Dream Man

His beard was next. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly to scratch her with a rough chin. Then his chest. He had a neat diamond of chest hair, and he was rather proud of its thickness, but it had to go.

Then his legs and arms. Slick. No wonder women shaved their legs. It really felt marvelous.

Finally, his crotch. No curlies left behind to be combed out, examined, gloated over. He was extremely careful in this area, for even a tiny nick could leave an unnoticed stain of blood behind. That simply wouldn’t do. And of course, he always wore a condom, so there was no semen left behind. He even had a contingency plan in case the condom broke; so far, he hadn’t had to use the plan.

Some men, he’d read, couldn’t be identified by their semen; they were called “nonsecreters,” and about one man in five was like that. It would have been nice to know if he was in that twenty percent, but he could hardly go to a lab and ask to have his semen classified as secreter or nonsecreter. He didn’t mind wearing the condom; he didn’t want his sperm inside the transgressors anyway.

Next were his clothes. Leather. No fabric fibers to be left behind, nothing to give them a clue. He kept his leathers carefully stored in a cardboard box, away from everything else. He had a vinyl seat cover that he put over his car seat, and the floorboard was covered with vinyl mats. He was always very careful not to let his feet touch anything but the mat, so his boots wouldn’t pick up any fibers from the carpet. Detail. Attention to detail was everything. There was no way the police could identify him, because he left nothing behind except the object of the lesson.

Detective Hollister hadn’t called, though Marlie had expected him to, or even shown up unannounced as he had a tendency to do. She had been on edge, afraid he would call or come by, then irritable with him for not doing so. Either way, he had managed to ruin her quiet evening at home.

She had toyed with the idea of going to a movie, partly to stymie Hollister if he did call, but had rejected the idea. She couldn’t forget what had happened last Friday night. Had it only been a week? It seemed like a month. Perhaps next week she would go to a movie, but not tonight.

She went to bed earlier than normal, before ten, not even staying up to watch the late news. She was tired; the week of tension had taken a toll on her. It was a relief to close her eyes and know that she didn’t have to go to work in the morning, that she could stay in bed as long as she wanted. She relaxed into the mattress, feeling her muscles go limp and her mind ease into sleep …

—He moved silently through the house. The television was blaring, masking his presence. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the woman who sat with her back to him while she watched an old movie, and contempt filled him. She was so easy. He walked forward, taking his time, enjoying the suspense. The flickering light from the television glinted on the slim, curved blade of the knife in his hand—

A grunting, animal sound tore from deep in her chest as Marlie tried to scream, tried to send a desperate warning through her closed throat. God, oh God. She whimpered, fighting the covers as she tried to throw herself out of bed. The vision was so real that she expected to see him coming at her out of the darkness, silver blade gleaming.

—He stood right behind her, looking down at her. The stupid bitch had no idea he was there. He liked that. Maybe he’d just stand here until the end of the movie, and all the time she’d never know—

She scrambled out of bed and fell, caught by the sheet tangled around her legs. She fought her way free of the sheet and stumbled to her feet, lurching wildly from side to side as she staggered for the door. Panic blinded her, froze her brain—no, it was dark, the lights were off. She careened into the wall, and the hard impact steadied her, somehow. She groped for the light switch, but it wasn’t there.

—This was boring. Smiling, he reached out to touch her neck—

Marlie stumbled into another wall, a wall that wasn’t supposed to be there. She stood there, trembling, totally disoriented. Where was she?

Headlights from a passing car briefly illuminated the room. The living room. How had she gotten in here? She remembered trying to get to the bedroom door, but not reaching it. But at least now she knew where a light was.

She almost knocked the lamp over as she fumbled with the switch, and the sudden bright flare of light momentarily blinded her. The phone. The phone was right there, on the table.

His number. What was his number, damn it? She couldn’t remember, couldn’t think—the redial button. Had she called anyone since that night? She didn’t know, didn’t care. It would reach someone. She lifted the receiver, banging it painfully against her temple as she tried to hold it in place with a violently trembling hand, and punched what she hoped was the redial button. Her vision was blurring, and she wasn’t certain.

The first ring buzzed in her ear. She closed her eyes, fighting to remain within herself.

The second ring. Hurry. Please, hurry hurry hurry.

The third ring cut off in midbuzz, and a deep, sleepy, grouchy voice said, “Hollister.”

“D-Dane.” Her voice was thin, wavering out of control.

“Marlie?” All sleepiness was gone. “Marlie, what’s wrong?”

She tried to speak and couldn’t; her throat was too tight. She took deep, gulping breaths.

“Marlie, goddammit, say something!” He was yelling at her now.

It was coming. She couldn’t fight it off any longer. The trembling was convulsive, the light fading as her vision went. She made a desperate effort, screaming, and her voice was only a whisper. “He’s … doing it … again.”