Beachcomber (2 page)

“Sorry!” she offered with a grin.

“No problem,” he said, but she was already running back to rejoin her friends. He played follow the bouncing ass until she dodged behind an old guy dragging a kayak out of the water. The beach ball arced over the old guy’s head and was caught by another girl. A brunette. His eyes widened as she leaped into the air to grab the ball. The blonde was cute, a lively towhead with skin the color of crispy chicken, but it was the brunette who was something special.

She was taller than the blonde, and slimmer. A pink bandanna held her thick brown hair back from her face. It swung just free of her shoulders as she tossed the ball away. Her bikini was pink, too, cotton-candy pink, a shiny, stretchy fabric that his fingers suddenly itched to touch. He could almost feel the silkiness of it, the firm warmth of her skin beneath—the lovely unblemished skin that was as golden-smooth as melted caramel.

As he watched her, his mouth watered. He clenched his teeth as the ache came over him, the hunger. His senses seemed to expand, take on a new acuity. He could smell the girl’s musky scent, see obscure details such as the triangular dark mole in the crevice between her breasts and the small butterfly tattoo on her left hip, hear her mutter a fierce
damn it
as the ball skimmed over her head and knocked her bandanna loose.

She stopped playing to retie the bandanna. Her back was to him now, and his gaze drank in the sharp angle of her shoulder blades, the long sweep of her back, the curve of her ass.

“Liz, catch!” the blonde yelled, bounding back into his line of vision. The brunette turned toward the hurtling ball, caught it, and ran straight at him while three other girls chased her, shrieking with laughter.

Her breasts bounced like tennis balls when she ran.

At the last minute she sheared away, angling back toward the water. Laughing, the other girls changed direction, too, and the ball once again flew through the air.

“I’ve got it!” A third girl in a yellow bikini, who was pear-shaped, with short, spiky black hair, caught the ball and pelted away with Liz and the pack in hot pursuit.

“Throw it, Terri!” Liz shrieked, and the pear-shaped girl threw the ball to her. Liz leaped to catch it, and her breasts almost bounced free of that teeny-tiny top.

The thick, hot throbbing between his legs was almost unbearable now. The need to possess her was so intense that he couldn’t move. His eyelids drooped. His nostrils quivered as he inhaled more of her scent. Saliva filled his mouth, and he swallowed. He could almost taste the warm caramel on his tongue.

“Excuse me, do you know which way the Ramada Inn is?” a sandy-haired kid asked, stopping in front of him.

It took him a minute to process what the kid was asking. Then he shook his head without replying. The kid made a disgusted sound and moved on. While annoying, the interruption had served a useful purpose: it had cut like a knife through the thick haze of wanting
that had him rooted to the spot. He caught himself, battling the beast back into submission, and deliberately took a breath to clear his head. He’d paused to stare at the girl, he realized, and that wasn’t smart. He might attract attention and someone might remember him later, when she turned up missing.

“Oh, crap, it’s in the water!”

Laughing, the girls splashed into the surf after the ball, which floated away on the waves. The thought of seeing that shiny pink bikini wet was tantalizing, but it was time to move on. He’d been standing there watching them for way too long. It required great effort, but he tore his gaze away and started walking. His heart was pounding. He was breathing way too fast. His feet felt as heavy as iron weights as he made his way across the hot sand. Skirting two little kids playing on a towel, he tamped his power down, deliberately drew back inside his shell, behind the protective coloring that kept anyone from seeing him, from recognizing the truth about who and what he was.

He became invisible again.

A safe forty yards away, he stopped in the shadow of a palmetto tree that grew right at the edge of the beach, just inside the grounds of the Quality Inn. Leaning back against the low stone wall that separated the motel from the sand, he rested his elbows on top of the wall, pushed his sunglasses back up his nose, and allowed his gaze to return to his quarry.

