He stood in the middle of the empty room, viewing the bare walls in the dim glow of the electric lights. Probably not a candidate for a Martha Stewart prize, but it was solid, it had a roof, electricity, running water, and best of all, it was unoccupied. Besides, with a couple of Chinese lanterns, a little paint, a bit of cheery wallpaper, perhaps a throw pillow or two-hell, he could turn this barn into a real little home away from home.

He glanced up at the rafter beams and smiled to himself.

He could truly hone his craft in a place like this. He should have thought of this place sooner. To hell with sacrificing his victims under a starry sky. Starry skies clouded and threatened rain. And then didn't deliver. He scowled. He couldn't believe he'd aborted his plan on a false alarm. Not a single drop. He glanced down at the form at his feet. He'd stored her in the trunk of his car all night long on a goddamn false alarm.

His scowl darkened and he flexed his fist. Only to go back again this morning and be derailed by a damn dog. He'd always hated dogs. He wished he'd chased the mutt and finished him off, but if he'd left her unattended in the woods, someone would have come. That was just his luck.

He mentally took inventory of what he'd so stupidly left behind. One of his hypos was gone from his toolbox and her panties were gone from the pile of clothes he'd quickly thrown in the trunk. Damn. He'd planned to keep her dainties as a souvenir. But noooo, that fucking dog had to come sniffing, then had to play Lassie. Now there were damn cops all over the place. Luckily he'd worn his gloves. He smirked. And he'd been sure to gather all that before exiting stage left. They wouldn't find anything of a more… personal nature he'd left behind.

He scowled again. Damn dog. Spoiled everything. The next time he came across a dog… His scowl melted into a smile as he pictured the scene in his mind. Knives and blood and gore. He nodded, satisfied with the picture. He'd take care of the next dog he met in the manner of Bundy or Dahmer. He'd read about their mutilations. First for practice, then for fun. He'd practiced himself. Often. Of course, he didn't need to practice on animals anymore. He looked down at his feet.

Not when he had the real thing.

He nudged her with his toe, then again when she didn't respond, harder this time. Her eyelids fluttered, opened. Her eyes widened. Her tongue slipped out to wet her lips. He'd taken the tape off-no need for her to wear uncomfortable duct tape over her mouth when they were miles away from everywhere. He smiled down at her.

"Wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable, would we, Sam-mie? That just wouldn't be civilized." He walked across the barn, each step kicking up a cloud of the sawdust that littered the floor. He crouched in front of his toolbox and surveyed the interior with the air of a sommelier choosing the night's fine wine. He chose a syringe, a needle-fully sterilized of course-and a vial. He frowned. He was running low on supplies. He'd need to get more soon.

He stood up and crossed back to where she lay. He drew the precious liquid from the vial and withdrew the needle. He knelt down at her side. "Ready for some more dreams, Sam-mie?"

She struggled, but there really wasn't much she could do under the situation. She went stiff when the needle penetrated her upper arm, then moaned. "No," she whispered, her voice pathetically weak. "Please."

He tilted his head to one side. "But I do please." And he leaned forward to whisper in her ear, the suggestions as horrific as he could conjure. Her reemergence dreams would be… interesting.

"Welcome to the k-zone," he intoned in a deep voice. But she was already too far gone to hear him. He swept the sawdust aside, sat back, and waited for the show to begin.

Friday, September 30, 6:45 P.M.

Brad's Dr. Marshall had been quiet for most of the ride to her apartment, speaking only to give him the most basic directions. Steven pulled into an empty slot in front of her apartment and turned to study her face. After Raleigh PD took her statement she'd become subdued, as if the import of the threat was finally real. He saw it often. After an incident people tended to behave with excessive bravery or optimism-until the adrenaline wore off and reality sank in. He suspected that's where Dr. Marshall's mind was at this point. Mulling over the possibilities. Who could have written that note? And would they carry through on their threat?

She sat very still, looking down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her hair hanging down so that all but the tip of her nose was obscured. Her left hand was bare, as he'd noticed before, but now he noted the thick silver ring she wore on her right thumb. A Celtic design. A man's ring.

He didn't like that. He didn't like that she wore a man's ring or that she worried it. But, of course, it didn't matter what he didn't like as he'd only see her this once.

Only this once.

He didn't like that, either. To his great irritation, he realized he didn't want to leave. Didn't want their time together to come to an end. Hah. As if "they" had "time together." They'd met, talked, and would likely never meet nor talk again. Still, he hesitated. She sat so quietly, staring down at her hands. Miles away. He was almost afraid to break into her thoughts.

He leaned toward her and caught the coconut scent of her hair. Breathed deeply. Then cleared his throat.

"Dr. Marshall?" he said quietly.

Her head jerked up, sending her hair sliding back against her cheeks. Her eyes, wide and startled, met his, blinked, then focused. And her cheeks turned the most becoming shade of rose.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't realize we were here already." Her eyes dropped to her fingers, busily fidgeting with the silver ring. "I guess I just realized that someone hates me enough to slash my tires and threaten me with hate mail." Her lips quirked up. "Without a spell-checker of course."

He smiled back. "Are you ready to go in?"

She reached to the floorboard for her purse. "Sure. Just give me a second to find my keys." She rummaged for a minute, then stopped and looked back at him, her eyes almost black in the shadow of the Volvo's overhead light, her dark brows bunched. "I think you still have them."

"Oh." Without taking his eyes from hei face, Steven reached in his coat pocket and pulled out her keys. "Here you go."

She took her keys gingerly, not even brushing his hand in the process. And he felt disappointed. Then felt annoyed at feeling disappointed. He sat back firmly in his seat. "You put the card for the towing company in your purse. They said your car would be ready by tomorrow at noon. And don't forget to call the Raleigh PD for their report for your insurance company."

Her expression went blank for just a moment and she blinked. "I'm sorry, my brain just crashed. What was the name of the officer again?"

"You're feeling the aftereffects of an adrenaline high," Steven explained, reaching for a pen and one of his business cards. He scrawled the officer's name on the back. "His name is Al Pullman and he's with the Investigative Division." Steven hesitated, then blurted, "My office number's on the front. Call me if you need anything else."

She took the card, her lower lip clamped between her teeth. "Do you have another card?"

Silently he gave her one and watched as she wrote on the back in neat block letters. She looked up, still biting her lower lip, and he felt the sizzle of lust head straight down along with the urge to bite her lip himself. But that was crazy. Primal and crazy. In a few minutes, he'd be gone, never to see her again.