Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) (8 page)

“Look,” I said, “we must be on the edge of a front. The
weather could get worse. It’s a short hop. I want to get to the island while
the getting’s good. Soon the water’ll be too choppy for any boat. If you want
to turn around, fine, but will you drop me first?

“The chief needs extra hands. He’s trying to reach off-duty
officers, but some won’t make it over in time. Rita, I’ll look in on your
husband if you stay in Beaufort.”

“No, I’m coming.” Rita sighed. “I’ll never hear the end of
it if you go across and I don’t.”

***

At the boat ramp, nearly a dozen islanders awaited portage.
The owner of E. T. Grits, Dear’s convenience store, was among the marooned.
She’d been on a Beaufort supply run and her Expedition SUV was loaded with
provisions. Hollis County snuggled up against Beaufort County, and the town of Beaufort
offered the nearest shopping.

“You’ll make a mint,” Donna muttered. “I’ll give you twenty
bucks right now for a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread.”

“Hey, I don’t gouge,” the owner objected.

“I’ll help you load groceries when our rescuer arrives,” I
offered.

“Me too,” said a familiar voice at my back. I turned to see
Deputy Braden Mann. The duffle bag slung over his shoulder gave him a rakish,
vagabond air.

“Glad to see you, Marley. I tried to call you earlier,” he
said. “How was the dinner?”

“No one confessed.” I grinned. “But I can fill you in on
Dear real estate if that helps. You headed to the island?”

“Yep. The sheriff wants at least one deputy stationed on
Dear until the bridge reopens. I was the logical choice. I live alone and have
island leads to follow.”

Rita stood beside me, openly eavesdropping. “Where will you
sleep?” she demanded. “I’d put you up, but we just painted our guestroom and
the fumes are awful. Marley lives alone and has two spare bedrooms in her
rambler. Isn’t that right, Marley?”

“Sure,” I fumbled, thinking about Dear’s wagging tongues.
Oh, hell, why not give the neighbors some juicy gossip? My Tae Bo routine had
lost its novelty.

“Braden, you’re welcome to bunk at my house till things get
sorted out.”

“That’s a generous offer. But the sheriff’s made other
arrangements.” He smiled impishly and leaned closer for a stage whisper.
“Knowing the county’s per diem, he probably arranged for a cot in the DOA
lobby. Maybe you can help me plan a jail break.”

Did his joke have a subtext?

Captain Hook’s “Ahoy” saved me from the need to frame a
clever response. “Hey, we’re in luck,” I said. “If anyone can deliver us safe
and sound, it’s Captain Hook and Tinkerbell.”

Braden arched an eyebrow.

I laughed and explained the charter boat captain was Tom
Hooker a.k.a. Captain Hook. The retired naval officer had named his sleek
vessel Tinkerbell. Every Halloween, he delighted kids by donning a pirate’s
costume. A camouflage rigging let him hide his sound right leg and clump about
on a peg, trickery he’d mastered years ago when
Forrest Gump
filmed on
location in the Lowcountry. Hook had provided aquatic support to the movie
crew.

When the jolly captain got within fifty feet, he dropped
twin anchors to hold Tinkerbell’s position so her bottom wouldn’t scrape.

He lowered a rubber dinghy and rowed to the ramp. “I can
only carry three at a time. And I’m afraid you’ll get your feet wet. Might want
to shuck any shoes and socks and roll up your pants.”

As Hook finished his spiel, Bea Caldwell marched briskly to
the head of the makeshift line. “Surely you can get closer than this. You don’t
expect me to wade, do you?”

Hook was not amused. “Lady, I’m a volunteer, not your
servant. Count yourself lucky I’m offering a ride. You can wade or swim to the
dinghy. I don’t care. Make up your mind while these good folks ahead of you get
on the boat.”

Not accustomed to back talk from hired help, Bea got her
dander up. “I don’t think you understand. My husband expects me. I can’t go to
the back of the line. You might run out of room. Gator told me to take this
boat. You do understand? These are Mr. Caldwell’s orders.”

“Well, ma’am, maybe ol’ Gator can tell you to piss up a
rope, but he can’t order me.”

“How dare you speak to me that way?” she huffed.

“I dare just fine. But don’t get your panties in a twist.
There’s room. You can board right after we load all these folks and the
groceries. Now that’s what I call
important
cargo.”

