Girl, Sought (Ella Dark #24)

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Thirty minutes of pure adrenaline had shot the Collector’s nerves to hell. The Toyota handled like a dream, as always, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking on the wheel.

Not the bad kind of shakes. More like the full-body buzz you get after skydiving or bungee jumping.

Or killing a priest and stealing his prized crucifix.

Beside him, Jesus rode shotgun. Not the real deal, of course, but a pretty good facsimile rendered in latex. Crown of thorns included because if you're going to do something, do it right. The mask's empty eyes reflected the mild afternoon light as the Collector took the back roads home. Those same eyes had watched Joseph Carpenter's last confession and had seen the old man's faith crumble like communion wafers. It was a glorious experience and easily the most satisfying of the three.

Not because of the six-figure treasure that he’d swiped once Joseph lay at his feet, because this wasn’t about money. What made this such a sweet kill was that Joseph Carpenter had everything a man could want; money, prestige, a legion of devoted followers. But even all of that wasn’t enough for him.

Five million dollars of medieval craftsmanship sat in his trunk - human bone from first-century Jerusalem, if the carbon dating records were to be believed. The Collector wasn't sure he did, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that Joseph Carpenter had believed, and he’d built his whole identity around these precious fragments of divinity.

Just like Eleanor and her dolls. Alfred and his insects.

Fragments of lives collected and curated and ultimately corrupted.

A police cruiser ghosted past. The Collector’s heart tried to climb out through his throat, but his hands stayed steady. Let them look. They'd see what everyone saw - nice car, nice suit, another office drone heading to his next meeting. Nothing to see here, officer. Just your friendly serial killer having the best day of his life.

Unless they looked right. Unless they saw the Son of God idling in the passenger seat.

The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it felt like foreplay.

His phone lit up as he hit traffic. He glanced over and saw another email about Eleanor Calloway. The office couldn't stop talking about her. Poor Eleanor, apparently. Such a quiet woman. Never hurt anyone. They had no idea how wrong they were. Eleanor had hurt plenty of people - she just did it by existing in her own little bubble, caring more about porcelain faces than real ones.

Then a call came in, but the Collector ignored it. It was an unknown number anyway, so probably just some scammers trying to sell him insurance he didn’t need.

Someone out there wanted his attention, but they'd have to work harder than that. He had places to be. Things to prepare. The next stage of evolution didn't happen by itself.

The traffic thinned as he hit Watson Boulevard, that sweet spot between lunch rush and school runs where the roads belonged to people like him - the ones with places to be and metamorphoses to complete. His new self felt like a butterfly testing damp wings, still soft around the edges but growing stronger by the minute. To his left, he spotted the concrete rectangle that doubled as the Chesapeake Police precinct.

Behind those walls, they'd be studying him now. They’d certainly found Alfred Finch’s body by now, because the Collector was the one who’d called in the anonymous tip. He couldn’t resist hearing the shock in the operator's voice when he'd told them he’d found a dead body inside a house. He’d wanted to describe it in detail, but the smart part of him told him to keep some things to himself.

And if those cops had any brains between them, they'd have found the footage of him in his insect mask in Finch's breeding room. The thought of those idiots trying to build a psychological profile of him brought a smile to his face, because how could they possibly know what he was planning? He wondered if they appreciated the artistry. The way he'd positioned himself just right for the camera so they could see exactly what he wanted them to see.

He turned onto Cedar, keeping the station in his rearview. Those cops probably thought they had him figured out. Drawing their neat little lines between victims, thinking they were closing in.

But he was still evolving. Still becoming.

So why not give them something new to study?

Something worthy of serious consideration?

He pulled into the curb. Sometimes the best ideas came from the simplest impulses. And right now, every impulse in his newly-minted self was screaming for attention.

After all, what was the point of transformation if you couldn't show people how far you'd come?