The hunt was on. He’d found the one he wanted. Now that he had her in his sights, the chances that she would manage to elude him were minimal. There was always an element of fate, of luck, in these things, but chance, as the
saying went, generally favored the prepared mind. She was not prepared. In fact, she had no clue that she had been singled out. They never did. He had trolled these beaches before, so many times that he had the taking of young women down to a fine art. The Outer Banks teemed with potential victims: that was one reason he had chosen to move to the area. They were unwary, too, the girls, a little lax with their usual safety precautions, lulled into a false sense of security by the combined soporifics of surf, sand, and sun. Holy moly, they were on vacation, they seemed to think. What could possibly go wrong?

At the thought he allowed himself a small smile. Him, for one.

When Liz left with her friends, he followed, careful to stay back, to attract no attention, to blend in.

They didn’t notice him. No one ever noticed him. Not until he wanted them to, that is. Then they noticed him, in a big way. Unfortunately, by that time it was usually too late—for them.

There were four of them, four pretty girls in four yummy flavors, each as tempting as a chocolate in a Valentine candy box, but Liz was the one he wanted. His blood hummed with anticipation as he trailed them through the lengthening shadows. It had been a while since he had allowed himself the luxury of a capture: he tried to limit himself, because he had learned the hard way that if he took too many too often people began to notice. Papers started spouting headlines like
SERIAL KILLER ON THE LOOSE
and the talking heads on TV yapped about the latest victims and how women could protect themselves and the girls started looking over
their shoulders and jumping at anything that moved. Then pressure got put on the cops to find the killer.

They were too dumb to catch him but they could make his life difficult, which was why, a few years back, he had left his old stomping grounds behind and moved south. Said good-bye to girls in parkas and mittens and hello to babes in bikinis. Good-bye to freezing his ass off and hello to balmy breezes. Good-bye to cops who were running details about the victims, the crimes, and the locations of the bodies through their computers in hopes of uncovering the one detail that would nail him and hello to cops who had no idea he even existed.

Best thing he’d ever done, moving. Look at him now: happy, excited, filled with the thrill of the chase. He was doing what he loved for the love of it again. The dark days of stress and worry and looking over his shoulder were behind him.

And he meant to keep it that way. Like dieting, all it took was the exercise of a little self-restraint.

The girls went through a small wrought-iron gate into the pool area of a hotel. He wasn’t familiar enough with Nags Head to be able to identify which one it was from his particular viewing angle, but it didn’t matter; as long as he managed to keep them in sight it was all good. Stopping in the shadow of a float-rental booth that had just closed for the night, he busied himself by shaking the sand out of his shoes as people trudged past without giving him a second glance. With the endless patience that always came over him when he was engaged in a hunt, he waited for Liz and her friends to move on, smiling a little as he listened to their chatter,
watching as they rinsed off under the outside shower, savoring the knowledge of what was to come. When they started walking again, wrapped in towels now, he started walking too, careful to keep his distance. He followed them to the motel’s stairwell and watched as they trooped up the cement stairs—it was the Windjammer, cheap, with long, open-air hallways in front of the rooms and lots of access from the outside—then crowded into a single room: 218.

“I’m starving,” he heard one of the girls complain through the still-open door. “Can we please eat?”

“What about Taco—?”

The door closed then, cutting off the rest of the conversation. But it didn’t matter. He knew where they were staying. All he had to do now was watch and wait.

It took him
five minutes to retrieve his camper, which was parked down the street. Forty-seven minutes later according to the dashboard clock, he watched Liz and her friends emerge from their room. Liz was in a halter and shorts that left her legs tantalizingly bare. It was late by then, ten-thirty, and by rights he should have been tired. But he wasn’t. He never got tired when he was going after game. Instead, he felt energized, empowered, alive. At times like this he realized that the rest of his life was lived in shades of black and white. This—this hunting and taking—was the only time the world around him took on vibrant rainbow hues. It was exciting. It was intoxicating. It was liberating. It was, in fact, the only time he was truly himself.