The young woman’s face flushed beet red as everyone in line
snickered.

“Way to go, Hook,” Rita whispered, as he handed her into the
dinghy. “Wish I had the nerve to give the witch her comeuppance.”

“Not much Queen Bea can do to me,” our ferryman replied. “I
spend all my time aboard Tinkerbell and don’t give a flip about club
membership. But I’ll wager I’ve booked the last company fishing charter.”

It took about fifteen minutes to load all the passengers.
The boat ride proved wet and wild. At one point Braden’s gaze wandered below my
chin. He must have sensed my perusal. His eyes met mine and he blushed. Then he
stripped off his windbreaker and held it out.

“You’re getting soaked,” he mumbled.

I looked down and realized my tennis warm-ups were pasted to
my body. I was shivering like a newly shorn sheep in a downpour. Braden tucked
the windbreaker around me.

“Thanks. You’ll have to start carrying two coats if you keep
giving one away.”

We reached the dock and tramped up the sloped loading ramp.
Chief Dixon tossed me a towel and shook Braden’s hand.

“Glad you made it,” he said to Braden. “Marley, I’ll drop
you home for dry clothes. The seas are too heavy for more ferries. That means
everyone on the island stays here till morning, and no one else can join us. I
couldn’t reach any of our fellas on the mainland in time to get them on Hook’s
boat.”

Glancing at the white-capped frenzy, I spotted a hulk of a
man on the docks. He coiled a rope in hands the size of platters. Something
about him tickled my memory. He bulled his way down the rental docks, his
hunched back as broad as a billboard. Then he swiveled in my direction,
offering a glimpse of his grayish face. It looked like Underling’s ugly puss.

Why would Kain Dzandrek’s flunky be docking at
Dear
Island
?

***

It was four-thirty and chaos reigned. Stranded construction,
service and delivery vehicles jammed the marina parking lot.
The bar will do
a banner business tonight.

Dixon exited against the traffic tide. A line of golf carts
clogged the road. The drivers were all sixty-ish with gray hair, glasses and
pastel windbreakers. The carts snaking along Flying Fish Drive conjured up a
fleeting vision of zombie clones capturing the island. Some drivers were
undoubtedly coming to retrieve passengers, others to volunteer for ferry
duties. All wanted to check the marina hubbub firsthand. For Dear, this was
major excitement.

“We still meeting Grace Cuthbert?” I asked the chief.

“No,” he snapped. “Got a call from some hot-shot lawyer. He
said the Cuthbert boys’ latest prank had traumatized their mother, and she’d
gone away to…how’d he put it? ‘regain her mental clarity.’ Hell, she’s at some
fancy spa. Incommunicado for three days.”

Grace’s departure surprised me. “She left the boys alone on
Dear?”

“The boyfriend’s playing nursemaid. The lawyer claimed he’d
keep ’em on a tight leash, bed checks included. Fat chance. If those little
bastards come near my Sammie again, I’ll kill ’em with my bare hands. Screw
Grace’s money.”

The sheriff sucked in a breath, held it a beat, and exhaled.
Anger management? “We don’t need to worry about those pissants tonight,” he
added. “Hugh drove the boys off island before the bridge buckled, and they
didn’t make Captain Hook’s last run.”

Braden’s face reflected his puzzlement. “What did the
Cuthbert boys do?”

I filled him in on the twins’ nocturnal escapade.

“I’d sure like to know what those boys were up to the night
of the murder,” the deputy said. “If they regularly prowl at midnight, maybe they saw something. I need to chat with Hugh Wells, too. Stew’s calendar had ‘H.W.’
penciled in for lunch Saturday.”

“Well, you can’t grill them tonight,” the chief allowed, “so
how’s about a little patrol help? The three fellas who worked day shift are
stuck here, can’t get home. But I can’t rightly ask ’em to work twenty-four
hours straight.”

“Sure. I’ll help. That’s one reason the sheriff wanted me on
island. No way to get deputies to Dear in an emergency.”

“Right.” The chief nodded. “Nobody’s gonna swim over if I
sound an alarm.”

“Can you provide a car?” Braden asked as he tossed a smile
in my direction. “Marley introduced me to your wildlife. I’m not eager to walk
a beat in a place where alligators have their own crosswalks.”

“Cars we got. How about the midnight shift? It’s close to
five now. Reckon you worked all day. Maybe you can get a little shuteye before
then. Same goes for you, Marley. I’m counting on you to pull graveyard duty.”

