When the first siren lit up the night, he was four blocks away, at Rippy’s on Broadway, sipping a Yuengling, a pulled pork sandwich smothered in sweet and tangy BBQ sauce and corn cakes with butter on order, waiting for Stover to show. The wail made pride blossom in his chest. It had gone gloriously. She’d never seen him coming. As he predicted, she’d shuffled off after about an hour toward the port-a-potties, and when she’d drawn near, he’d straightened his spine, let the knife slide into his hand, and stepped from the bushes. He’d become so adept at his trade that the contact he’d had with her was, on the surface, just an incidental bump. As he’d said, “Excuse me,” he’d slid the knife right up under her breastbone directly into her heart. A clean cut, in and out, no twisting or sawing. Precision. Perfection.
He was half a block down the street before she hit the sidewalk.
He was so good at this. Granted, practice does make perfect, and he’d had quite a bit of practice.
He allowed himself a smile. He’d managed to salvage a very annoying day, and give himself something wonderful to think about tonight. Something to chase away the annoyance of having to play charades with Stover tonight.
Stupid bastard. Who was more successful in their chosen fields?
Now JR, stop worrying about that. Think about what you just did, how you’re sitting right under their noses, having a nice little Southern dinner. Think about the edge of the blade, colored rust with the girl’s blood, sitting in your pocket. Think about the way the tip fed into her flesh, and her eyes caught yours, and she knew it was you who was ending her life. These are appropriate thoughts. You can’t look back to the bad things. Just stay focused on the here and now.
Stover arrived with a bellow.
JR played his part, accepting the rough handshake, making small talk, eating, drinking, pretending, all the while sustaining himself with thoughts of his light-eyed beauty, lying on the sidewalk, her heart giving one last gush of blood to her body.
After what seemed like hours, Stover called for the bill, belched loudly without covering his mouth and announced, “We need women.”
The idea was repugnant to him. Women were not for defiling oneself, they were for the glory of the knife. Glory be. Glorious. Glory glory glorious.
Perhaps he’d had one beer too many.
But this presented his best chance of escape. So he acquiesced, and followed Stover into the night. The street outside the restaurant was hopping, busy with tourists and revelers even on a Monday. Downtown Nashville was a twenty-four/seven world, and they slipped into the throngs without causing a second glance. Because he fit right in. He always fit in now.
Taylor arrived at the crime scene ten minutes after Marcus’s call. The site was just down the street from the CJC; she could have walked it if she wasn’t in too much of a hurry. But tonight she was. Containment would be key. The Occupy Nashville protestors had been causing an uproar downtown for two weeks now. Bills were being passed to stop their ability to gather freely, face-offs between the protestors and other groups had turned the mood on the steps sour, and even the people of Nashville who agreed with their agenda were beginning to turn against them.
The real beneficiaries of their protest were the homeless who spent their time hanging out in the little park on Capitol Boulevard, burrowed in between the downtown Library and Legislative Plaza. Strangely enough, the hippies and the homeless looked remarkably alike, so do-gooders answering the call of the protesters by traveling downtown to bring food and blankets didn’t necessarily know the difference. The homeless weren’t stupid, they took full advantage of the situation. They were being fed, clothed, and warmed daily, sharing smokes and tents with the protestors. Taylor didn’t think that was such a bad thing, but she did wish the folks who’d rallied to the call would think to provide this kind of succor to those less fortunate on a more regular basis. If Twitter could take down a despot, surely it could help keep Nashville’s homeless clothed and fed.
But that wasn’t her problem right now. She needed to contain a huge local story before it got blown into a political mess.