She wore a bright yellow tank top and red shorts. Her shoulders were bare except for the straps. They had a deep golden tan but looked rather bony. Her b.u.t.t made me think of the word, "pouting." Maybe because it stuck out like the lower lip of a bratty kid. It was small but prominent, and looked solid. Her legs looked hard and glossy as if they'd been carved out of wood.

You don't get a body like that without working for it.

Which meant she was tough-minded, determined, proud.

Just my type.

But it also meant she'd be fast and strong.

Taking her would be a risky job, but I knew she'd be worth it.

When she was done with the detergent, she set the box out of the way and shut the top of the washing machine. She turned toward me just a little bit as she reached her right arm across the machine and turned the dial. Her left breast pushed at her tank top. It was like the rest of her-small, compact and pointed.

All of a sudden, I was thinking about the girl from the house. You know, the one that got away.

She was built a little like this one.

She was younger, of course. And much softer, and miles prettier. But the size was about the same.

And I thought how badly I wanted her. I remembered the look and feel of her. And how much trouble she'd caused. And I wondered how to find her.

I was still thinking about those things when water started gushing into the machine and Hillary turned away and walked to the door.

After she was gone, I climbed down off the top of the cabinet. I hung by my fingers, then dropped. Then I hurried and crouched at the end of the freezer.

And waited. You wouldn't believe how hot it was in that place. Sweat dribbled all over me. It tickled. I felt like my whole body'd been oiled, then rolled in a pile of dust and webs and bugs. There were dead spiders smeared all over my chest and arms and legs. Some old blood from the folks last night, too. Plus, I was dotted with lots of red b.u.mps. I itched like crazy.

I could smell my sweat, too. My sweat, and the stale blood.

Usually, I do like the others and lather up. I didn't do it last night, though. A good thing, too. For one, the cops-Hank and Pat-would've caught a whiff of me the second they came through the door.

Maybe I'd better explain. Lathering up is one of the things we do before we start on a foray. It's like actors putting on their makeup before the curtain opens on a play. We do it in Tom's van. That's where we change into our skins, where we arm ourselves, and where we lather up.

We don't lather up with soap. We scoop the stuff out of a big jar and smear ourselves with it. Tom labeled the jar, LUCKY STIFF STUFF. It's just his sense of humor. Inside the jar, what we've got is a portion of someone we've killed.

Killed a while ago.

The stuff is slimy and ripe.

Some of us dab it on like after-shave. Some like to really pile it on. It's pretty disgusting what some of them do with the stuff.

I use it sparingly, myself. A touch here, a spot there.

We do it for good luck. And because the death stench instills fear in the hearts of our enemies. And we also do it just because it's so f.u.c.king weird we get a kick out of it.

Anyway, I didn't lather up last night because the trots. .h.i.t me. Tom's got a toilet in the van. That's where I sat while the others were doing their bit with the jar. By the time I got finished and came out, they'd already left.

Hey, what do you know? I never thought of this till just now-the jerks had gone on ahead to the house to start without me, and then later they drove off without me and left me in this fix. So this was like a preview of coming betrayals.

Anyway, all I wanted to do was catch up. I didn't want to miss out on any of the fun. So I didn't bother gooping myself.

Maybe that saved me.

In fact, I'm sure it did. Those cops that came looking for me in the utility room would've smelled me. I'd be dead right now if I'd used the Lucky Stiff Stuff. Dead and soon to become my own brand, my own flavor of the week. Simon Scent.

Great. I'm starting to get morbid.

Probably the beer.

Anyway, the thing is, I didn't use the stuff, so I didn't stink, so the cops didn't nail me. So there I was hunkered down in the utility room this morning, waiting for Hillary Weston, sweaty and itchy-but stinking of nothing much worse than my own BO.

I sure wished she would hurry back.

After a while, I started thinking about what I'd like to do to her. That got me pretty excited, so basically I forgot about how hot and itchy and miserable I was.

Finally, she came back.

When she walked past me, I stabbed the top of her foot. She wasn't wearing shoes or socks or anything, so my knife went right into her bare skin. She sucked in a big, surprised breath and tried to jump back. Her foot actually jerked up off the floor. It didn't get away, though. All it did was slide a few inches up my knife blade.

Then it was me who jerked her foot up. I pulled out the knife while my other hand clutched her ankle and yanked her leg forward and shoved it really high.

She was letting out a squeal until her back slammed the floor. Which knocked her wind out. After that, all she could do was wheeze.

I landed on top of her, sat on her chest, grabbed a handful of hair to keep her head pinned down and pushed my blade against her throat. Hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to cut her.

Next, I asked who was in the house.

She shook her head. She tried to talk, but only choked out some noises. Her chest was pumping fast. It felt good, going up and down under me that way. And I liked how I could feel her shaking.

After a while, she whimpered, "Please don't hurt me."

"I don't want to hurt you," I told her. "You'll be okay if you do everything I say."

She nodded hard. She was crying, of course, which didn't improve her looks. I didn't much mind the tears or her red eyes, but the snot sliding out of her nose was pretty gross.

"For starters," I said, "who else is in the house?"

She waited too long before answering. Also, during the wait, a change came into her eyes as if a good idea had struck her. "My husband," she said. "He's ... he's home sick from work. He's right inside. He'll be coming out here in a minute. He's a policeman."

