in his veins from the kill. Oh, how exquisite had been that first slice of his blade as it separated the soft tissue of the throat. And the thin, pulsing seam of red as the blood began to flow…. He closed his eyes and felt the rush all over again.
Nervously, he chewed on the inside of his cheek.
Disappointment gnawed at his guts.
Still he waited.
The Voice had never been wrong before.
And who was he to doubt God’s instructions?
Sometimes he became confused. Often the other voices screamed at him—screechy, irritating little things that would hiss, whine, and yell at him, clouding his judgment, causing his head to pound, making him wonder about his own sanity. But tonight they too were silent.
“Help me,” he mouthed. “Talk to me. Please assure me that I am doing your bidding.”
There was no response, only the sound of a short gust of wind rattling leaves as it whipped through the cypresses and live oaks in this part of the swamp.
He would wait.
Quickly, pleadingly, he made a desperate, deft sign of the cross over his chest, and as he did, he heard the soft rumble of a car’s engine approaching.
YES!!!
His eyes flew open.
Tires crunched on the sparse gravel.
He didn’t have to see the car to know it was a Toyota. Eve’s vehicle. Anticipation gave him a rush of heat through his blood as he spied her headlights, mist swirling in their weak golden beams. His gloved hand tightened over the hilt of the knife, the razor-thin blade scarcely visible in the darkness.
Crouching, he began to steal silently through the undergrowth and stopped near the cabin garage, behind a rotting tree stump, close enough that he could reach her in three steps when she walked to the door.
Her headlights washed over the grayed walls of the tiny cabin, and the engine died. The car door opened, and he caught a glimpse of her, red curls scraped away from her face, jaw set, eyes darting quickly. She cast a glance at Roy’s truck, parked beneath the overhang of a carport. Then, using a small flashlight, she walked swiftly toward the cabin’s door, tested it, and found it locked.
“Roy?” she called, knocking loudly, a hint of her perfume wafting his way. “Hey…what’s going on?” Then, more softly, “If this is some kind of sick joke, I swear, you’ll pay….”
Oh, it’s no joke, he thought, every nerve stretched to the breaking point. She was so close. If he leaped out, he could tackle her.
She shined the flashlight’s beam over the dilapidated siding and onto a sagging, battered shutter. “What’re the chances?” she asked herself. She reached behind the broken slats, extracted a key, and looked at it a long moment. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered, inserting the key into the dead bolt.
With a click, the old lock gave way.
As she stepped into the house, he moved swiftly. He had his knife gripped tightly in his hand, and he desperately wanted to use it, to watch as it slit her soft, white flesh. But, just in case, there was always the pistol, a small-caliber one but deadly enough.
A light snapped on inside the cabin.
Through the dusty glass of the kitchen window, he saw her, her hair pulled away from the long column of her throat. His heart kicked into overdrive, and he drew a shivery breath, envisioning the act.
She’d hear his footsteps, turn, gasp when their eyes met. Then he would move quickly, slashing that perfectly arched throat, slicing her jugular, crimson blood spraying.
He drew in a swift breath.
His cock hardened.
He could almost taste her.
Eve.
The original sinner.
Time to pay.
“Roy, are you here?” Eve called into the watery light of the cabin. She didn’t know whether to be scared or pissed as hell as she stepped through the kitchen, where a thin layer of dust covered everything. “You know,” she said, sweat beading in her hair as she spied a half-drunk bottle of beer left on the scarred drop-leafed table, “this is creeping me out. I mean, if this is one of your games, I think I’ll just have to kill you.”
She heard a scrape, turned. Her heart jumped as a small black body scampered across the yellowed linoleum to hide beneath an ancient refrigerator. She bit back a scream with all she had, watching the mouse’s tail slide from sight. “Oh Jesus.” Her pulse pounded in her ears. She shouldn’t have come here, and she’d known it from the get-go. When Roy called, she should have insisted he come to her or that they meet somewhere in public. Being here was creeping her out.
Where the hell was he? “Roy?” He had to be here. His truck was parked in the carport. “Roy? This isn’t funny. Where are you?”
The door to the bathroom gaped open, but it was dark inside. She tried the switch, but the bulb had burned out, and when she raked her flashlight beam across the sink and toilet, she saw only rust, stains, and dirt. Something was definitely wrong here.
She walked three steps to the living room, where a lamp on an old end table was burning bright. Obviously Roy had been here…. no, not really. Obviously someone had been here, though the room itself looked as if no one had inhabited it for a decade. Dust and cobwebs covered the floor, pinewood walls, and ceiling. Even the ashes and chunks of burned wood in the grate seemed ancient. There was a yellowed fishing magazine, its pages curled and tattered. It was as if time had stopped for this dilapidated cabin on the bayou.
So what the hell was she doing here?
To see Roy? To find out what he meant by “evidence”?
What the hell kind of evidence could he mean?
Something to do with Dad, she thought. That’s what Roy meant. You know it. You can feel it in your bones. Roy knows whether dear old Dad is innocent…or guilty as sin.
Swallowing, she pulled her cell phone from her purse. Still no service.
“Royal Kajak, you’ve got about two minutes, and then I’m outta here,” she called to the shadowed corners of the cabin. “I don’t give a damn about whatever ‘evidence’ you think you’ve got. E-mail me, okay?”
Irritated, she took one last look around. Just past the open stairway was a short hall leading to the one bedroom on the main floor. The door to it yawned open.
Steeling herself, she walked toward it.
Shit! She had a cell phone! He hadn’t thought of that. The Voice hadn’t warned him about the phone. The Reviver stared through the window, watched her walking carefully through the house. He knew she’d call 911. The number was probably on speed dial.
He had to stop her. Fast!
Without a sound, he sheathed his knife, flicked open his ankle
