Dream Man

So what did he have now? Logically he could no longer consider her a suspect, and something inside loosened with relief. She hadn’t been there; she had an alibi. There was nothing to connect her to the murder … except her own words. She had seen the murder happen. There was no other way. But how?

She knew something, something she hadn’t told him. Something that put those shadows in her eyes. He was going to find out what she was hiding, find out exactly how she was tied to this murder. The only alternative was that she really was psychic, and he couldn’t buy that. Not yet. Maybe not ever, but … not yet.

6

HE COULD FEEL THE ANGER BURNING IN HIM AS THE WOMAN marched away, and he sternly controlled it, as he controlled everything. Now wasn’t the time to let his anger show; it would be inappropriate. Everything in its own time. He looked down at the complaint form the woman had filled out and smiled as he read her name: Jacqueline Sheets, 3311 Cypress Terrace. The guarantee of retribution gave him a certain peace. Then, taking care that his body blocked Annette’s view of what he was doing, he slipped the complaint form into his pocket to be disposed of later. Only a stupid person would leave it lying about, perhaps for some busybody to look at and remember later, and Carroll Janes did not consider himself stupid. Quite the opposite, in fact. He prided himself on taking care of every little detail.

“I don’t know how you can be so calm when people talk to you like that, Mr. Janes,” Annette muttered behind him. “I wanted to punch her in the face.”

His expression was perfectly calm. “Oh, someday she’ll get hers,” he said. He liked Annette; she had to put up with the same things he did, and she was always sympathetic when someone gave him a hard time. Most people were acceptably courteous, but there were always those few who needed to be taught a lesson. Annette, however, was unfailingly polite, calling him Mister. He appreciated her perception. She was a homely little thing, short and dark and plain, but generally amiable. She didn’t irritate him as so many other women did, with their silly airs and pettishness.

Carroll Janes carried himself in an erect, military posture. He had often thought he would have been perfectly suited for the military—as an officer, of course. He would have been at the top of his class in any of the academies, had he been able to attend. Unfortunately, he hadn’t had the connections necessary to get into any of the military academies; connections were imperative, and those who lacked them were shut out. It was how the upper class kept their ranks closed. Joining the military as an enlisted man was unthinkable; he had likewise rejected both ROTC and OCS as being a poor second to the academies. Instead of the distinguished military career he should have had, he was stuck in this degrading job handling customer complaints in a ritzy department store, but that didn’t mean he would let his personal standards slide.

He was five foot ten, but his erect carriage often fooled people into thinking he was taller. And he was generally considered a nice-looking man, he thought: in good shape, thanks to twice-weekly visits to a gym; thick, curly blond hair; even features. He enjoyed dressing well, and was always meticulous in his grooming. Attention to detail meant the difference between success and failure. He never let himself forget that.

He wondered what Annette would say if she discovered the power he kept concealed, under perfect control until it was time to be unleashed. But no one suspected, least of all Annette. Fooling them all so completely gave him immense satisfaction; the cops were so stupid, so utterly outclassed!

He was patient enough to wait until Annette took her afternoon break before going to the computer to see if Jacqueline Sheets had a charge account with the store; to his delight, she did. It was always so much easier when he had this initial access to information. He wasn’t interested in her payment record, however. The information from each customer’s credit request form was at the top of each file, and that information included the spouse’s name and occupation. Jacqueline Sheets was divorced. He clucked his tongue. What a pity, she couldn’t maintain a relationship.

Of course, that didn’t mean she lived alone. She might have children, or a live-in boyfriend, or a lesbian roommate. She might live with her mother. Any of those scenarios would make his task more difficult, but by no means impossible. He almost hoped such a complication would develop, for it was a truer test of his nerve and intelligence. It was unusual to have another transgressor so soon after the last one; he was a bit curious to see if he would be sharper, like an athlete intensifying his training, or if the opposite would be true. He hoped he would be even stronger and faster, his mind clearer, the surge of power more intense.

When he left work, he could already feel the anticipation humming in him. He ignored the pleasurable sensation and followed his normal routine, for of course, he couldn’t allow it to strengthen now; it wasn’t time. The pleasure would be all the more intense for having waited, once he let it go. So he drove to his apartment, read the newspaper, popped a microwave dinner into the oven. While it was heating, he set the table: place mat, napkin, everything just as it should be. Just because he lived alone was no reason to let his standards slide.

Only after it was fully dark outside did he allow himself to get out his map of the Orlando area and locate Cypress Terrace, marking the route from his apartment with a yellow highlighter, carefully memorizing the turns. It was closer than he’d expected, no more than fifteen minutes by car. Convenient.

Then he went for a pleasant, leisurely drive, enjoying the mild spring weather. This first reconnaissance was little more than a drive-by, to locate the house and fix it in his mind. He’d also notice a few other details, such as how close the other houses were, if there were a lot of pets in the neighborhood, how many children seemed to be around. If there was a fence around the yard, how many cars were parked in the driveway, or if there was a garage. Little things like that. Details. Later he would find out more, much more, discovering more on each trip until the final reconnaissance, when he would go inside the house itself, learn the layout of the rooms. He would let the pleasure begin building then, for there was something delicious about wandering through her house when she wasn’t there, touching her things, looking in her closets and bathroom cabinet. He would already be inside her, and she wouldn’t even know it. It would lack only the finale.