CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
This church – a place of solace for most – held a different meaning for him. This was the stage for his master performance.
He lingered in the courtyard, just beyond the wrought iron gate, but not close enough to the church doors to be seen.
The grave mourners and mass-goers had left for the day, and now in the quieter hours, the place belonged to him.
He’d parked his car just inside the cemetery, concealed by the brick wall and a cluster of trees.
He was invisible from both inside the church and out.
The early-evening air was cool, and the scent of damp earth mingled with the faint fragrance of incense that drifted from within the church. A tornado brewed in his mind, bringing with it a surge of emotions that even a man of expert deception like him struggled to conceal.
Any minute now, the next wave of arrivals would appear.
He knew their routines well – the early birds, those souls seeking solace and companionship in the arms of a group that understood their fears.
He could almost hear their hushed conversations and the sharing of inner demons in the very air that surrounded this holy place.
He hadn’t had long to rehearse this entry in his series because it was a deviation from his original plan. This was impulsive, spur-of-the-moment, but necessary. Since the fire subject had yielded nothing substantial, he needed to make up for his error.
The church bell tolled in the distance. Five rings, signaling five o'clock. Any second now, he told himself as he surveyed the area. Soon, footsteps would sound on the other side of the wall, and people would turn the corner into the churchyard. That was his cue to strike.
Then he heard it - the sound of tentative footsteps approaching the church from the main road. His heartbeat upped the tempo and sent a quiver to his thighs. He edged closer to the gate and fixed his attention on the corner where the churchyard path turned.
A lone figure appeared, a man clutching a small book, perhaps a journal.
He was early, probably seeking a few moments of solitude before the session.
His head was bowed, lost in thought, unaware of the danger lurking just out of sight.
He sensed a vulnerability in his posture, a slight tremble, as though coming here was an act of punishment rather than a personal choice.
He already knew the lone figure’s worst fears because he shared them every week, but even though bringing the man’s insect phobia to life would be a sweet experience, fortune was in his favor tonight.
The figure moved on, towards the church, where he’d sip coffee until the session began as he did every week.
He was not the one.
He had a specific target in mind.
As the figure dissolved from sight, he adjusted his position, melding further into the darkness.
The anticipation was an electric current running through his veins, both thrilling and unnerving.
Until now, he’d subdued all of his victims under the cover of night, but such a ruse wouldn’t fly this time.
He felt a perverse joy in upending his own rules.
There was something raw and visceral about stepping out of the shadows, about orchestrating fear under the watchful eye of the dying day.
This was no longer just about the fear he could instill in others; it was a test of his own cunning and audacity – something he’d need when this whole project came to an end.
He had no intention of staying in Cedarburg or even Wisconsin.
Once he had his answers, once he’d addressed the trauma that had plagued his own mind for the past forty years, he was going to set sail for Europe.
New name, new role, new life. Then once he was on his deathbed, he’d show the world his groundbreaking work and go down in history as a pioneer.
It was a perfect plan, and the only thing that stood between it was two more test subjects.
For now, though, his focus remained razor-sharp on the task at hand. He watched as the sky turned from gold to crimson. Then, the sound he had been waiting for – footsteps from the other side of the wall.
His heart skipped a beat, then settled into a steady rhythm. He peered through the veil of twilight the figure came into view.
His skin tingled. Each hair stood on end. His pulse broke into a frantic sprint.
It was him.
The moment had arrived.
The figure turned the corner, stepped into the churchyard.
The poor fellow was so absorbed in his own world, the sanctuary he sought within the church's walls, that he was blind to the danger that lurked just a breath away. The predator watched. Close enough to smell the figure’s cologne, close enough to taste his presence.
And close enough to strike.
In a heartbeat, he moved.
He lunged from the shadows like an uncoiling spring.
His senses flared to life. He clasped his hands around the unsuspecting figure’s mouth and stifled any cry of alarm.
The figure's eyelids snapped back, revealing orbs glazed with the sheer glaze of panic, the realization of his peril dawning in the split second before he was dragged back into the darkness.
There was no time to indulge in the euphoria of the hunt and no moment to bask in the triumphant capture. He had to move quickly, to execute the next phase of his plan with the same precision that had brought him this far.
The next experiment awaited.