"Liar, liar, pants on fire," I said.

Then I took my knife away from her throat and jammed it crosswise between her teeth and slashed down, opening both her cheeks with one quick swipe.

She grabbed her face and didn't even seem to care I was stripping off her clothes. She had an all-over tan. Personally, I like finding fresh, white places on a gal. The white shows modesty, a sense of privacy. When I see it, I know I'm being treated to secrets.

There's something hard about an all-over tan. On Hillary Weston, it seemed appropriate.

I would've preferred some pure, white places, but I did enjoy the polished, glossy look of her tan. And the way she squirmed on the floor. And how her t.i.ts jiggled. They were small, with brown nipples that reminded me of the suction cups that came on toy arrows when I was a kid.

I used to pluck them off, and whittle points on the arrows with my knife.

I shot a cat named Mickey in the eye with an arrow like that.

You could lick the suction cups and make them stick to your forehead. These looked like they'd been licked and stuck on to the front of Hillary's t.i.ts. Neither of them had a socket for the arrow shaft, though; these came to a blunt point instead.

Her skin was hot and smooth and slippery.

She flinched and writhed each time I hurt her.

When she started to scream, I stuffed her panties into her mouth.

It'd take me an hour, maybe, to tell everything I did to her. I know I'd get a kick out of talking about it. Talking about these things is almost as good as living through them again. But a lot needs to be told about other stuff.

I'll cut to what I found most interesting.

Normally, I'm completely focused on the person I'm with. I'm into the moment, you know? I'm not daydreaming. While I did Hillary, though, I made believe she was the girl.

You know, the girl. The one who got away.

Hillary vanished. The girl was under me, and I loved every minute of it, every inch of her.

Afterward, I perched on top of the freezer and ate a Dove Bar. Then I put Hillary in the freezer.

As much as I hated to expend the effort, I mopped the mess off the floor. Then I left the utility room. The room had been horribly hot and stuffy. Outside, the summer breeze felt cool and soft and wonderful.

The back yard was fenced in, completely enclosed and private. Hillary's tan should've been a clue to that. Too bad I hadn't made the connection earlier. I could've dragged her out into the fresh air before indulging.

Oh, well. No great loss.

It would've been much nicer, is all.

While I headed for the back door of the house, I made myself a mental note to do the girl outside. If at all possible.

Even if it required some extra efforts.

The perfect surroundings for the perfect treat.

I entered the house. It was as chilly as a refrigerator. I shivered and got goose b.u.mps. But I took comfort from the knowledge that Hillary in the freezer had it worse than me.

I was fairly confident that her husband was not at home, but I went looking anyway. The search turned up n.o.body. From the looks of things, they didn't have children, either.

I learned their names from subscription labels on magazines in the bathroom.

Benedict and Hillary Weston.

I wondered what the girl's name might be.

Maybe Traci? Kimberly? Lynn? Joan?

I'll find out.

I took a very long, hot shower. The mess sluiced off me. Soaping down, I closed my eyes and pictured myself in the utility room. Not with Hillary, of course, but with my girl.

I wished she was with me in the shower.

And she will be with me in a shower. Maybe not today. Maybe tomorrow. We'll take a nice, long shower together before I take her outside to do her. That way, she'll be squeaky clean.

She shouldn't be difficult to find.

The way I had it figured, our friendly folks in the news media were sure to give the whole story a big play. They'd tell me the names of the two kids who'd survived last night's ordeal. With a little bit of luck, they might even say where the kids have gone to.

Only one problem.

My "pals" might get to the girl before me.

Chapter Twelve.

It made me sick to think of the others getting to her first. They could have the boy. I didn't give a hot hoot about him. But I wanted the girl for myself.

I had to have her, but they'd kill her if they got the chance.

Suddenly, I felt like time was running out. I told myself to calm down. Even if Tom and the others had found out where the kids were, they wouldn't rush into anything.

They're nuts, but they aren't fanatics. They don't want to die for any cause. They just want to enjoy the thrills of making others die.

So I tried to calm down. I stayed in the shower, soaping and rinsing, until I felt completely clean. Then I stepped out and dried myself on a thick, soft towel. It was a little bit moist when I pulled it off the rod. You'd think it would've gone into the wash with the other stuff. But maybe Hillary'd planned to wash it in the next load.

I hoped she'd been the one who made it wet.

The idea of rubbing myself with her towel was kind of appealing. What part of herself had she wiped with this section of the towel-with this?

It was disgusting, though, to imagine it might be her husband's towel. What if he'd dried his c.o.c.k or a.s.s with the same part of it I was using on my face?

Not a pretty thought.

I searched the towel for clues. Sniffed it, studied it for tell-tale hairs.

Wherever we go, we leave pieces of ourselves behind.

That's why the cops go over crime scenes so carefully, gathering up everything, even vacuuming. They're looking for what we've left of ourselves. Not just fingerprints or footprints, but bits of us. They want shreds of fabric from our clothes. They want samples of our spit, blood and s.e.m.e.n. They want the specimens of our skin sc.r.a.ped off by the fingernails of our prey. And, oh yeah, they very much want our hair.

It's all physical evidence, and physical evidence is what makes convictions.