FIFTEEN

The morning paper hit the front door with a thump. Smiling with anticipation and still in his robe, the man opened the door and picked it up from the top step where it always landed. He closed the door behind him with his foot and took the paper into the kitchen. Because he wanted to draw out the suspense for as long as possible, he poured himself a cup of coffee and stepped out onto the back porch to take a long deep breath of fresh country air. No doubt about it, this was going to be a great day.

Figuring he’d drawn it out long enough, he set the cup down on the table and slipped the paper from its plastic sleeve, then scanned the front page.

It wouldn’t be on the front page. Maybe in one of those Lancaster papers, but certainly not here. He smiled to himself again. At least, not yet.

He frowned as he turned one page after another.

Nothing.

Well, damn. What was the point in doing something newsworthy if no one noticed?

In disgust, he folded up the paper and tossed it on top of the recycling pile.

Maybe it was too soon. Maybe his handiwork hadn’t been discovered yet.

That could be it. Yes, that could very well be it.

He acknowledged that patience was a virtue he’d never had quite enough of. Another day or so, he assured himself. Sooner or later, someone would notice something and take a closer look at that mound behind that Amish farmer’s fence.

And how ’bout that—he’d had no idea that the farm belonged to an Amish guy! He’d watched the family from the woods, watched the girls in their long dresses—even the little ones—their brown feet and legs peeking out from the hems. The mother, her hair pulled tightly back and covered with a bonnet—did anyone else actually wear bonnets these days?—working in the garden with the youngest as they picked vegetables for their supper. The father and the boys working in the fields, then later in the barns, milking the cows…it had made him briefly nostalgic for a life he’d never known.

What must it be like to be them, he’d wondered as he spied on them, to live such a hardworking life? He admired their work ethic, but was just as happy to have a much simpler routine himself. An easier job, one that did not require him to break his back on a daily basis, let him buy his food right from the supermarket. None of that plowing and hoeing, no waking at the crack of dawn to feed the chickens and the cows and whatever else that lifestyle required. No, he was just as happy with his own boring day-to-day, thank you.

The dog next door began to bark as it always did when the guy across the street left for work. Now, there was one thing he’d change about his life. He’d get rid of that damned loudmouth dog. He daydreamed for a few minutes about how he might go about doing just that, the possible methods leading him back to thoughts of the other night and what he’d left on the Amish man’s farm.

He wondered what condition the body would be in by now. If the insects had moved in yet. He’d seen the TV shows. He’d even read a few books on the subject. He knew what went on once a body was put into the ground. He just wasn’t sure how long it took. He felt it was critical that the body be recognizable when it was found, and he began to worry that it might not be. It could conceivably be days before it was uncovered. How could he tip off someone without giving himself away? And he’d wanted that pretty FBI lady to find it, wanted her to be the one to look at what he’d done and know that there was someone to be reckoned with be sides Sheldon Woods.

The old cuckoo clock in the hall let him know it was later than he’d realized. He dumped the rest of the coffee into the sink and rinsed out the cup be fore heading for the shower. It would have to be a quick one. He’d spent too much time looking through the paper.

Hot water splashed around him, hotter than he usually liked it, but he didn’t have time to fuss much this morning. He grabbed the shampoo bottle from the shelf and poured some into his cupped hand. He paused to look at his hands. He imagined—he relived—seeing those hands wrapped around that small throat. What had he felt when his fingers began to close ever more tightly?

He had to admit that he hadn’t felt what he’d been led to expect he’d feel.

Rather than the ultimate sensation, if the truth were to be told, he’d found the experience somewhat lacking. There’d been no jolt of revelation, no sense of ecstasy, no joyful release on his part. Okay, maybe there’d been a spark of something when the light in the boy’s eyes went out, but it was minimal compared with what he’d expected. And maybe a twinge when the boy’s face reflected the realization that something really bad was about to happen to him. That he was the bad stranger parents and teachers had been warning him about all his life. But he’d felt nothing like Woods had described.

Of course, he hadn’t done to his boy any of that other stuff that Woods had done. Uh-uh. None of that for him, thanks. All of that stuff was for perverts, like Woods. Definitely not for normal guys like him.

Still, he knew he’d missed something. Maybe he’d done it too fast, without the right amount of buildup, sufficient anticipation. That was probably it.

He turned off the water and stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel, promising himself that next time would be better.