I stifled my groan. Another night without sleep. I was dead
on my feet. “Okay. But remember how agreeable I’ve been when I ask for a month
off to visit Iowa.”

Dixon pulled into my driveway and Braden cleared his throat.
“You mentioned shuteye, Chief. The sheriff said you’d find a place for me to
bunk.”

“I forgot. Been a little busy,” Dixon grumped as his dilemma
dawned on him. “There’s usually a free bunk at the fire station, but the EMS
guys are stranded. And it’s a zoo over at guest reception. Lots of folks who
were supposed to leave today went exactly nowhere. And I’m not just talking
angry tourists. We’ve got construction workers, drivers of delivery trucks,
maids.”

I opened my mouth, willfully ignoring the reasons I shouldn’t
extend my hospitality.

“Tell you what, Braden, it’ll be midnight before the chief gets you settled. You’re welcome to crash here a few hours, as long as
you don’t expect a dutiful hostess. Shut your eyes to the dust bunnies, and my
B and B has some fringe benefits—like leftover lasagna in the fridge.”
And a
woman ready for a remedial course in French Kissing 101.

“Sold,” he said cheerfully. Unfortunately he didn’t respond
to my mental telepathy.

Braden climbed out of the back seat, and the chief peeled
away before my front door unlocked. Inside, I gave my guest a nickel tour,
making sure to note all major points of male interest—TV, refrigerator,
microwave, and, finally, bedroom and bath.

The deputy was clearly surprised when I led him to the
master bedroom. “All yours.” I pointed at the king bed with its bright
multi-colored quilt and oversized pillows. His eyes searched my face. He
appeared confused and hesitant.

“Umm, isn’t this your bed?” he asked.

“No, don’t worry. I converted the sun porch for myself. It’s
sunny and cheerful. I prefer it. The master suite is great for guests, and it
offers privacy. No skulking down hallways in the dead of night searching for a
toilet.”

He didn’t need to know the real reason for my relocation.
The room made me lonely. The bed was too big. The space too silent. I hadn’t
slept in this room since Jeff died. I cleared my throat and headed for the
final tour stop. “Ta da,” I said. “Your bath.”

“I really appreciate this.” Braden put down his duffle.

“No problem. See you in a few hours. I plan to get up at
eleven, grab a bite, brew some coffee. Want me to knock on your door?”

The deputy’s yawn telegraphed his weariness. “Great.”

As I crossed the threshold to the sun porch, my bedside
phone rang.

“Can you talk?” Janie asked. “Who’s the hunk, and why is he
carrying a duffle bag into your house?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Sometimes I miss city life and
having a smidgeon of privacy. Why are you peeking out your window? I figured
you’d still be at work with all the excitement.”

“I am at work,” my friend answered cheerfully. “A real
estate agent was driving some prospects past your house when you and Handsome
Harry got out of Dixon’s car. She asked me what was up. Were you shacking up?
As your best friend, I was embarrassed to say I didn’t know.”

“Nothing’s up. The deputy’s helping with patrols. We’re
taking catnaps. Our shifts start at midnight. So don’t ring the doorbell or,
worse, use your latchkey. For all I know, the deputy would draw a gun if you
surprised
him
in the shower.”

“Oooh, now there’s an idea. From what I hear, deputies come
equipped with big guns,” she said with Mae West emphasis. “But, hey, you can
give me a full report. I hope you’re encouraging things. You’re not wearing
your ratty moose nightshirt, are you?”

“Stuff it. You up for breakfast tomorrow? I’ll be starving
after the night shift.”

“Sure. Golf café at seven? Bring the hunk. It pays to feed
’em. Stamina, you know.”

Janie hung up before I could verbally thrash her. With a
grin, I pulled on my moose nightie.

A
rattle, rattle
noise echoed in the kitchen,
followed by a crash and a muffled curse. My houseguest’s foiled attempt at a
stealth raid on the fridge made me smile. I climbed into bed and closed my
eyes. I wanted to sleep, but the same mental rat kept scurrying through my
maze.

Kain Dzandrek. What the hell was he up to? And why was he
curious about me?

Forget him. Think pleasant thoughts, I told myself. However,
my pleasant thoughts weren’t conducive to sleep either. I tossed and turned,
wondering whether Braden wore pajamas or slept in the buff.

