Cavanaugh's Missing Person. Marie Ferrarella

       Prologue

      She knew this location like the back of her hand. She brought them all here—while they were still alive—certain that they would view this as an intimate, secluded hideaway.

      She was just as confident as they were about it, but to her it also meant that she and the person she brought here would be isolated and that there would be no unwanted interruptions.

      Or any unforeseen last-minute rescues.

      There never were this far out from civilization. After all, no one had ever heard her cries when she had screamed for help all those years ago.

      She had chosen this place carefully, deliberately.

      It had to be this place for the purge to be effective.

      Despite that and all the precautions she took, she never failed to remain vigilant and alert. While she had always been confident, it had never been to the point that she became careless. Because carelessness would usher in error and error—any error—could wind up, in the long run, being fatal.

      For her.

      She had worked too hard to lose everything she had amassed because of an error.

      The door to this little “hideaway” was closed and there were no windows, at least none that allowed anyone to look inside. But even so, an unseasonable evening breeze had somehow managed to squeeze in through the cracks, causing the plastic that hung everywhere to move just the slightest bit.

      She didn’t see it. She heard it.

      Her pulse sped up.

      Instantly, her eyes went to the man who was at the center of it all. There was no way he could move and disturb the plastic that had been draped all around him, the plastic that was literally covering every square inch of the space. She’d seen to that.

      Even so, she had to reassure herself that he wouldn’t suddenly rise up and overpower her.

      There was enough ketamine in her would-be lover to put down an oversize water buffalo, but still she watched him, watched his chest to see if it would rise and fall, signaling a man who was coming to.

      It didn’t.

      The injection had done its trick.

      She had done her trick, she thought with a small, tight smile.

      “And now it’s time for you to do your part,” she whispered to the inert form.

      With the precision of a surgeon, imitating the movements that Joel had shown her when the poor fool had tried to impress her all those years ago, she drove the thin boning knife in at just the right angle, just the right spot to end the life of this latest contributor to her thriving and ever expanding lifestyle.

      Taking their money was only part of it. Avenging herself was far more important to her.

      Blood spurted from the incision she had made onto the plastic that surrounded the man. She waited until it pooled around him, heralding the fact that his life had officially, and without fanfare, slipped away.

      When she was satisfied that he was dead, she turned toward her knapsack where she kept the rest of her tools. It was time to separate John Kurtz from the parts of him that would facilitate his identification.

      She had always liked tools, even as a child. They fascinated her. They could be used for so many things. People liked to build things with tools.

      She liked to dismantle them.

      Taking out the battery-powered saw, she switched it on. For a moment, she just listened to the high-pitched sound the saw made. The quiet, reassuring sound that promised to do its job and not fail her.

      So many things had failed her. But the saw wouldn’t.

      She could feel the vibrations going through her arms.

      She watched, almost mesmerized, as the gleaming, freshly polished blade sliced through the air like the sharp teeth of a tiger, straining to devour its prey. She always took care of her tools.

      A person’s work was only as good as the tools she used, she thought with a cynical smile.

      Feeling almost giddy, she hummed a little song under her breath, a song from her childhood before horror had swallowed her up. It was a tune that kept haunting her.

      She slowly lowered the saw blade and began to work.

      One more down.

      And tomorrow, tomorrow the hunt for a new, unwitting victim would begin all over again. Because this feeling, this satisfaction, lasted for only so long before it vanished.

      Like her innocence.

      But for now, she savored this part of her quest, savored it because she was victorious.

      And that was all that counted.