Read Online Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel) by Danielle Girard - Free Book Online
Authors: Danielle Girard
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fidgety.
Gasping, she stared at her hands. What would she do if Leonardo got in? How could she defend herself? Without the use of her hands, she was a sitting duck. Undoubtedly, that was exactly as he wanted it. Why, after so many months of silence, were the alarms suddenly going off in her head? Was it the inspector's visit, the memories of working cases? Or was Leonardo really here? Could she actually feel him like thick smoke, burning in the air?
If so, she was as good as dead.
Chapter 6
She was as good as dead. He turned off the leaf blower and lifted the worn baseball cap to wipe his brow. From across the street he watched Agent McKinley move in the bedroom, then quickly draw her shades. He smiled. So she knew. He could see it in her face—the sheer terror of knowing how close he was. And he was that close. No, he was closer. She could never imagine how close he was.
He sat on the step and put his cap back on, pretending to bask in the sun that sliced between the tall eucalyptus like a machete. It was an act, of course. He hated the sun, had always hated it. His rage, like molten lava, burned inside him. He had succeeded. He'd waited almost a year for her, hidden out, worked menial jobs, but his time had come. She thought she was so much better than he. Everyone undervalued him.
Even as a child, the kids had made of fun of his pasty skin and scrawny physique—as they had made fun of his drawings. He had practiced sketching, just like his uncle said he should. "Medicine is art. You must be able to draw a perfect line—first with the pen and later with the scalpel."
He had always been good. But they denied it, told him he was a sissy. What did they know? His uncle had recognized his talent and tried to teach him, but his man-hating mother wouldn't hear of it.
He remembered the old copy of Gray's Anatomy his uncle had brought for him. He had overheard his mother talking with his uncle at the door. It was his eleventh birthday. Closing his eyes, he could envision it now. He'd only seen his uncle one more time before he died. But his mother hadn't given him the book—she gave it to his sister instead. He'd gotten only a hat, a stupid red birthday hat that had been his sister's only months before.
He didn't care. He had proven himself. He'd studied Gray's Anatomy in secret and learned all the parts—every single one. He'd practiced on neighborhood cats, squirrels, and birds, even a dog once, although it was big and bulky and hadn't required nearly so much skill as the smaller animals. The scratches from the dog still marked his arms, war wounds of his own personal battles. He could have been a doctor like his uncle.
But then he had been denied entrance into medical school. He should be a doctor—he was good enough. No, he was better. His mother and sister had mocked him, continued to do so up until five years ago. But that was the last time. His sister's birthday, too. What a perfect final present for them both.
Now he was his own doctor, he performed his own surgery, and created his own art. Each piece was a puppet to his power. Let his coworkers at this latest joke of a job think what they want. Stupid, worthless. That's how they thought of him. He had lied to them about his background in security, about his name. Even his appearance had been a lie—the dark brown hair, the brown contacts. He held the deceits like carrots in front of them, and they had bitten. With each new lie, they moved closer, more trusting. How he would love to show them how stupid they were, how careless and naive. But they wouldn't know. They would never know.
He toyed with the idea of letting them find out one day. The image of their horrified faces filled his head. He felt the warm rush of glee. When they learned that the man they had trusted with their security and then belittled had so much power, they would be terrified. He wanted to haunt them.
But they weren't enough. They were easy targets, worthless worker
Gasping, she stared at her hands. What would she do if Leonardo got in? How could she defend herself? Without the use of her hands, she was a sitting duck. Undoubtedly, that was exactly as he wanted it. Why, after so many months of silence, were the alarms suddenly going off in her head? Was it the inspector's visit, the memories of working cases? Or was Leonardo really here? Could she actually feel him like thick smoke, burning in the air?
If so, she was as good as dead.
Chapter 6
She was as good as dead. He turned off the leaf blower and lifted the worn baseball cap to wipe his brow. From across the street he watched Agent McKinley move in the bedroom, then quickly draw her shades. He smiled. So she knew. He could see it in her face—the sheer terror of knowing how close he was. And he was that close. No, he was closer. She could never imagine how close he was.
He sat on the step and put his cap back on, pretending to bask in the sun that sliced between the tall eucalyptus like a machete. It was an act, of course. He hated the sun, had always hated it. His rage, like molten lava, burned inside him. He had succeeded. He'd waited almost a year for her, hidden out, worked menial jobs, but his time had come. She thought she was so much better than he. Everyone undervalued him.
Even as a child, the kids had made of fun of his pasty skin and scrawny physique—as they had made fun of his drawings. He had practiced sketching, just like his uncle said he should. "Medicine is art. You must be able to draw a perfect line—first with the pen and later with the scalpel."
He had always been good. But they denied it, told him he was a sissy. What did they know? His uncle had recognized his talent and tried to teach him, but his man-hating mother wouldn't hear of it.
He remembered the old copy of Gray's Anatomy his uncle had brought for him. He had overheard his mother talking with his uncle at the door. It was his eleventh birthday. Closing his eyes, he could envision it now. He'd only seen his uncle one more time before he died. But his mother hadn't given him the book—she gave it to his sister instead. He'd gotten only a hat, a stupid red birthday hat that had been his sister's only months before.
He didn't care. He had proven himself. He'd studied Gray's Anatomy in secret and learned all the parts—every single one. He'd practiced on neighborhood cats, squirrels, and birds, even a dog once, although it was big and bulky and hadn't required nearly so much skill as the smaller animals. The scratches from the dog still marked his arms, war wounds of his own personal battles. He could have been a doctor like his uncle.
But then he had been denied entrance into medical school. He should be a doctor—he was good enough. No, he was better. His mother and sister had mocked him, continued to do so up until five years ago. But that was the last time. His sister's birthday, too. What a perfect final present for them both.
Now he was his own doctor, he performed his own surgery, and created his own art. Each piece was a puppet to his power. Let his coworkers at this latest joke of a job think what they want. Stupid, worthless. That's how they thought of him. He had lied to them about his background in security, about his name. Even his appearance had been a lie—the dark brown hair, the brown contacts. He held the deceits like carrots in front of them, and they had bitten. With each new lie, they moved closer, more trusting. How he would love to show them how stupid they were, how careless and naive. But they wouldn't know. They would never know.
He toyed with the idea of letting them find out one day. The image of their horrified faces filled his head. He felt the warm rush of glee. When they learned that the man they had trusted with their security and then belittled had so much power, they would be terrified. He wanted to haunt them.
But they weren't enough. They were easy targets, worthless worker
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