Bad Moon Rising

Bad Moon
Rising

KATHERINE SUTCLIFFE

JOVE BOOKS, NEW YORK

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Jove edition / June 2003

Copyright © 2003 by Katherine Sutcliffe Cover design by
Marc Cohen

ISBN: 0-515-13487-2

CONTENTS:

GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT
 
PROLOGUE
 
1
 
2
 
3
 
4
 
5
 
6
 
7
 
8
 
9
 
10
 
11
 
12
 
13
 
14
 
15
 
16
 
17
 
18
 
19
 
EPILOGUE

As always, my sincere appreciation to my editor,
Christine Zika, for her belief in my books and her uncanny ability to keep me
on track. To my agent, Evan Fogelman, whose encouragement keeps the torch of
hope burning brightly.

And to a few brilliant individuals who helped along
the way.

Maureen Williamson, investigative reporter and reserve
officer for the San Jacinto Police Department, who was always ready and eager
to answer any and all questions. Love you, Sis!

Natalie Collins, incredibly talented author of
SisterWife,
who came to my rescue when I
needed her the most.
(
www.nataliercollins.com
)

And a very special, heartfelt thank-you to retired New
York Detective Dennis J. McGowan, who patiently took me under his wing through
the writing of this book and educated me on the particulars of police work.
The highly talented author of
False Stature,
Dennis took time away from his own writing to hold my
hand through it all and assure me I could pull it all together.

Always remember, Dennis: I’ve got your back!
(
www.dennisjmcgowan.com
)

To my readers. Thanks for your continued support! You’re
appreciated more than you know.
(
www.KatherineSutcliffe.net
)

The bitch is harder to kill than most others.

Her wide eyes stare up at him—whites showing around
the stark blue of irises that are fast being eclipsed by her expanding pupils.
He’s seen enough women die to know just how much longer he will need to wait
before getting down to business.

He smiles and settles back in the chair, crosses his
legs and checks his watch, first nudging down the surgical glove from the watch
face—quarter of two. Ten minutes at the most and she will be a goner.

Tyra isn’t her real name, of course. Hookers never use
their real names—like the dancers and waitresses over on Bourbon Street, the
sluts who take care of their high-roller clientele back in the VIP and
champagne lounges of the tittie clubs.

She looks like a Nicole. Perhaps an Amanda. Definitely
the cheerleader type. Long blond hair, long legs, and collagen-puffed lips that
make her look as if she’s taken a deep suck off a green persimmon. Better
looking than most paid whores, granted.

But, a whore is a whore is a whore.

A parasite deserving of extermination.

“Would you like to scream?” he asks. “Go ahead. I won’t
stop you.”

She opens her mouth and gurgles. The blood would be
filling up her throat by now, what hasn’t drained out around the ice pick in
her neck, just below the jawline. There is an art to such a wound—the precision
of it so masterful a surgeon would be tempted to applaud him. The thrust had
been deep and clean, puncturing the windpipe and vocal chords. She hadn’t seen
it coming. He’d simply yanked back her head and slid the pick into her
throat—careful to miss the jugular.

She can’t scream, of course. But he does so enjoy teasing
them. It helps to pass the time.

Ten of two.

On the floor near his feet is Saturday’s newspaper,
the
Times-Picayune.
He nudges
it carefully with his foot so he can better read the front page
...

SERIAL KILLER SCHEDULED TO DIE
MONDAY

Angel Gonzalez, a Mexican
drifter who was convicted for the murders of seven women and two children,
will be put to death Monday....

“Poor bastard.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Imagine
how they’re going to feel when they find out you were innocent.”

Oh well. The scum sucker had admitted to child molestation
and if anyone deserved to get burned, it was child molesters—short circuit them
until their brains bubble out of their ears.

