The Silenced. Heather Graham

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СКАЧАТЬ Where should she run? The streets were empty, the Mall was empty...

      Lara prayed the beat-up van would come back.

      She nearly stumbled.

      She paused briefly. She would not trip and fall and look back screaming the way idiots did in horror movies when giant reptiles were coming for them. She took the seconds required to kick off her heels while digging in her bag for her cell phone.

      She did nothing stupid.

      But that didn’t save her.

      He was fast. Surprisingly fast.

      He slammed into her and down on her like a tackle in a football game. She opened her mouth to scream.

      Who the hell was it? She still couldn’t see him! Did it matter? Escape!

      She couldn’t turn her head; he was behind her, forcing her down. And then...she felt his hand coming around her head. He was holding a rag. She smelled something sickly sweet and she began to see black dots. The smell gagged her. She had to keep fighting; she was going to die if she didn’t.

      So she fought...

      But as the scent overwhelmed her, she thought, Oh, God, no, I really am going to disappear.

      The blackness took her.

      * * *

      He’d studied the information available on serial killers with the same concentrated attention he’d always given textbooks; what had to be done had to be done, and he had to do it the right way. He knew FBI men, behavioral scientists. He was careful never to talk too much, but he was an excellent listener. He never undertook any task lightly.

      He’d invented an alter ego for himself, a man he called Slash McNeil. Slash McNeil was now fully part of his personality. Slash? Well, it made sense. McNeil? Why not? It seemed to go well with Slash. Not that he needed a name to sign to confessions or letters to the editors or police. He just liked it.

      McNeil had been born off, as anyone who knew this manufactured alter ego would say. Even when he was a toddler, he’d enjoyed smashing bugs. As he’d aged, the bugs became small reptiles; McNeil liked to set snakes on fire. Once he grew older, the animals he tortured became kittens and puppies and then cats and dogs.

      When he was sixteen, he committed his first murder. It hadn’t been particularly good, well planned or satisfying. He’d teased ugly Sarah Rockway, letting her think he wanted a make-out session with her, and lured her to a bridge. He’d kissed Sarah—and then tossed her over the bridge. In McNeil’s mind, at least, the girl had died happy.

      But he hadn’t wanted Sarah Rockway—nor had he wanted the murder to be so swift. He’d wanted to slash her, cut her, as he had the kittens and puppies.

      And he’d really wanted Celia Hampton. Celia, the cheerleader, the leggy beauty who would barely give him the time of day. He wanted her naked, doing anything he asked, begging him for her life.

      But murder was an art to be properly learned, and practice improved any art.

      It took him another two years to lure Celia Hampton away with him. He’d waited for a frat party. Waited until she was drunk and vomiting and offered her a wet towel—doused with a drug, of course. Then he’d slipped her into his old van and out to the woods in Virginia, far from the city. He hadn’t had to strip her; he’d shown her his knife and she’d done everything he wanted. After that, he’d cut her. First her throat. Slowly. He’d let her bleed out...while he sliced open her gut.

      He’d thrown her in a river—weighing her down by stuffing her with stones. By the time she was found...the river had washed away all evidence.

      In the beginning he’d been able to live on the memory for years. Then, more recently, he’d felt the need to kill again. But now things were different. The need came faster. He got work that allowed him to travel, and it had afforded him opportunities for murder. He was controlled, always controlled and always careful. He studied his victims. They were never ugly again. They were the pretty ones. But he made sure that when they were found, he couldn’t be. They might know about him—since communications among law enforcement officers were pretty good these days—but they didn’t know who he was.

      He always took a souvenir.

      The tongue.

      Serial killers often took souvenirs. He’d determined that would be his souvenir of choice.

      They would recognize his work.

      Then again, maybe not; he left his victims in water, weighed down with whatever he could find. And the water concealed any evidence there might be.

      Yes, he had an alter ego. And he’d paved the way. Two dead already, just in the past month. Now...this one. And there’d have to be more.

      He’d watched the first girl, Sarah, not with malice, but with purpose. He hadn’t done anything out of hatred or viciousness. He’d been inexperienced then, still learning. With Celia, the second girl, it had been easy. It wasn’t that he liked what he’d done. He’d seen the need early on and he did his job as he understood it.

      It was just necessary. Like dressing every morning, driving, breathing, eating—making a living.

      He wished he could be sorry. He wasn’t.

      He did what he needed to do, and that was all.

      He’d become Slash McNeil.

      For a moment, he paused. It was messing with him this time. He had it figured out—and damned well, too. The girls, the type, the psychology.

      But this one...

      This one was different. The way he handled her had to be different. And he sure as hell didn’t like it, not one bit.

      Still...

      He was prepared. He’d prepared for this possibility months ago, and in actuality, there were things about it that were even more appealing than usual. This involved wits and careful machinations and a certain danger that made it all the more exhilarating; it gave him a high that was greater than the rest.

      He smiled and thought about the woman—her flair, her grace, her confidence.

      And he thought about what she’d be...

      When it was all over.

1

      Meg Murray’s alarm went off with a strident ring that made her nearly jump out of her skin as well as the bed.

      She groaned and rubbed her temples. Keeping up with the guys wasn’t easy—not as easy as she’d hoped, anyway.

      But she, and Sandra Martinez and Carrie Huang— the two other young women in her academy class—were holding up nicely. And they’d made it. Meg was proud—and relieved. She knew that only one out of every hundred applicants got into the academy.

      And not all made it through.

      She’d СКАЧАТЬ