I cut generous slabs of lasagna to nuke in the microwave. As
Braden walked into the kitchen, the stove’s digital clock flipped to 11:15.

“I’m heating enough for both of us. You hungry? I was about
to knock on your door when clanking pipes told me you were in the shower.
Figured you were up and at ’em.”

“Well, up anyway.” He tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.
“Thanks for giving me a place to crash. The lasagna’s great. In case you didn’t
notice, I helped myself to a big square before my siesta. But I’d love more.”

“Sure.” I put wedges on both our plates without bothering to
offer veggies.

“Is it kosher to ask how the investigation’s going? Did the
autopsy tell you anything new?”

Braden unfolded his paper napkin. “We’re getting nowhere
fast. The forensic pathologist from Charleston couldn’t pinpoint time of death
since the hot tub maintained the vic’s body temperature. His best guess—Stew
died after midnight. No surprise as to cause. He drowned. No defensive wounds.
It looks as if Stew got zapped before he realized he was in trouble. The
bruising on his hands and feet indicate the killer probably trussed him up with
zip ties while he drowned him. Not sure why he cut them off after Stew died.”

Braden raised a forkful of lasagna, chewed and swallowed
before continuing. “The crime scene guys couldn’t offer much help. It’s a
public area, so they have tons of fingerprints and baggies filled with stray
hairs. But without a suspect, that’s worthless litter. They picked up nearby
palm fronds, figuring the killer might have used one to scratch out that
‘stewed’ message. None had fingerprints.”

“Maybe you’ll get a lead from Stew’s papers,” I offered.

On yesterday’s tour, Braden mentioned the sheriff had
retrieved reams of paper and a computer from Stew’s apartment.

“Nothing popped. ’Course by the time I’d scanned five
appraisals my eyes glazed over. Not exactly riveting reading. Sales reports on
comp properties. Digital snapshots. Excel worksheets. We’re checking to see if
any of Stew’s recent appraisals came in so far below the purchase price, they
torpedoed sales. But it’s hard to imagine someone working up a murderous rage
over a decimal point in the wrong place.”

“I might be able to tell you something about the buyers or
sellers for Dear properties.”

Braden frowned. “Actually, I didn’t see any appraisals for
Dear. They were all on neighboring islands.”

“That’s odd. I had the impression Stew worked mostly on Dear
Island. The agents at last night’s dinner told plenty of stories about their
dealings with him. All complimentary. Maybe his island work came in spurts.”

A glance at the clock reminded me we didn’t have time to sit
and gab. It was quarter till twelve. “We’d better go. Bet you’re excited about
pulling patrol duty when you’ve got a murder to solve.”

“I don’t mind. It’ll give me a feel for what happens on Dear
after midnight.”

I laughed. “You thought Stew’s paperwork was a snooze?
Sometimes I count raccoons to keep my brain functioning.”

“So why do you do it? Got to admit I’m curious. If you
retired as a lieutenant colonel, you’re pulling down enough pension to live
comfortably without some Mickey Mouse job.”

I lifted an eyebrow, and Braden started backpedaling.
“Sorry. I have a gift for sticking my foot in my mouth, shoes and all. It just
seems, well, a bit of a demotion.”

“Hey, I’m not easily offended. Security guard wasn’t exactly
a career goal. I was at loose ends. Restless. I watched
Law & Order
reruns so often I memorized the dialogue. Bridge lessons and golf leagues bore
me. Someone mentioned my background to the chief and we talked. Maybe the job
is Mickey—or Minnie—Mouse, but it keeps me involved.”

Was there more to it? I grew up in an all-female household,
raised by a strong-willed woman who’d divorced in an age when it was a scandal.
I liked women, trusted them, enjoyed their company. Yet Jeff’s death, combined
with a move to Dear that stripped away male friends, left a void. I wasn’t
longing for sex, just conversation, jokes, getting a different take on the world.
My security job let me mingle with men while avoiding dating’s messy
complications.

Braden fixed me with a funny look. I knew I’d missed
something.

“Sorry, I was gathering wool. What did you say?”

“I was in the service,” he repeated between bites. “Unfortunately,
there were no women in my Coast Guard unit.”

“When did you serve?” I asked.

“Joined in ’89. Needed money for college, and the G.I. bill
looked good. I’d pinned my hopes on a football scholarship, but blew my knee
out senior year. Back then I was a poor excuse for a student so no academic
scholarship. And my folks didn’t have the dough.”

