Page 43 of Insidious Heart
Like crashing my kill scene.
Or something a little like Bundy did, maybe even Kemper-esque because I have a feeling our man is not as stupid as I think he is. He’s probably unassuming and polite, someone these women were at ease with or felt bad for. He uses those traits then loses his shit when they do whattheone that got awaydid to him, so to speak. Sexually driven feels right to me and I think that means The Ripper is a very angry little man.
He’s probably impotent or very familiar with rejection, both of which could be accounted for in the level of rage in his kills, and I’m fairly confident he has a type or is going after women that fit the description of the one woman he can’t have but wants all the same. Brunettes with lighter eyes and fairer skin, ranging from five-three to five-seven, one-hundred-and-ten to one-hundred-and-forty pounds, between early to late twenties, not particularly curvy or fit, almost willowy and… my eyes dart to the media photos of his first two victims and scan their similarities before they cut to the closeup I took of the most recent victim’s face.
Jesus.
How did I not see it before?
They all look like Stevie.
There isn’t some striking or uncanny resemblance, but the similarities are there, and that means my little dove fits this asshole’s type perfectly. Andthatmeans I’m going to have to watch her even closer than I already planned to.
I quickly gather up the photos and articles, cram them back into the folders, dump those in my filing cabinet with the rest of my work, and rush to get dressed.
Stevie went into work early this morning, I know that for a fact since I spent all night sitting on her house waiting for Beau to show up—he broke routine and didn’t come home though, so the bastard is probably still in Sabine Woods with Jesus. And I saw Cal pull up seconds before my sweet little dove ran outside. The prospects all scattered after that, and once I was sure the house was empty, I went back and got myborrowedvan full of the shit I’d need to scrub Stevie’s bedroom then I got to work, which is how I know she was gone all day.
The problem is, this wasn’t a regular scheduled shift for my girl so I don’t actually know when she is getting off work, and being that I needed to haul ass and take care of her room as fast as possible, I didn’t bother sticking around or swinging by the nursing home to find out. And now it’s early evening and I need to make sure she gets home ok.
I step into my boots and shove my knife in the left one just as I throw open the door of my fifth wheel, barely remembering to lock it before I take off through the maze of broken down semis, trailers, and RVs toward the cars.
Yeah, I live in a junkyard.
Little John’s junkyard, to be exact.
One of his many businesses over the years was a very successful garage and scrapyard here in Birch Creek, one he ran for the Pythons and was sort of partnered with the Wulven Kings garage. Tank and Gunner—Tavish and Angus MacAllister—originally ran both businesses, then inherited the garage from their father when he died, but already had the bar on top of that, so they gave both to the then-president of the Pythons, who left it to Little John when he died since Link was his brother. And my mentor has been nice enough to let me squat here for the last twelve years.
In the beginning, I traveled a lot.
I’m not originally from Colorado and after shit hit the fan at home in Massachusetts, I took off on my own, and yes, I left a few bodies in my wake until I met John while he was on a hit in Illinois. He followed his mark, a piece of shit patch that was terrorizing the old ladies of the Pythons executive committee, across a few states because the fucker got wind of the hit placed on him and ran, but I got to the asshole first.
Little John walked in on me cleaning up my mess, that patch already positioned and missing his femur in the bedroom of the drug den we were both staying in, and instead of doing anything I expected him to do, John just nodded his approval and grunted out a threat to go with him or wind up as dead as my most recent victim.
Serial killer or not, that bastard is terrifying, and that’s how I wound up with John.
He put me up in a trailer at his junkyard, taught me everything I still needed to learn, thenretireda few years later and started giving me assignments in order to keep my urges under control.Justified killsis what he calls them, and my numbers have increased for the sake of the greater good ever since.
Over the years, as more vehicles were brought to the yard, I bounced around to better or at least less-shitty housing options, but I don’t mind living here, especially since the twenty-seven foot fifth wheel showed up a few years ago. Not half bad digs, if you ask me.
We always make sure my place is buried and far away from prying eyes, and surrounded by bigger semis and trailers if possible; it allows me to use, clean, and easily dump various rides or bring certain aspects of my work home when needed. Like what’s left of Joker and our night of fun, his parts currently dissolving in oil drums full of lye, the rest of the stuff taken from Stevie’s in vats of bleach, all sitting in a neighboring semi until I dispose of that too.
Living in the junkyard is perfect for me really, but at times it can be inconvenient as fuck.
Like right now.
I zigzag through the tractors and farm equipment, dart past school buses and utility vehicles, and when I finally start seeing vans and pickups, I push myself harder.
There are multiple, hundreds really, of cars that still run that got sent to John, the owners looking for fast cash or didn’t want to put the work into getting shit fixed, and again, that’s ideal for someone like me. Calling me aghostisn’t that far off the mark so I can’t have anything in my name.
I don’t exist anywhere but the junkyard and that’s how it has to stay.
Stopping at the first functioning vehicle I come to—a grayish Sable—I crank open the door, reach across the console and go under the passenger seat. I pull out the plate registered to John, then rush to get it on the back of the car as fast as I can. Once it’s secure, I hop into the driver’s seat, pull down the visor and catch the keys as they fall, then I’m flying through the narrow paths of the yard like a bat out of hell in order to get to my girl.
* * *
The first thingI notice when I turn down Stevie’s street is that it isn’t lined with motorcycles.
That means the new batch of idiots sent to watch her haven’t arrived yet and if that’s the case… yep.