Read Online Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel) by Danielle Girard - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Danielle Girard
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bees in the intricate hive of his power. He could play them like puppets, but there wouldn't be the same joy. The job had never been enough. A resting place, a time to build his power again, to watch and wait. Now he needed more.
Now he needed Casey. She had caught his attention—and made him think of his mother. Casey had disapproved of him, doubted him, but he had shown her who was in control. And he would again. She was responsible for his new direction as an artist, made him realize he could do even better.
He had always sculpted around a focal point—everyone had one. Casey McKinley's had been her hands—her ability to shoot a gun. The stripper's was her chest, the runner's her legs, the model's her face. It was all about finding their core—that was his art. He was still doing it. He hadn't realized that children had a core, too, but they did. And the children's rawness was a whole new level of excitement that he hadn't expected. He'd taken apart the little ballerina's feet and the face of the girl so self-conscious about her braces.
But now his art gave him an even greater thrill, thanks to Casey. He recalled the day in the mall when he'd seen a mother walking with her child—the woman had looked so much like Casey—and he knew she would congratulate his cleverness in using the children to get to the mothers. What better way to relive the joy of watching his mother suffer as he killed his sister? At first, he'd worried the smaller prey would be duller, but he'd never felt more empowered. He remembered his mother's pleas to let his sister live—she never cared about him, but she had cared more for her daughter than for herself.
Now he sought out children in the malls, each time waiting for the right one. It was perfect. Casey would see the true artistry in it. Her power, her intelligence, had made her the perfect adversary. The fact that he hadn't finished with her made the hunt all the more exciting. Soon she would be forced to give him his due. He felt himself rising in his pants and forced his mind away.
Pulling his gloves off, he looked at his nails. When he'd found a fraying piece of skin, he tugged at it indiscreetly. The layers were red and sore. Still, he dug deeper until he struck blood.
All these months, it had reminded him that he needed to wait. Blood would be evidence. Their blood was joy. His own blood would be damning. He knew when to wait. That was what made him so good.
He rubbed the sore with his finger, feeling the burning of the exposed flesh against the acids in his skin. How wonderful that pain was. In his mind, he could hear them screaming. The pain contorted their faces and made them beg for their lives.
There were the women before—four of them. They had been his mother's puppets, too, but without the same power as her or Casey. His sister had always been the way to pierce his mother's heart. Now he realized. The children were the center of it all. Since Cincinnati, he'd had to wait until Casey was ready to come back to him. There had been only three new pieces of art, but each work was better than the last. The next would be his best yet. The masterpiece was close at hand.
He rubbed his darkened hands across his face, pleased at the new color of his skin. The tan had come from a bottle. With a little help and his own ingenuity, he could be anything he wanted.
Casey's front door opened, and he looked back down at his hands. He found his gardening gloves and pulled them back on, pushing himself to his feet like someone weary from physical labor. The tall black man stepped out of the house and closed the door, easing his way back to the Ford Explorer. The man had the air of a police officer; but without a uniform, a detective might be more likely.
Standing, he turned his back, though he could feel the detective's strong gaze on his shoulder. Excitement and anticipation brewed in his stomach like a wicked ale. He inhaled and soaked it in before hoisting the leaf blower over his
Now he needed Casey. She had caught his attention—and made him think of his mother. Casey had disapproved of him, doubted him, but he had shown her who was in control. And he would again. She was responsible for his new direction as an artist, made him realize he could do even better.
He had always sculpted around a focal point—everyone had one. Casey McKinley's had been her hands—her ability to shoot a gun. The stripper's was her chest, the runner's her legs, the model's her face. It was all about finding their core—that was his art. He was still doing it. He hadn't realized that children had a core, too, but they did. And the children's rawness was a whole new level of excitement that he hadn't expected. He'd taken apart the little ballerina's feet and the face of the girl so self-conscious about her braces.
But now his art gave him an even greater thrill, thanks to Casey. He recalled the day in the mall when he'd seen a mother walking with her child—the woman had looked so much like Casey—and he knew she would congratulate his cleverness in using the children to get to the mothers. What better way to relive the joy of watching his mother suffer as he killed his sister? At first, he'd worried the smaller prey would be duller, but he'd never felt more empowered. He remembered his mother's pleas to let his sister live—she never cared about him, but she had cared more for her daughter than for herself.
Now he sought out children in the malls, each time waiting for the right one. It was perfect. Casey would see the true artistry in it. Her power, her intelligence, had made her the perfect adversary. The fact that he hadn't finished with her made the hunt all the more exciting. Soon she would be forced to give him his due. He felt himself rising in his pants and forced his mind away.
Pulling his gloves off, he looked at his nails. When he'd found a fraying piece of skin, he tugged at it indiscreetly. The layers were red and sore. Still, he dug deeper until he struck blood.
All these months, it had reminded him that he needed to wait. Blood would be evidence. Their blood was joy. His own blood would be damning. He knew when to wait. That was what made him so good.
He rubbed the sore with his finger, feeling the burning of the exposed flesh against the acids in his skin. How wonderful that pain was. In his mind, he could hear them screaming. The pain contorted their faces and made them beg for their lives.
There were the women before—four of them. They had been his mother's puppets, too, but without the same power as her or Casey. His sister had always been the way to pierce his mother's heart. Now he realized. The children were the center of it all. Since Cincinnati, he'd had to wait until Casey was ready to come back to him. There had been only three new pieces of art, but each work was better than the last. The next would be his best yet. The masterpiece was close at hand.
He rubbed his darkened hands across his face, pleased at the new color of his skin. The tan had come from a bottle. With a little help and his own ingenuity, he could be anything he wanted.
Casey's front door opened, and he looked back down at his hands. He found his gardening gloves and pulled them back on, pushing himself to his feet like someone weary from physical labor. The tall black man stepped out of the house and closed the door, easing his way back to the Ford Explorer. The man had the air of a police officer; but without a uniform, a detective might be more likely.
Standing, he turned his back, though he could feel the detective's strong gaze on his shoulder. Excitement and anticipation brewed in his stomach like a wicked ale. He inhaled and soaked it in before hoisting the leaf blower over his
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