Chapter Twenty
After the hassle of exchanging the rental sedan for the more versatile Blazer, Jack headed for the mountains. The problem he'd pushed out of his mind until now began to gnaw at him. His recent images of the Dead Language Killer were as elusive as smoke, and Jack felt no closer to the man now than he had four years ago. He hadn't been able to crawl inside this killer's mind as he usually did. He believed his messing with the pills and his involvement with Olivia had altered his abilities. He'd been skimping on blue tablets and increasing the reds, a dangerous combination since he'd eliminated the white pills that eased him into Recovery. Around Olivia the Phens seemed to have no effect, doubly lethal.
Seventeen years ago he'd attributed the eerie increase in strength to a natural growth spurt. That is, until the Invictus people had intervened the night of Roger's death. A few years after that he realized he'd been targeted as a potential candidate for Invictus all along. The Organization liked to track juvenile delinquents with natural physical potential along the line of Olympic athletes. Jack had come across their radar when his father went to prison and the teenage boy had starting getting in trouble with the law.
Tonight he'd felt a surge of increased sensitivity and the edginess that overcame him when his body's instinct clamored to hunt. His senses were alert, his reflexes acute. He wondered if unburdening himself to Olivia might've eased the paralysis he'd been in these last few days. He drove fast, needing to get away from her and put his mind in order, needing to go to a dark, quiet place and listen to the new sounds and urgings of his body. His job was to track a killer, and his natural powers and the small red pills to enhance them would do the job much faster than the local police could find answers.
The danger, of course, was allowing the beast to reign too effectively. If that happened, he'd cross into territory he was afraid he wouldn't be able to come back from. Wouldn't be able to traverse the distance back to his humanity, or his soul. And if he continued increasing the reds without managing the aggression, his organs would attack themselves one by one.
And he'd die.
Bill Gant leaned forward in the driver's seat of his battered Volvo to stare at Olivia's front door. He'd been here since yesterday, moving his car from time to time so he wouldn't draw attention. A tall, lean man had left her house last night. Walked out the front door at an hour too late to be innocent. Looking like he lived there, but distracted as he stepped into a black rental sedan and sped off.
The little slut hadn't wasted any time.
Obviously she was banging him. Bill clenched his fists and felt the anger boiling up. Thinking of Olivia with someone else twisted in his gut like a hot knife. Bitch! She was making a serious mistake screwing over Bill Gant. But then Olivia had always underestimated him. Looked down her pretty nose at him. They'd both been spawned by the same trashy kind of neighborhood, but she'd always thought she was better than him. With her fancy college degree, cushy job, and classy manners, she treated him like something thrown out with the trash.
He stared through the windshield at the tidy, brick house across the street. From the look of it, she also had money to burn. The inheritance from an aunt he didn't even know she had. Money that by rights should be shared with him. He removed a flask from the glove compartment, tilted the bottle and took a deep swig. The liquor relaxed him and he rested his head against the seat, closing his eyes against the anger and pain of Olivia's betrayal. He'd never let her get away with this. She was his. He'd rather see her dead than with another man.
A few minutes later he eased the car away from the curb, drove around the corner, and pulled into the empty driveway of an unlit house halfway down the street from where she lived. He killed the ignition and continued his vigilance.
The late night air in the foothills hung with the promise of an early winter. Jack camped near a fork of the Feather River and spread his bedroll on the ground, even though by the time dawn came, his toughened body would no longer feel the hard, packed dirt beneath it.
After setting up camp, he walked to the water's edge, filled his canteen, and popped four more of the red pills. On an empty stomach, they'd metabolize quickly in his system. He'd skipped dinner, but he wasn't hungry, at least not for food. He wanted to purge his body so that when he entered the killer's mind nothing would hinder the link.
He settled down beside the sleeping bag, poked at the small fire, and listened to the sounds, his hearing at maximum capacity. The scurrying of insects reached his ears along with the soft, distant tread of an animal, coyote or wolf, maybe even a mountain lion. A snake hissed a quarter of a mile away, slithering through the underbrush and rustling the foliage. Beneath the rotting logs and brush of the forest he smelled another scent, the odor of a small animal recently dead, beginning the process of decay. As the fire began to burn to embers, he stared across the narrow slice of water and made out a night owl in a tree and a worm burrowing its way into the rich dirt.
Lying down on his bedroll, he cradled his arms beneath his head, and gazed up at the stars. His lids grew heavier, his mind went blank, and the transformation took over his human form and mind.
Although she taunted the Avenger in the way the others had, perhaps she was the true holy vessel. Perhaps she had not broken her sacred vows, but was the guardian of hearth and home. Perhaps she was a true vestal virgin. Perhaps even The Virgin.
He'd dismissed his driver and now observed Olivia Gant from an empty classroom window as she walked briskly across the university campus. Her hips flexed beneath the tan slacks, her arms were filled with books and papers, and a bag was slung over her shoulder. She looked straight ahead, ignoring the waves and greetings from passing students, her lips thinned in a determined line.
The pale, aloof beauty was upset. A smile hovered around the man's lips, and a trickle of excitement began to build in his stomach and move upward to his chest where it thudded against his sternum. He replaced his dark glasses and broke off his scrutiny. Taking her here, in the place where she worked, where so many people knew her, would be foolish.
He was not a foolish man.
He'd carefully calculated the next offering, the final sacrifice on the altar of humanity's wickedness. The seven sacrifices to holiness had been completed. Seven because it was the perfect Biblical number, the sacred number of ancient creation. Of course, she wasn't the original oblatio, the oblation he'd planned for, but she'd prove worthy as a final substitute. The grand finale, so to speak.
Perhaps, all along and unbeknown to him over the last four years, he'd been speaking to her – to this woman, who was a connoisseur of the ancient languages. Perhaps on some subconscious level he had intended the notes for her eyes and mind all along. Perhaps her heart alone could understand his mission.
Slipping behind the wheel of his car, he drummed his fingers on the steering column. How to get Dr. Olivia Gant where he wanted her? How to approach her without arousing suspicion? Although taking her wouldn't be easy, he would ponder the matter and come up with a strategy. Olivia Gant was a woman, after all, as easily manipulated as all weak vessels were. She was little more than the lamb being led to the slaughter.
Ted Burrows dropped his ring of keys on the landing. "Shit!"
Hurriedly he snatched them up from the porch and inserted the house key in the lock. Glancing over his shoulder to reassure himself the girl still lay in the front seat of his car, he spied her head lolling on the headrest of the passenger side. Good. He wanted the girl to stay passed out until he set up the scene upstairs. Otherwise, she'd freak out. Once everything was arranged, she'd be a compliant, even a willing participant in the fun.