Face of Death

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.

The first thing was the blood trail. If he could take care of that, he could drive away before the sun came up, and no one would be any the wiser.

He stood straight, cracking his shoulders back, rolling them toward his spine. There was physical labor to be done again, which he did not mind at all. It purified the scene, made the pattern the only thing that was left. Removing all traces of himself was like an artist stepping back and allowing a painting to speak for itself. It was an act removed of ego, a reiteration of his devotion to the pattern, his belief that it was bigger than himself.