LITMIR.BIZ

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everything has to be perfect.

      “Come on,” I whisper quietly and feel that sensual twitch deep inside at the thought of her: lightly tanned skin, dusting of freckles, wide hazel eyes and untamed hair a deep brown that shines red in the firelight. “Come the fuck on.”

      The knowledge that she will soon appear causes my blood to race, my mind to fire with images of what’s to come. I can almost taste her, feel the texture of her skin as she quivers at my touch. In my mind’s eye I watch her pupils dilate until her eyes are nearly black with fear and a dark, unwelcome desire.

      Oh, she will want me.

      She will beg for more of me.

      And I will give her what she wants…what she fears.

      Her last conscious thoughts will be of me.

      Only me.

      But not yet…I have to hold back.

      Tamping down my vibrant, exhilarating fantasies, I decide to savor them later. When the timing is right.

      With one last glance at the window, I walk to the table near the fire, sit in the smooth wooden chair, feel the varnish against my bare skin. When my body is unfettered by clothes, my mind is sharper. Clearer.

      I study my maps carefully. Using a magnifying glass, charting my course. The worn, marked pages spread upon the table near the kerosene lantern glow softly. Scattered upon the scarred planks are the astrological charts, birth certificates and recent clippings of the deaths that no one will ever trace to me. In the articles the beautiful release of souls is described as brutal slayings, the work of a psychopath.

      Reporters, like the police, are idiots.

      I can’t help but smile at all their wasted efforts.

      The authorities are morons.

      Cretins.

      Fools who are so easily toyed with.

      Burning wood crackles in the grate, anxious flames devouring the mossy chunks of oak and pine. The scent of wood smoke is heavy in my nostrils as I reread the stories about the “victims,” tales that have been carefully construed by the stupid cops to ensure that no details they wish to keep from the public have slipped into the articles. They have worked diligently to hold back information, clues that will keep every nutcase around from claiming ownership of my deeds.

      For if that should happen, the short-staffed sheriff’s department would have to sort it all out, spending valuable hours dealing with the fraud. Officers would have to expose him or her as just some whack job trying to get his or her fifteen minutes of fame. The department would lose a lot of time uncovering the false murderer, a lunatic pretender who in no way could understand the divinity, nor the complexity, of the painstakingly executed sacrifices.

      Sorry, imbeciles.

      You’ll have to find some other killer to emulate.

      “Killer.” The word tastes bitter. As do “criminal” and “psycho.” Because what I do isn’t a crime, not just a “killing,” not some psychotic whim, but a necessity…a calling. However, those who are unenlightened can never understand. What I’ve done, what I will do again, is misunderstood.

      So be it.

      A window rattles against a gust of wind and I feel a sudden chill slither down my spine. Glancing up from my work to the icy panes, I see fluttering flakes of snow in the steely day beyond. Feeling the storm seep through the cracks in the walls, the cold air taunting my skin, I envision her again.

      Beautiful bitch.

      Soon you will be mine.

      God and the Fates are on my side.

      I lick my lips as a thrill steals through my bloodstream. Turning back to the table, I see her picture. In black and white, the surroundings out of focus, her features clear and crisp.

      In the glossy photograph, she appears happy, though, of course, her smile is a frail façade. She looks almost flirtatious.

      A lie.

      As I stare deeply into her eyes, I detect a shadow, a small hint of darkness that betrays her fear.

      In that fragile moment when the camera captured her, she sensed that her life was far from what it seemed.

      And yet she couldn’t possibly comprehend the truth, then or now. Little does she know what is about to happen: that her fate has already been sealed, that she will soon join the others….

      Carefully I read the charts once more. The stars are in the right positions; the groundwork has been done and December, with its cold, stinging kiss, will soon be here.

      As will she.

      She will arrive before the turn of the calendar’s page.

      Closing my eyes I imagine our meeting: Her chilled flesh will press against mine. Her skin will have the salty taste of fear, her cheeks even more so, with the tracks of tears.

      A frisson of expectation sizzles through my blood.

      I glance down at the photograph again.

      So clear.

      So sharp.

      So ready.

      “Soon,” I whisper, not saying her name aloud, not wanting to hear it echo through the rafters. “Very soon.”

      My groin tightens with expectancy.

      Winter and Death are about to meet.

      Jillian stepped on the accelerator.

      Her medium-size station wagon engine whining, responded, winter tires digging into the icy terrain. She took a sip from her cup, a rapidly cooling cup of coffee that she’d bought at the last town she’d passed through, now nearly five miles back. Spruce Creek, the town, if you could call it that, was little more than a stoplight at two crossroads. The intersection had boasted a post office, gas station, coffee shop, two churches and, as if in perfect juxtaposition, two taverns. A few distantly spaced farmhouses had peppered the snowy landscape.

      “Welcome to rural Montana,” she said aloud, wondering, not for the first time, if she was on a fool’s mission. The radio was tuned to a country/western station and Willie Nelson was singing over the underlying static, “White Christmas” no less.

      “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas,” he warbled in his nasal twang.

      “Well, you got one, Willie Boy,” she said, staring out a windshield threatening to fog over to a vast landscape of snow-laden trees and piling drifts. “You’ve got yourself one helluva white Christmas.”

      All around her, the mountains knifed upward, their peaks hidden by the thick clouds and driving snow. Here, in the Bitterroot Mountains, it looked like a second Ice Age.

      The road twisted ever upward and her little car climbed steadily, its wipers slapping the flurries off the windshield. One tire slipped before digging in. Jillian eased into the slide, sloshing coffee, and the car’s all-wheel drive didn’t let her down. Nonetheless, she was nervous and wondered how far it was to the next town.

      This mountainous part of Montana was more desolate than she’d anticipated, and though she wasn’t a coward or the least bit skittish, today, as dusk threatened and she met not one other vehicle on the road, she felt a little anxious, a bit edgy.

      “Too much caffeine,” she muttered as Willie’s song faded and an announcer’s voice cut in and out. Irritated, she switched off the radio and thought about the calls she’d received from the unidentified caller and the pictures he or she had sent.

      Had they been of Aaron?

      Or was this some elaborate hoax?

      “Face it, you’re on a wild goose chase,” she told herself for the umpteenth time, but her hands tightened on the steering wheel as she remembered those whispered conversations all insisting the same

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