Clothes! Her clothes! They were made from—made from fabric. What was she wearing? Jean shorts—that was why her legs were so cold. A tee, tight to her body and small. The only thing between her stomach and the cold ground. A zip-up hoodie, open, the hood pooled against the back of her neck, keeping her warm there.
Her bag! She had a scarf in her bag—but it was—no—back in the car…
Okay, think. The clothes she was wearing, these were all she had. The tee—the fabric was thin. Maybe easier to rip. She could tear it, take a whole section off the bottom. That was what they did in movies, right? Just tear it right off with their hands.
Rubie gathered her remaining strength, taking one hand away from her neck, and pushed against the cold earth. Damp soil pushed up between her fingers, oozing into the spaces, before she finally began to move. Slowly, and then in a rush all at once when gravity came to her aid, she flopped over onto her back. The impact rocked her back and forward, shaking the air out of her system.
There. One step closer. Now the blood was running back, trickling down across her neck and back toward her hair, and she felt she could let go for a moment to fumble for the fabric of her shirt.
She pulled and strained, but her normal strength was gone from her. Her movements were ineffective, her hands slipping and the fabric gliding out from between her frozen fingertips.
Think, Rubie, think.
The seams—they were the weak points.
She fumbled around for the side seam, finally finding it and taking hold of each side in her hands. She grasped and pulled, taking a deep breath and using everything she had—and the seam ripped, the stitches popping and unraveling with a sound like Velcro.
Rubie wanted to cry. She’d done it. But it was only the first step.
Step.
She heard it—his footsteps.
They were getting louder.
He was coming back.
He hunted for her relentlessly, with an energy born of twin flames of fear and anger. This was not the plan. She was ruining the plan.
This stupid girl should have died where he took her, where she was supposed to. Why did she have to run away like that? And into the woods, no less?
It was dark, but he did not want to risk turning on the flashlight on his cell. If he did, he might be spotted from the road. Someone could identify his car, then, and the police would crash down on him, APBs and roadblocks and records searches. He had switched off the car lights and the engine, left it sitting in darkness, where he hoped no one would pass by.
But even more of a risk than a driver or passenger happening to look over and spot his car was the girl. She would ruin the pattern if she escaped, but it was more than that. She knew his face. She would be able to describe his car. Maybe she had even gotten a look at the plates before she accepted his ride.
If she got out of the woods and got to the authorities, they would find him in no time at all.
He stalked through the trees with an ever-increasing sense of desperation, a growl rising in his throat as he moved further and further from the road. He couldn’t see anything. The splashes of blood on the ground near the car had been encouraging, but out here the light of the moon did not penetrate the branches, and he could no longer follow the trail.
He knew he had cut her—but how much? If it was only a shallow wound, she could make it all the way to town. Maybe before he found her. If he ever found her. Maybe she was halfway there, even now.
He stopped moving, standing still, listening to the swaying and rustling of the trees in a light wind that passed through. This was hopeless. If there wasn’t some kind of miracle, he wasn’t going to find her in time. It was all going to be over.
There—what was that sound? He whirled around, his heartbeat picking up pace, pounding so loudly in his ears he was afraid it would drown out any further clues.
He moved in the direction that it had come from, faster now, forgetting care in exchange for haste. What had it been? A ripping noise, he thought, like fabric coming apart. Not an animal noise. Not a bird or a squirrel or anything else—a girl.
He moved forward blindly in the darkness, seeing only the very nearest objects, holding his hands out in front of him so that he would not hit a tree while he concentrated on the ground at his feet. There—was that a blood splatter?
He took a glance behind him at the road and hesitated, assessing the risk. He switched on the screen of his cell, using that dim light only, and squatted down. Yes—blood! He moved the light, following it forward, tilting it up and up and up until—
The light hit her body, shining from her eyes, glistening in the wet pools around her and the trickle still oozing from her neck.
He smiled at last and rushed forward, squatting over her, careful to avoid stepping in the blood.
She was breathing still. But it was shallow and low, her eyes already taking on a glassy look. Her hands, which were down by the hem of her ripped T-shirt, were bloody and shaking, a minute tremble that twitched through them. She was staring up at him; with comprehension or not, he could not tell.
There was blood all around her. All over her. She was soaked in it. He had managed to cut deeply, before she hit him and escaped. It was still coming out of the deep slice along her neck.
Her hands stilled. He leaned forward, over her, closer and closer, until his face was only inches from her own. He concentrated, stilling his own body, staying as quiet as he could.
She was no longer breathing.
She had bled out, at last.
For one second he wanted to crow with victory, and in the next he wanted to erupt with rage. This was wrong—all wrong. She had died in the wrong place! The bitch had ruined everything, everything! The pattern was broken, wrong, destroyed!
He stood and kicked out at the body, hitting her in the side with a satisfying thunk, the noise reminding him of the sound meat made when hit with a tenderizing hammer.
Not quite satisfying enough, given that she had broken his pattern, and destroyed everything that he had been working for.
He stepped back, breathing hard, and let his eyes fall over the scene as he used the light from his cell to examine her. The blood would need some attention. There was too much evidence at the present moment, too many signs to direct the investigators where to go.
But—what was this…? Now that he looked closer… yes, she must have rolled away, pushing herself from where she had originally fallen. And there, blooming out in almost perfect symmetry, the blood had spilled from her neck. It was… beautiful. No, now that he looked even closer, it was symmetrical, a perfect blossom, like a Rorschach blot.
A pattern.
His breathing began to slow, to even out again, along with the pace of his racing heart. Here was a pattern, even now. A pattern to show him that everything was okay.
The girl had not ruined everything. No, this was only a small deviation from the plan. He still committed the murder exactly where he had planned to. She had run on ahead, but she was already dead from the moment his wire slipped around her neck—like a chicken, the body still moving after the head was gone.
The pattern was still intact.
It was just like the old man, the one they hadn’t found yet, up at the farmhouse where no one had seen him for days. He had tried to run, too. In the end, it had not changed a thing. The pattern began there, and here, it was able to continue. Like divine providence, keeping him on track, allowing him to realize his work fully.
His moment of celebration was short-lived. Now that he knew everything was going to be fine, there were steps he had to take. The pattern would continue, and that meant he could not leave behind any evidence for them to find and stop him before he finished tomorrow’s kill—or the day after, or the day after that.