He reaches for the backpack on the floor and hefts it
into his lap, unzips it, and digs out the scalpel and hacksaw, peels aside the
red felt in which he has so carefully wrapped them—a master of his trade must
always take special care of the tools of his craft—sets them aside, then begins
to undress. First, the Nikes. He tucks them into the backpack—no socks, they
are just one more piece of evidence that he will have to dispose of. Then, his
jeans— no underwear, of course—and his Mardi Gras T-shirt; fold them all neatly
and tuck them into the backpack as well, zip it closed for safe measure, unzip
the coin pocket and withdraw a condom packet, collect the scalpel and saw, then
walk to the bed, careful to avoid the growing pool of blood on the floor
beneath the mattress.

Lifting the foil packet up for her to see, he winks. “Ribbed
for pleasure.”

She struggles weakly. The wires around her wrists and
ankles have already cut through her flesh. Tyra obviously isn’t doing herself
any favors, but it’s certainly enough to get his juices flowing. Oh, yeah.

“See this?” He lifts the scalpel. “I’m going to cut
you open with this, Tyra. Yes, I am. I’m going to lay open your flat, pretty
stomach and eviscerate you. Do you know what that means, cutie?”

She thrashes. Her eyeballs are starting to swell and
quiver.

Oh, yeah. Having fun now. His blood is warming. Head a
little dizzy. The aroma of death hangs in the sweltering air like the
titillating scent of a horny woman.

He glances down at the penis. Almost there.

Then he raises the hacksaw. “Tyra, are you paying
close attention, dear? Now, don’t die on me yet. Hang on for just a moment
longer. You wouldn’t want to miss all the fun, would you? I’m going to cut off
your head. I’m going to put it in that backpack, then we’re going to take a
ride out of town where I’ll toss the backpack with you in it into the river.”

Feeling good now.

The penis is aroused and jutting from between his legs
like a crowbar. Despicably ugly thing—engorged and painful—a constant source of
trouble.

Big deep breath. Remove the condom from the packet and
put it on. Careful, careful—oh, yes. Stroking himself now. Pumping gently.
Sweat rising.

Her eyes begin to glaze and her chest rattles. She
makes a pitiful attempt at squirming, which excites him more, and he strokes
himself harder. “Come come, Tyra,” he says through his teeth. “You can do
better than that.”

The psychologists who had profiled him four years ago
had termed him a “Domineering Serial Killer”—a killer who enjoys seeing his
victims suffer.
Correct.
He gets off on inspiring fear.
Correct again.
He gets more enjoyment from the victim’s fear, from
feeling a sense of control and power over another human being than he does from
the actual killing.
They were off a little on that one, but hey, no one is
perfect.
This
murderer does not suffer from delusions, visions, or voices. He is totally
aware of what he is doing and may be very well versed in the laws and penal
codes of his area.
Nailed it.
He had been tempted to send the team of head shrinkers
a “booby” prize for their extreme intelligence but mutilating a woman’s finest
assets had been a little too distasteful, even for him.

The somewhat disconcerting idea occurs to him that
perhaps Tyra isn’t afraid to die—even embraces the idea. Not that he blames
her. Surely death is preferable to this sordid life of whoredom, night after
night of spreading her legs for any disease-infected creep who has a hard on
and is willing to pay for his satisfaction.

Suddenly Mick Jagger’s voice rings inside his head—
Can’t get no satisfaction—
as if good old Mick had a problem
with that. Yeah, right.

What was it about women who didn’t give a flying frog
about how ugly a man is as long as he has money and acclaim? Let some dude get
his name on
Entertainment
Tonight
and
he is grade A number one prime beef. Fame and success are aphrodisiacs to the
female species. He’s willing to bet that Jerry Hall wouldn’t have looked twice
at Mick had he been a CPA or, better yet, the mechanic who changed the spark
plugs in her Ferrari.

He realizes then that Tyra is dead. She hadn’t so much
as given a shudder. Her eyes are frozen open and void as two copper pennies.

Looking down at his penis, he watches it shrivel and
the condom droop like a deflated balloon.

Damn.