The girls piled into a way-too-small Honda Civic and
took off down Beach Road. His heart rate accelerated right along with the camper as he followed them, then watched through the Taco Bell’s big glass windows as they ate. By the time they finished and parked on the strip to do some shopping at the T-shirt and seashell-jewelry stores, it was full dark. A moon as frosty yellow as a lemon drop was just starting its climb across the sky. He circled the block, getting a little electric thrill every time he spotted Liz browsing in one of the fluorescent-lit stores. When they popped into the Parrot Cay bar for drinks, he parked out front and waited. He wasn’t in a hurry. In fact, he was enjoying himself. The picture he held in his mind was of himself as a lion creeping through the tall grass of a savannah toward a grazing gazelle. The lion was aware of everything, from the direction of the wind to the presence of other creatures that might sound a warning to the sharpness of its own hunger. The gazelle was aware of nothing but the sweetness of the grass.

Until the unwary creature wandered just a little too far away from the safety of the herd, which was how pretty little gazelles tended to meet their end. After about fifteen minutes Liz did exactly that. She came out of the bar alone, talking a mile a minute on a cell phone as she walked down the cement steps to the sidewalk. Either the noise inside, a desire for privacy, or the wish not to offend her neighbors had sent her right out under his nose.

And to think that, ordinarily, he hated cell phones.

It was close to midnight now, but the street was far from deserted. People came in and out of the bar; shoppers browsed the shops; cars drove past. Still, the sidewalk in front of the bar was dark and shadowy. And as
she talked, she moved farther away from the door—and closer to him.

He couldn’t stand it. She was too close, too tempting. Waiting for a better time probably would be smarter, but it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.

His camper was parked at a meter about ten feet from where she was still jabbering away on that phone. His blood was rushing through his veins now. His muscles were tense, ready. His senses were on edge, alert, vibrating. He felt himself swelling, shrugging out of his everyday skin as he suddenly became as lethal as a high-voltage power line.

The beast was emerging, and it felt good.

Getting out of the camper, he headed toward her. She glanced at him, casually, as he drew close.

“Liz?” He quickened his step, greeting her like a long-lost friend delighted to run into her in this unexpected spot.

She frowned, breaking off in the middle of whatever she had been saying to look up at him questioningly. He saw that her parted lips were freshly glossed. They gleamed alluringly as they caught the soft neon glow of the bar sign overhead.

“Hi,” he said almost tenderly as he reached her, and shoved his stun gun into her side. The sharp buzz always made him think of a mosquito zapper doing its thing. The acrid scent of burning slid up his nostrils like cocaine. His left arm was already around her in what was calculated to be a friendly-looking hug as she gasped and stiffened, then crumpled against him. Her phone hit the strip of grass beside the sidewalk without a sound.

It took just seconds to bundle her into the back of the camper and close the door. He’d customized the vehicle to create the perfect holding chamber: there was no way out. Anyway, he had a good fifteen minutes before she would begin to stir, he knew from experience. That gave him plenty of time to get out of town. A quick glance around reassured him that no one was near; no one had seen. Her cell phone caught his eye: he didn’t want to leave that behind. If it was found, her friends would immediately begin to worry. If it wasn’t, they would most likely think that she had walked back down to the shops and start looking for her there.

“Liz?”

He was bent over, scooping up the phone. Straightening, he saw that one of Liz’s friends—the pear-shaped one with the butch haircut whose name he vaguely remembered was Terri—was standing on the sidewalk only a few feet away, eyeballing him with an expression that was just a few more seconds’ thought short of suspicion.

“What are you doing with that?” Her gaze glued to the phone now, she began to frown. A couple came out of the bar behind her, but beyond a casual glance paid them no attention; as soon as the pair hit the sidewalk they turned and headed, arm in arm, up the street. Nevertheless, he felt a stab of uncertainty, a sense that events were no longer entirely under his control. He hated the feeling and, by extension, hated her for causing it, for disturbing the flow of the moment, the excitement of the capture, the beautiful oneness he was feeling with all things strong and powerful and free.

“It was lying on the ground here,” he said easily, glancing down at the phone in his hand. “Did you lose one?”

He held it out to her. His heart still pounded with excitement from his success with Liz. He was on edge, bursting with strength, bristling with energy. There was no tamping the power down. Not yet. It was too soon. He was afraid this girl would be able to read what was in his face, in his eyes, but there was nothing he could do but trust in his own luck and the concealing power of the darkness around them.