Chapter 5 Collector
Collector
The tranquility of his solitude enveloped the night as the Collector sat motionless inside his car, shrouded in shadows.
Behind him, the woods stirred, the gentle song of crickets tickled the night air, their song folding seamlessly into the darkness, bringing the anticipation of the moment alive.
It helped ease the thrill of the upcoming kill that thrummed beneath his skin.
A low flame he couldn't put out burned within him, momentarily subdued by the thrill of the hunt, but waiting to ignite.
He surveyed the darkness surrounding his sanctuary. The moment was a place where his desires could roam freely, hiding him from prying eyes. Here, there were no commands to follow, no small talk to be forced into, and no distractions to keep him from his true desires.
The paradox of the life he led—craved even— was that within it lay the promise of peace and calm but also the whisper of something more.
His eyes closed, the burning within him fighting the solitude of the night, trying to consume his restraint. He tried to think of anything that might take his mind away from the kill. It was revenge that typically occupied his thoughts.
The new girl was going to be a problem, but he would deal with that later.
In this moment, he needed to satisfy his desire— his need to kill.
He shifted in his seat, trying to get a better view of the club's door, and forced himself to refocus.
Controlling his desire to kill grew harder each passing day he didn't satisfy it. And it had been far too long.
Hunting had always been his second-favorite pastime, not because of the hunt itself, but for what came after. It was the precursor to his next kill. Offering him clarity and control, a refuge from the relentless noise of the world.
His fingers moved lightly over the steering wheel, tapping in time with the ambient chirping of the crickets. Each tap mirrored the cadence of his thoughts. The irritation that had clung to him earlier dissolved like mist in the crisp night air, pushed away by the need he felt.
Through the cracked window, the scent of pine and moss drifted in—its fragrance was earthy and familiar. It reminded The Collector of his home at the cabin. Of the final resting place for his victims.
Almost time for you to sing for me, Sugar.
He licked his lips at the thought, imagining the taste of her fear.
Those final, trembling moments she would have before death—when the body knows it can't continue to exist, when the soul begins to slip.
That was what made his adrenaline spike, what set his nerve endings ablaze.
It was the spark that lit the fuse, the sensation that gave him release.
It wasn't her mind or her body he craved, but her death.
Those were the moments that fed him, sustained him enough to make it through every day—made his life worth living.
The Collector checked the time on the dashboard clock—3:20 a.m.
Last call passed twenty minutes ago. Any minute now, Sugar will be heading to her car.
He'd spent most of his life waiting—for something, for someone. It was a skill he'd honed with care, like a blade. He only lost patience when forced to deviate from his plans. That kind of disruption bred chaos. Messy. Ugly. Like what happened with Erica less than a week ago.
Chaos added risk. Increased the chance of being seen, remembered, and caught. His plans were precise. Surgical. Executed to a T. If something was off, he recalculated. Reformed. Molded the plan until it became something living. Breathing. Executable.
Just like his art.
Sugar was set to meet him in two hours at the DoubleTree Resort.
She called to confirm on his burner less than an hour ago.
She was a mediocre dancer at best. Her figure, though smooth and curved, wasn't the best on display at the club.
That fact, paired with her cocaine addiction, made her an easy target to acquire.
Her low earnings and drug problem made her predictable and easy to manipulate.
And predictability was the first step toward total control.
He'd put his plans for vengeance at a standstill for a moment to reform them. Sugar was a necessary distraction to keep him focused.
The three-hundred-dollar price of their arranged meeting was a golden opportunity for her to feed her addiction, the reward great enough that he knew she wouldn't flake out on him, but not enough to make her question his intent.
A few hours remained until the appointment; an appointment she would never actually arrive at.
He watched and waited for her, ready to put his real plan into action.
The club door burst open in a flurry of noise and motion, the sudden brightness within spilling out into the dimly lit parking lot like a spotlight.
Five dancers emerged together, their heels clattering loudly against the pavement, the rhythm mismatched but oddly captivating.
Their laughter, sharp and crackling, broke through the quiet night, carrying the unmistakable edge of too much alcohol and fleeting revelry.
It echoed off the concrete walls around them, filling the otherwise empty lot with chaotic energy.
They formed a loose circle near the entrance, their colorful outfits glinting under the flickering neon club sign. Their gestures were broad, exaggerated by the giddiness of the end of their shift.
They laughed, joked, telling stories of the night, no doubt. He caught words—pieces of conversations, but not enough to understand them. A sudden gust of wind carried the faint, mingled scents of their perfume, sweat, and cigarette smoke towards his waiting car. It made his stomach sour.
The Collector straightened in his seat. His fingers now rested lightly on the steering wheel, but his body was taut with focus, his senses sharp, eyes locked onto the group.
Come on, come on, let's do this.
The dancers lingered, their laughter rising and falling in waves.
One of them, a woman with confident strides and hair that shimmered in the low light, turned slightly, her back to the others.
Sugar. Her shadow stretched out toward him on the asphalt, long and distorted.
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he watched her movement.
The low hum of his idling engine thrummed under his fingertips, anchoring him in the moment.
Another woman threw her head back, releasing a sharp, melodious laugh that punctured the air.
Shortly after, the group began to dissipate, heading toward separate cars.
He exhaled slowly, every detail of his plan sharpening in his mind like pieces of a puzzle falling into place.
Paying attention to detail was part of the plan when precision mattered most.
He'd chosen Sugar because she insisted on flirting with him—rubbing her cleavage in his face, leaning too close, laughing too loud, and making him the center of attention—a place he never wanted to be, outside of his kill room.
She'd offered herself like a gift to him. He'd played her game and let her believe he was interested, luring her in. Little did she know he didn't want what she offered. The kind of pleasure she provided bored him. But she did have something he wanted.
Her pain. Pain thrilled him. Slicing, peeling, pulling skin from flesh. That brought him ecstasy. Shivers of delight coursed through him as he waited for her to situate herself in her car and drive out of the parking lot.
Her taillights flared at the end of the driveway—waiting for a car to pass before pulling onto the road.
He put his car in drive and inched behind her, keeping his distance.
No need don't rush. Don't follow to closely. The Collector already knew where she was going.
She'd turn right onto Mulholland Drive. Two miles down, she'd stop at Mom-and-Pop D's Grocery.
The road was scenic and secluded—perfect for what he had in mind.
The motel she lived in was a shithole. The amenities barely functioned, the small refrigerators and prehistoric microwaves in the rooms were unpredictable, to say the least. Food never kept for more than a few hours, he knew.
Because, while he was in the room beside hers, installing surveillance equipment, his own refrigerator cut off and on intermittently.
She'd stop for food because her refrigerator was empty. She was predictable.
Watching her for the last two weeks, he'd learned no one ever came to visit her, other than her dealer, of course.
She worked six days a week and slept all day on her day off; her phone never rang with family members calling or a best friend checking in.
Everything the woman did was work or drug-related. No one would miss her.
A quick text to her job bought him time—precisely what he needed.
With her absence explained, he no longer feared anyone would report her missing.
He preferred it that way. Always did. He liked to dispose of the bodies before anyone noticed they were gone, before questions started.
The usual dumping ground waited, quiet and familiar.
The incident on the freeway last week had already provided the FBI with more than he preferred.
He needed to be careful, cover his tracks, and maybe get his victims from other cities for a while after her.
Even if the profile they were constructing on him now resembled pure fiction, he needed to remain vigilant at staying hidden— if he wanted to get what he truly desired.
The only problem he faced now was the degree of difficulty the FBI's involvement added to his real mission, ending the Kings. It was beginning to piss him off.