“You enlisted?”

“Yeah, I had visions of running down drug smugglers in my
cigarette boat and hitting the beaches in my off hours. Instead I spent most of
my tour guarding the Mississippi River. What a thrill. It’s colder than a
witches’ tit there in January.”

I laughed. “Well I’m sure my hometown appreciated your
protection. I grew up in Keokuk. It’s a river town.”

“Hey, I know it. Just south of Burlington near the Missouri
border.”

The microwave timer’s beep interrupted. I’d set it as a
last-ditch reminder that it was time to walk out the door. “We need to leave.
We’ll have to save our
Prairie Home Companion
reminiscing for later.”

Braden grinned. “I was a bit of a cad back then. You might
discover I jilted your sister.”

“Not unless she was cheating on her husband. She had a
ten-year-old son by the time you were patrolling the Mississippi.”

“Obviously you’re the baby of the family. I do remember Iowa
girls were very pretty and friendly. No surprise you come from Midwest stock.”

Was he interested?
It had been so long I wasn’t sure.
Perhaps his banter was another strange Southern custom.
Dang but he’s cute.

***

Chief Dixon said he’d man the security gate and handle resident
calls. He assigned Braden to cruise the island’s north end and gave me the
south. Since no cars were entering or exiting Dear, Dixon appeared to have
captured the plum assignment. But within half an hour, he complained the phones
were driving him batty.

Stew’s murder and the damaged bridge spooked residents.
Every rustle in the bushes suggested a prowler. Every tapping tree branch
signaled a sicko Peeping Tom. Naturally, they wanted security to investigate.

We played den mother, too. To hold down expenses, stranded
workers pooled their resources to rent villas and buy cases of beer. Whenever
the partying pissed off sleepy neighbors, Dixon dispatched us to knock on doors
and ask the marooned intruders to lower the noise a notch. While E. T. Grits
might still have milk and bread, the store’s beer rations had to be dangerously
depleted.

By three in the morning, things quieted, and I could no
longer blame my procrastination to patrol Beach West on cranky residents. Time
to reenter the jungle. Nothing scary—just an overgrown tangle of vines. Who’s
afraid of inky blackness or slithering snakes?

While my internal pep talk failed to psych me, it shamed me
into launching my patrol car down Beach West’s rutted logging lane. After
bouncing along for a few hundred yards, my headlights caught the open door of a
red Mercedes wedged into a small clearing in the swampy bramble. The bumper
sticker read: “My Other Car is a Broom.”

Bea Caldwell’s car. My mental antenna put me on full
heebie-jeebie alert. She’d pitched a hissy fit about the sticker last night,
screaming at Chief Dixon about some vandal’s vile sacrilege of her vehicle.

When the chief asked if Bea could think of possible
suspects, he’d almost choked on his inhaled laughter. The pitiful truth: Bea
had nothing but enemies on Dear. I figured high-spirited college interns
working at the Dolphin as the probable bumper-sticker culprits. But a sinking
feeling told me Bea’s abandoned luxury ride was no prank.

I pulled up behind the vehicle. No occupants were visible in
my headlights. I called in. “Hey, Chief, it’s Marley. If you don’t hear from me
in ten minutes, send the cavalry, will you? I just drove into Beach West and
Bea’s Mercedes is ditched in the swamp. It looks abandoned; the driver’s door
is wide open.”

“Want to wait for backup to check things out?” Dixon asked.

“Nah,” I said with more bravado than I felt. “Just stand by
while I take a peek.”

I took a deep breath and checked my Taser and Glock. My
heartbeat quickened as I grabbed a flashlight and opened my door. My shoes sunk
a couple of inches in the mushy ground as I tiptoed toward the Mercedes. Cold
water seeped through the seams in my shoes. I shivered.

My flashlight beam swept the car’s interior. Nothing. Then I
painted the surrounding landscape with my beacon. Fifteen feet away, my light
ricocheted back.

“Oh no.” My flashlight lit up Bea’s silver-spangled pantsuit
like a beacon.

“Mrs. Caldwell?” I called. “Bea? Are you all right?”

No answer. I inched closer to the sprawled body. “Sweet
Jesus.”

