Page 10 of Insidious Heart
I found Bruce at a dive bar, a real hole in the wall kind of shitshack, and I watched him long enough to know he wasn’t going to pull any shit while he was there before I took off to the motel.
He checked in yesterday morning and when I got a hit on his credit card—guy’s a real moron—I came all the way out here and sat on his room for damn near thirty-six hours before he left. Once he did, I let myself in, took a look around to make sure he wasn’t hiding someone inside, then followed after him to that shitty bar.
I watched and I waited.
I analyzed his mannerisms, learned his tells and ticks. Fucker is as obvious as they come, but even that wasn’t enough of a red flag for the chick in her late twenties to stay away from Bruce, so when he really started chatting her up, I took my leave.
And now I’m stalking that sick bastard just like he did to seven women before this one.
With my eyes glued to Bruce as he fights to get the sandy-blonde-haired woman out of his truck, I start reviewing what I know of hisroutine.
Drugs them, then takes them back to some remote location. Strips them down, gags and blindfolds them, then ties them to the bed. Bruce leaves them like that for a bit while he takes a shower, eats or watches TV. Then he starts telling them what he’s going to do to them, outlining his plan in explicit explanations before he executes it down to the most minor of details. And when he’s done, he drugs them again and dumps them in some location far enough from where he picked them up to avoid getting noticed, but not far enough to prevent them from being found.
And I knowallof this because Bruce finally pissed off the wrong people.
Person.
Bruce Carpenter finally pissed off the wrongperson, which in turn pissed off the wrong people, and that’s why I’m here.
I am death incarnate come to make him pay for his sins.
My gaze is fixed on the door as Bruce drags his victim inside, and I stab out my cigarette and pull on my gloves, flip up my hood and slide my mask into place then wait about fifteen minutes in order to allow Bruce to get through the first part of his routine.
I’ll stop him before it goes too far, but don’t mistake that as some act of mercy or a form of heroism. I have no conscience, not one single ounce of remorse or regret over what I do, and that includes the fact that I won’t be freeing that woman or getting her to safety. That’s not my job, and if I hadn’t caught Bruce before he made a bonafide victim out of her, it wouldn’t have moved my meter either way.
Not anymore.
I’m callous to this shit and impatient as fuck, and this bastard has made me wait long enough.
On that note, I grab my bag from the passenger’s seat, double check to make sure I have everything I need, then exit my current ride that I’ll wipe clean and ditch later.
I never leave anything behind, nothing except my calling card and even that hasn’t been enough for anyone to find me. Not that they’d find anything if they tried—which they don’t seem to be actively doing considering the kind of scum my work generally leads them to. But I’m a ghost, just like the news outlets so stupidly refer to me as, and that’s how I intend to keep it.
Stopping just outside of room six, I listen for a beat to make sure Bruce is moving things along as planned, and when I hear nothing but the low hum of the TV and the running shower, I start picking the lock.
Fucker didn’t even have the chain latched.
I look around as I close the door; woman is on the bed, limbs sprawled and tied to all four corners. She’s gagged with what appears to be a sock underneath some duct tape, blindfolded with a cheap necktie, and if she wasn’t completely naked and covered in goosebumps, I wouldn’t be able to tell if she was alive or dead. Bruce must have given her too much of the sleeping pills he likes to use on them because she’s definitely not conscious right now.
Movement from behind the partially open bathroom door catches my eye and I can’t help but grin. Brucey is making this far too easy on me, but I’ll enjoy it nonetheless.
I lock up the room and hang the strap of my bag over the doorknob then lift the ice pick from the pocket of my suit. I never use the same weapon twice if I can help it, which is a personal preference that makes it harder for the cops to track me as well, and I usually use something that’s generic and can be found almost anywhere but allows me to make this a moreintimateexperience.
Because I enjoy adding a little personal flair.
Crossing the room, a thrill races up my spine.
My adrenaline starts pumping through my veins, my heart rate increases, and the mix of endorphins and dopamine that start firing in my brain have me feeling high as a goddamn kite.
And I haven’t even killed him yet.
I peer through the crack in the door and see Bruce’s clothes in a pile, a stack of towels on the counter, and his shadow moving behind the curtain.
This is like shooting fish in a barrel, and while that cheapens the experience for me a little, I don’t have enough time to enjoy this the way I generally like to.
Which is why I push the door open, take a few steps inside, and wait for Bruce to notice me.
But he doesn’t.
