Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)
Melinda Leigh
1
Two weeks ago
She died faster than I’d expected. In fact, the whole abduction and killing scheme was easier than I’d anticipated. I’d allowed several hours for tonight’s task but finished well ahead of schedule.
I shifted the dagger in my grip. The light from the camp lantern shone on the engraved hilt, and blood gleamed wet and thick on the silver blade I’d honed for the occasion.
She’d been easy to lure. A simple offer of drugs had been enough to entice her into the car. Once I attained the privacy of this abandoned house, the rest of the steps proceeded as planned. I’d been keeping her for several days, but tonight was the grand finale. Remembering the hours spent perfecting my scheme and the clockwork precision of its execution, adrenaline raced through my veins. Though dampness lingered below ground, I wasn’t cold. The event had gone off beautifully, and success was always a thrill. But for the culmination of a daring plan, the conclusion had been decidedly anticlimactic. I’d planned this for so long, envisioned every moment of each step along the way. How disappointing.
What had I done wrong?
The human body was appallingly fragile.
Size, fitness, strength. None of that mattered. One slice to the neck was all it took to turn a living being into a pile of connective tissue and bone.
Standing tall, I surveyed my work. She was naked. Her jeans and shirt, sliced from her body on day one, were folded neatly beside her. Her last-minute struggling had loosened scabs over the punctures on her thighs. Fresh blood dribbled in thin rivulets across her skin. The wounds had ceased bleeding now that her heart had stopped.
I’d anticipated that the killing would be messy business, but I hadn’t appreciated the sheer violence of dying. The cut had been perfectly placed for a quick death. I’d like to claim I’m not entirely without mercy, but that wouldn’t be true. My decision was based on practicality and the necessity of adhering to my schedule. After all, it wasn’t the first time I’d used a knife on her flesh, but it was definitely the last. The first few heartbeats after the knife stroke had produced rhythmic spurts with decreasing trajectory. The concrete slab wasn’t perfectly level. The remaining blood that flowed from the wound had run downhill and pooled against the cinderblock wall. Once her heart stopped, gravity allowed the body to leak for several minutes postmortem. Thankfully, I’d stood well back from the red river, sparing my clothes and shoes from contamination.
Leaning over, I switched to a reverse grip on the handle and used the knife point to draw a spiral on her abdomen. Even on an utterly still subject, precision took care. What I’d give for the spirograph of my childhood. There. Done.
I wiped the blade on her T-shirt and placed the knife in a plastic bag inside my kit. Now for the finishing touch. I’d brought everything needed for a proper funeral pyre: paper, kindling, gasoline. The match was struck and tossed. Fire whooshed, flames embracing the body with greedy fingers. I made my exit, not waiting to see if anyone noticed the fire—or the smell of burning flesh. Even if they did, this wasn’t the sort of neighborhood where anyone rushed to call the police. Grabbing the camp lantern, I hurried to my car and stowed my bag in the trunk. I checked the dashboard clock. An hour to spare. I’d counted on her putting up a better fight. Instead of thrashing and resisting death, she’d acquiesced with a few minor struggles, surrendering the moment she saw the knife. Perhaps the puncture wounds had been too deep.
Did some people hang on to hope longer than others? Were physical condition, age, and strength major factors in a person’s survival instinct, or did mental stamina play the largest role? Did a happy student with a bright future have a greater desire to fight death, a stronger will to live, than a homeless runaway? Or was the survival instinct an inborn trait as independent of life events as eye color?
All interesting questions, but before they could be analyzed, the next step of my plan needed to be executed.
Another girl waited. Another death. Another fire.
2
Today
The collection storage room of the Livingston Museum of Archaeology maintained the optimal temperature and relative humidity to stabilize the deterioration of the artifacts stored on its shelf-lined walls. Filters and vigilance reduced exposure to light, pollution, and pests. At a long stainless-steel table in the center of the twelve-by-twenty-foot space allocated to the European collection, Louisa examined the Iron Age Celtic short sword with gloved hands. With a sixteen-inch blade, the two-thousand-year-old weapon had been light and deadly in the close-quarters combat the Celts had favored. She returned the ancient piece to its open acid-free box. Moving to a second container, Louisa unpacked the newly arrived reproduction and held it next to the original, the length of shiny steel a sharp contrast to the artifact’s heavily corroded blade.
It was perfect.
Displayed side by side in the glass case beneath the battle mural, the juxtaposition of old and new swords would help museum visitors envision Celtic warriors charging into combat with the Romans. In the far corner of the room, life-size figures frozen in battle would reenact the deadly clash in 3-D. If Louisa closed her eyes and pictured the exhibit room as it would look in a few weeks when the new renovations were complete, she could hear the sounds of screaming men and the thunk of heavy blades on metal shields, smell unwashed bodies and sweat over the coppery scent of fresh blood.