Bea was anything but all right. Her face was grossly swollen
and covered with angry red welts capped by white pustules. Tiny red ants
crawled in and out of her staring eyes. I watched mesmerized as they exited a
mouth that must have opened in a final scream.

Check for a pulse. I leaned forward and picked up a limp
wrist.

No pulse. My fingers grasped her wrist for an extra beat to
be sure.

She’s dead, I told myself. Mouth to mouth will do no good.
Get the flock out of here.

Still, I lingered, trying to decide if there was something,
anything else to be done. Bea lay on a huge fire ant mound, and her tongue
protruded slightly. Something rested on it. The object, small and round like a
quarter but darker, appeared to be ant nirvana, the center of a swarm.

A burning pain seared my hand. My proximity had tempted a
few of the tiny enemy to forage for fresh meat. Dammit to hell. The ants
marched across my hand and wrist, piercing my flesh at will. I beat my hand
against my pant legs to squash the suckers.

As I backed away, I viewed Bea’s neck from a different
angle. Telltale stun-gun burns decorated her skin. Based on the pattern, it
appeared the killer opted to incapacitate his victim with a hand-held stun gun
this time.

Bea’s wrist—the one encircled by an allergy alert bracelet—was
flung at a bizarre angle. It looked as if her arm had been posed to point at an
open patch of mud.

I drew my gun and crept toward the mini-clearing. Capital
letters were scratched in the damp earth: “TO BEA OR NOT TO BE.”

Nausea hit me.
Get back to the car.
NOW
.

Frantically, I splashed my flashlight high and low, a
360-degree sweep. Nothing.

I ran to the car and slammed the door shut.

“Marley, you there?” the chief’s voice boomed out of the
squawk box.

“Yeah, I’m here. Send the cavalry. Bea’s dead. The killer’s
probably long gone but I’m not about to search the woods alone.”

“Stay in the car,” Dixon yelled. “I’m on my way.”

My allegro pulse didn’t calm, but my mind started to
function. Opening the car door, I thrust my legs outside. I rummaged through my
wallet, extracted a credit card and used the stiff plastic to rigorously brush
off the ants clinging to my trousers and shoes. After jettisoning as many of
the suckers as possible, I closed and locked the door.

My metal cocoon felt claustrophobic. Nervous sweat soaked
the shirt beneath my jacket and my skin grew clammy. At any hint of a rustle,
my flashlight beam probed the canopy of greenery.

Is the killer out there?

My thoughts returned to Bea and Monday night’s real estate
gala. Everyone at our table knew about her allergies. Yet it was doubtful my
dinner companions belonged to an exclusive club. Bea probably vented frequently
about insects. That meant lots of folks would realize how simple it would be to
sentence Bea to death. Find an ant hill, immobilize the woman, and dump her.

Who wanted to see Bea dead?

The list of candidates would fill an entire notebook. Even
Gator’s junior partner, Sally, had vocalized her fervent wish that the second
Mrs. Caldwell would “make like a frog and croak.” Amazingly, Sally never
bothered to hide her loathing from Gator. She expressed her sentiments about
Bea with the woman’s husband sitting at her elbow.

The rest of us politely waited until both Caldwells were
absent to hurl our epithets. However, wishful thinking and acting on homicidal
fantasies were two different matters.

The minutes in my solo vigil stretched on, leaving time to
puzzle over the murderer’s choice of victims. Stew was as well liked as Bea was
reviled. Stew was male. Bea, female. Stew worked as an appraiser. Bea’s sole
job was pampering Gator and Feng Shui’ing corporate digs. Stew and Bea didn’t
move in the same social circles, and I’d wager there were no amorous ties. Bea
wouldn’t risk her princess status, and Stew had better taste.

Yet the crime scenes shared the same nightmarish signature.
Some sort of stunner to cripple victims. Smart-alecky messages printed in
capital letters.

While repulsed, I was also intrigued by the killer’s M.O.
Why stun the victims? His methods were indirect, time-consuming, risky. The
killer had to work fast to hogtie his prey before the initial jolt of
electricity wore off. Then he had to wait around long enough to make certain
there was a final curtain call. That upped the threat of discovery. Did it also
give him an adrenaline rush? Who knew?

I cringed, thinking of Stew and Bea waiting to die. Unable
to move or scream, trapped inside their paralyzed bodies while their killer
manhandled them. It was beyond hideous. Beyond bizarre—it was evil. Who could
do this? And why? What did the killer plan next?