To my critique group, the Packeteers: Cactus Chris Wenger, Micki Malone aka Michele Masarech, Gayle Callen aka Julia Latham, Laurie Lance “Bugs” Bishop, Theresa Kovian and Ginny Aubertine. I couldn’t have written these books without your brilliance and brainstorming. More importantly, no writer could dream up friends as beautiful and as true as all of you. You are loved, and deeply, deeply appreciated.

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Epilogue

      Prologue

      It had been sixteen years since I’d killed anyone. But I was going to kill someone tonight.

      It had also been sixteen years since I’d taken the Thunderbird out of the garage, where I kept it under lock and key. Garage, hell, it was more like a crypt. I’d thought the killer inside me would die, given time. So I’d buried him in my subconscious, and I’d buried his car in my garage, even covered it up with a death-shroud tarp. I’d covered up the trophy wall, too. I’d told myself never to set foot inside that garage again.

      But I had.

      Every now and then, his voice would get to me, and I’d go in, start the T-Bird up, let it run, listen to it purr and feel that old thrill I used to get when we had been on our way to take another victim. Sometimes I would even slide the phony pegboard wall aside, to look at the cinder-block it covered. To look at all their faces. So pretty. Always smiling. Always young.

      I’d taken the T-Bird out tonight. And the kit. I’d brought the kit along, as well, though I had no intention of using it. I nearly always had the kit at hand. It was a way of testing myself, I think. A way of making sure I was the one in charge, the one in control. That I could resist the urges of the beast within.

      I was going to kill the rookie cop, yeah. But it would be a simple kill, just a bullet to the back of the head and a scene made to look like a home invasion gone bad. It wasn’t the nemesis within me committing this crime. It was me, all me, this time. And I had no choice.

      But my alter ego was with me, coming along for the ride, getting a hell of a thrill out of the whole thing. He loved killing. He loved it way more than I did. And that was saying something, because I’d come to relish it myself. There was no other rush quite as potent.

      Still, this wasn’t going to be like the others. This wasn’t about the rush; this was about necessity.

      Getting inside the house was easy. It would’ve been easy even for a virgin without any kills under his belt. For me, it was child’s play. The small brick house’s door wasn’t locked. There was no security system. Every light in the place was turned off. A cop oughtta know better. Even a rookie like him.

      There had been a party earlier in the evening, but the guests had cleared out. The doorknob turned easily in my hand, and I stepped inside, into inky darkness. I paused there, just inside the door, giving my eyes time to adjust. It was darker inside than out. A different kind of darkness. Heavier. Denser.

      Still, I managed to see a little. And I could tell what I would have been seeing, had there been any light, just by the smells permeating the place and assaulting my sensitive olfactory receptors. Overflowing ashtrays. Half-filled beer bottles, some of which had been used as ashtrays, so the scents of sour beer and wet tobacco mingled in the air, nearly making me gag on them. Stale potato chips and spoiling dip melted together in plastic recyclable bowls, adding to the pungence.

      My senses were always heightened when I was getting ready to kill. They were heightened to hell and gone tonight, maybe because it had been so long. I was shivering with it, feeling everything. Even the rub of my black clothing against my skin was arousing to me.

      I moved carefully, slowly, taking my time and knowing I had plenty. All I wanted. The rookie wasn’t going to wake up. So I took my time, enjoying every second of it. Walking soundlessly through his darkened home I felt, I thought, like a hunter must feel when stalking prey through a dense jungle. But not just any prey. I’m talking an elephant or a lion. Something that could kill you just as easily as you could kill it. Something dangerous.

      Though you might disagree with me, given the nature of my victims, I’ve never believed there is any animal more dangerous than a human being. I never will. It’s the intelligence. It’s the mind that makes it so. Be it a young, beautiful woman, or tonight’s prey—a young man in his prime. A cop.

      I made my way to the bedroom, measuring every step I took. It didn’t feel as if it had been as many years as it had—sixteen since my first time. Her name was Sara, that first one. I remembered every detail of her face—and of her death. I was as sharp and as tight tonight as if I’d killed only last week. Or last night. Maybe the years had mellowed my nerves and honed my skills. I wasn’t even shaking or sweating the way I usually did when I got into the same room with the evening’s chosen one.

      Silencing my thoughts, I listened, and heard slow, steady breathing from beneath a mound of blankets on the bed. My heart pumped a little faster. The compulsion came to life within me, like a fire in my blood. I felt that dark, hungry twin, alive inside me. I’d kept him silent for a long while, trapped in some kind of induced coma—until now. Now he was wide-awake. I closed my eyes and reminded myself—and him—that this was going to be different. We were not going to start up again. Not like before. It would be just this once. It