Chapter 38
Another murder in Savannah?
Linked to the Savannah Slasher?
No, no, no!
He re-read the article again as the haunting notes of Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly with His Song” filled his private, cavernous space.
He’d always found the song to be thought-provoking and deeply emotional.
Now, it was just background noise that irritated him and really got under his already itchy skin. He scanned the online article again, recently posted to theSavannah Sentinel’s website and linked to its social-media outlets. Written by that horrid, nosy heathen Nikki Gillette.
He felt his blood begin to boil.
Naomi Kittle?
The missing woman whose car they dredged from the river?
They thoughtshewas one of the chosen sinners that he’d so carefully picked.
Insane. That’s what it was. He knew her. Of course. Had seen her in church.
Were the police that stupid?
Well, of course, he knew the answer to that.
Give me strength, he silently prayed,Please, Father, help me.
The song ended, and he found another old LP, one of his father’s favorites and oh so appropriate. Carefully, he removed the one record from the stereo and replaced it. As the turntable spun, he waited for the first notes of “The Ten Commandments” and Johnny Cash’s distinctive bass baritone to fill the chamber.
He cranked up the volume, and soon the song was nearly reverberating against the thick stone walls.
But it didn’t help.
Because someone—an interloper—was ruining his plans!
Copying his style.
Using the very place he’d left that pagan Jeanne LaRoux to die.
He gnashed his teeth. He hated to give up his carefully planned game. It had taken him years of waiting for the right opportunity, and he’d spent hour upon hour planning.
Until now, he’d been able to work in his own, perfect time line.
But no longer.
He’d lost control of the situation.
The new stone wasn’t ready. Although he’d meticulously etched the number 3 in Arabic and Hebrew into it, he hadn’t doused it in blood and let it dry. Nor polished it to a perfect sheen. He could no longer admire his work or savor his deeds. Reaching over his shoulder, he scratched his back, where his wounds from his recent flogging were healing and itching to the point of distraction.
Scratching was a problem.
Because it was noticed.
In the house, when he’d absently reached over his shoulder and rubbed his back, the woman had taken note and commented. She’d asked if he had gotten into some poison ivy or had been bitten by the ever-present mosquitoes that abounded? Did he need her to apply some salve? He’d brushed off her suggestion, but, he knew, she was suspicious.
She had reason to be.