the game.

      He drove past Sonya’s house and glanced from right to left, as if he were searching for a street address. Then he circled the block slowly, СКАЧАТЬ