He stretched, his arm muscles rippling. He walked to the dresser where a pan of water sat. He dipped the washcloth in it and proceeded to scrub the blood from his arms. He rinsed the cloth in the water, fascinated as it turned red.
The whimper from the bed caught his attention. He regarded his canvas. The blood had run and pooled, drying in places. It swirled in a myriad of patterns that spoke to him. Beautiful.
It was all about the glory of the patterns.
Everyone looked for patterns. Even the ordinary souls found patterns in their everyday life. It was human nature. A slow smile curved his lips as he thought of the police and the FBI. They had to be driving themselves nuts trying to find a pattern in his kills.
The simple truth was they’d never find a pattern. His patterns weren’t in the canvases he chose. His patterns could be found in the beautiful lines created with each drip, each small stream of blood as they trickled down the body that served as a perfect canvas to create upon. He chose his canvases young only because they tended to be fit, their blood quick and sure.
And they needed to be women. Men really held no appeal. A woman could satisfy other needs as the paintings drew themselves. Though he supposed it might be an experiment to see how differently the patterns formed on a male canvas. He didn’t know if he’d be able to sate his needs on a male canvas.
No, he decided. Best to stick to what gave him pleasure.
He walked back over to the bed and released his beauty from her restraints. She cried out when he picked her up. The burns on her skin had reddened up to just the right color.
“Come, love, let’s get you to the bathroom.” He picked her up and carried her to the toilet. He helped take care of her business then turned on the shower. “We need to get you cleaned up. We have a date tonight. I have something special planned.”
It took him a few minutes, but he got her bathed and her hair washed. It cleaned all the blood away, but that was fine. He had photographs to look at. Besides, the new games he had planned would put his beloved chaos theory to the test again. He took his time and towel dried her body, relishing every small cry where he rubbed a burn just a little too hard. Her hair took a little longer, but once he was finished, she looked fresh and clean.
“Come, you must be starving.” He picked her up off the bathroom floor and carried her into the living room. Her eyes examined the room, looking for exits. He knew this without looking at her, because they all did this. There was no escape, though. The door was padlocked on the inside and bars adorned the windows. She could get up, walk around, scream, pound on the door, but with no one around for miles, her efforts would be moot.
He put her on the couch then wandered into the kitchen. He popped a frozen pizza in the oven and grabbed two beers from the fridge. She cringed when he sat beside her, popping the tops.
She tentatively took the bottle he handed her. “Drink.”
That pert little mouth sipped at the beer and he felt himself harden. So many things she’d already done with that mouth. So many more things she could do.
No. He shook his head. Best not to get sidetracked. He flipped on the television. Scandal was on. He enjoyed the show. Leaning back, he threw an arm over her shoulder, his fingers curling into her arm and pulling her close. She tensed and tried to pull away. “Now, now. We’re trying to have a nice movie night. Don’t be like that, sugar. You don’t want to upset me, now, do you?”
She shook her head and forced herself to relax.
He nuzzled her hair. “Good girl.”
The fight in her wasn’t nearly as strong as the last girl. His attention was waning. If it weren’t for the red hair, he’d probably already have disposed of her as a failed effort. His disposals were never left for the world to see. They ended up in the ground, away from prying, judgmental eyes. No one would see his failures. Perhaps he should give up on this one and find another?
But no. The police already knew about her. He’d made no attempt to hide her abduction. He wanted them to know, to see that he planned on taking Angel. It made the game that much more fun. If he disposed of her now, they’d start asking questions he didn’t want them to ask. Why get rid of her of her so early? Was he escalating?
Truthfully, he wanted to rush, to get this part over and done so he could focus on taking Angel, but he needed a plan first. She was locked away from him. He’d hoped she’d come to work tonight, but she’d stayed away. Agent Pretty Boy’s doing. He was sure of it. How to separate the two of them?
He absently stroked his canvas’s hair while he muddled through all the logistical problems bound up in his masterpiece. Angel. He’d pose her just like an angel, spread open, her body covered in the most exquisite markings. Perhaps he’d go look up angelic symbols and carve them into the suppleness of her flesh, just to add a bit of artistic flair.
So many possibilities.
What was his angel doing? Was she sleeping, safe and locked away in her tower, or was she lying there, afraid? Was she dreaming of him? Of all the things they would do together? Perhaps he should show her? He had her email address, after all.
Yes, he’d give her a peek into his world and all the beauty that awaited her.
The smell of pizza wafted his way, and he stood. He detested burned pizza.
Once they’d eaten, he wanted to take his canvas downstairs to the garage. He’d set up a display. Bound, fucked, and marked. His fingers twitched, aching for the feel of his brush—his knife, in this instance.
Food first. They’d both need their strength for this.
Then they would play.