Take Me With You(4)

I walk from my getaway—a car parked several streets away. It's past midnight and this residential area is quiet. Only a few lights still shine through the windows of the ranches and split-level homes with manicured front lawns. I blend in just fine with my dark wig and matching mustache. My passage is a series of canals that connect several neighborhoods. They are barren and dark and make getting from point A to B quicker. I use the canals to get from my car to a couple of streets down from the Hoeskma's house. For the next two blocks, I am a late night jogger in a black sweat suit.

I tuck my chin down as I proceed so if anyone does pass, they won't get a clear view of my face. These small adjustments are important. As long as no one ever gets a clear view of me, and I get away from the scene, they'll never be able to identify me. I am always changing, so any picture painted of who I am will be blurry.

The jog to the house is easy. I only pass one person, a man walking a dog who doesn't even bother to look at me. I turn towards the vacant house neighboring the Hoeksma residence, put on my gloves, and hop the wooden fence into their yard. Just as I predicted, all the lights are off, but their cars are in the driveway. They're sleeping in there, but it's still too early. I know the night. I flourish in the darkness. And for me, 3:15 is the quietest time of night. Far beyond most people's ability to stay up late, and too early for even the earliest riser. It's when you are secure in your sleep, in the safety of your warm covers, when you think you are most alone. That's when I come, when every last guard is down.

I wait patiently behind the bushes for hours, until every last light shining from the houses around me goes dark. It's finally about three and time for me to begin. Connie and Don use a window air conditioner and it roars loudly in their bedroom. I'll still be quiet, but I am less concerned that they can hear me over the white noise. Before I step out of the shrubs, I pull a black balaclava out of my pocket and slide it on. I head to a potted plant by their sliding glass door, where I hid a large screwdriver the last time I was here. I work the door, prying it open, trying not to make a sound, but the hunger is growing. The excitement is creeping up. Weeks of planning and I am so close to another house, another life, another rush.

Their glass door frame is thicker than usual, but eventually I am able to finally bend it, reach the latch, and jimmy it open. I take a deep breath, my hands shivering with the thrill, and slide the door. I listen for sounds of life. Nothing. There's a reason it's called the dead of night.

The sliding door leads directly into the living room of the well-maintained ranch. I have mastered moving quietly. I don't make a sound as I approach the sofa and lift a couch cushion where I have hidden duct tape. I take in the pictures hanging throughout living room one final time.

The happy couple. The nurse and the teacher. They sleep blissfully, taking for granted the life they have.

They want to hurt you again.

I creep to the bedroom door. Last time I was here, I oiled the hinges so they wouldn't make a sound as I entered. Carefully, I turn the knob. It's not locked, and I gently push the door open. It glides beautifully, not letting out even the slightest of creaks.

I approach the foot of the bed and watch them sleep. Don is on his stomach, a sheet haphazardly covering his bare ass, one leg hanging out of the covers.

Doesn't he know the boogeyman can grab it?

Connie is on her back, one of her tits is peeking out, her midsection and pussy are covered, and both of her legs are sprawled open. Her hair is spread across the pillow. She lies there exposed, secure that her husband can protect her. But my shadow rests across her partially nude body.

She's delicate. She's pretty. But she's not Vesper. I hate that she makes me do that. Each hit used to be perfect, existing as its own entity. Each experience new, unique with its own flavor. Now I find myself comparing each home to what it would be like if Vesper was there instead. She's stealing my thrill. I'll make her pay for that.

Connie and Don breathe slowly, their shallow breaths indicating they are unaware of my presence. I stand there for a few minutes, each one that passes adding to my power and their vulnerability. It builds. Until I am as charged as I can be without waking them, until I am throbbing with the unfulfilled craving. I pull out a handgun from my holster and a small flashlight from my pocket. I place the tape on the nightstand next to Connie.

Then I flash the light in her eyes.

She squints, shielding her eyes from the bright light. “Wake up,” I growl.

“What? Oh my god. Don—?”

“Shhh,” I say, putting the gun to her forehead.

Don stirs.

“Grab the tape,” I say, shining at the roll resting beside her. She stares at me, her eyes like globes, her mouth agape, as she reaches for it.

Don raises his head, still disoriented. I shine the light in his eyes and he opens them but clamps them shut immediately, shielding his face. “What the fuck?” he mutters, scrambling to an upright position.

“Don't move,” I keep my voice hushed, disguising its real tone. “I just want your money.” This is the critical part. There are two of them and one of me. I need to pacify them. I need Don taped up. It's easier to control the mind than the body.

“Okay, whatever you want man,” he says, trying to stand up. “Just please take what you want and go.”

“Don't move,” I command. “Connie, tape him.”