Perfect Victim, The

The Perfect Victim

by Linda Castillo

Prologue

"Let us return to the magic hour of our birth for

which we mourn."
-
KOFI AWOONOR

She had dreamed of him. Dark, disturbing dreams filled with blood and violence and a vague sense of terror
.
Dreams that choked her with the familiar sting of shame and dredged up memories of a past she'd spent her entire life trying to forget
.

Huddled in the threadbare recliner
,
Agnes Beckett watched the hands of the clock sweep to midnight
,
knowing sleep would not come again. It was the kind of night that evoked demons. The kind of night that made her wonder why her subconscious had waited until now to torment her
.
She'd always believed she'd come to terms with her past
.
It was somehow disappointing, and strangely ironic, to realize after all these years those demons still frightened her
.

A faint rasping, like the frenzied gnawing of a cold rodent, sounded just outside the front door
.
Hauling herself to her feet
,
she made her way to the kitchen, the thought of rats bringing a curse to her lips.

At the door, she flipped on the porch
light and spread the
homemade curtains. Beyond, a thin veil of snow whispered across the plowed field, gathering at the frozen peaks of earth, stark and white against black.

She leaned close to the glass, straining to see the maple tree that grew alongside the mobile home. Spindly fingers of ice clung like transparent talons to the branches and grated against the siding. A sigh of relief slid from her lips. It wasn't rats. Just the wind.

An instant later the door burst inward, striking her in the chest hard enough to knock the breath from her. Shock flashed through her, followed by a fleeting sense of realization, and an instant of disbelief.

A man entered her kitchen. Terror snaked through her as she took in the sight of him—long black coat, shiny leather gloves, face concealed behind a ski mask.

"Who are you?" she cried.

Reptilian eyes stared at her through the slits of the knit mask. "Destiny," he whispered.

Not much frightened Agnes Beckett these days. She'd led a hard life filled with the kinds of experiences that destroyed the weak and made the strong stronger. But as she watched the intruder close the door behind him, a fear she'd never experienced in her youth wrapped around her and squeezed, like a snake crushing the life from its prey.

It was the stare, she realized, inhuman in its intensity, the eyes dispassionate and resolute, filled with unspeakable purpose.

Spinning, she propelled herself into a dead run for the bedroom. She was aware of him moving behind her, but she didn't stop. She ran blindly, arms outstretched, tripping over the cheap throw rug, righting herself just as she flung herself forward into the narrow hall. She sensed his closeness as she ran, heard the sound of his boots on the carpet, his breathing above her own labored gasps.

A sliver of panic pierced the last of her control and worked its way into her like a shard of glass into flesh. Lunging at the night table, she snatched up the phone and punched zero.

But the line was as silent and cold as the terror exploding in her brain
.
Breaths rushing between clenched teeth, she spun on her attacker
.
The sight of the knife sent a scream pouring from her throat
.
In that instant, she knew she was going to die. A vile bitterness welled up inside her that her life would be wiped out this way. So suddenly and with so much violence.

He leaped forward, tiny eyes fixed on hers, as cold and emotionless as a taxidermist's glass. She raised her hands in defense. The blade came down
,
slicing
i
nto the flesh between her fingers, rising again, then cutting deep
.
The scream that followed was hoarse and weak. Her own. And the blood. So much blood…

A split second of flittering light and the knife plunged again. There was no real pain, but the knowledge that she'd been badly injured flowed into her as surely as the blood coursed between her breasts.

She lashed out with her fists, but she was too weak to fight
.
As she sank to her knees in the narrow hall, she knew, after all these years, he'd finally come for her. Master of her fate. Her past. And, now, her destiny. The realization came with a rush of pain, of unfulfillment, of hatred. She
'
d been living on borrowed time. His time. Bastard.

The knife slashed upward. She felt the pressure of the blade as it bit into her throat
.
She tried to scream, but her voice was gone. Her vision blurred. Panic fluttered away. Her senses dimmed as if a switch inside her head had been suddenly and viciously turned off.

She heard gurgling, an und
i
gnified sound that had come from somewhere deep inside her. Light ebbed into darkness. Thoughts fragmented, memories tumbled away into oblivion, lost forever, as though they had never existed. She slid to the floor, her blood-soaked flannel shirt catching on the nails in the cheap paneling.

Outside the front door, the maple danced with the wind.

Chapter 1

Addison Fox heaved the last box onto the dappled marble counter and stepped back to catch her breath. "I am not going to panic." Tossing her coat onto the bar stool next to her, she shot a glance at the clock above the massive brass espresso maker. The clock glared back, daring her to take the time to make a pot of coffee.

It was already past six A.M., which gave her less than an hour to prepare for the morning rush. "Great," she murmured, blowing a breath of frustration through her bangs.

It was the day after Thanksgiving, and the holiday season had fallen over the city of Denver with all the vivacity of a first snowfall. She'd had every intention of being prepared, but it was going to take much more than good intentions to get three boxes of Christmas decorations up in forty-five minutes.

Hands on her hips, she studied the boxes, trying to decide which decorations to put up now and which ones would have to wait until later. She opened the first box and wrinkled her nose at the rise of dust and the sight of the thrice-used coil
of garland. Shoving the box aside for an expediti
o
us return to the attic, she reached for the second and pried it open
.

As always, she wanted every
t
hing to be perfect in the gourmet coffee shop she owned and operated
.
Located in the historical district of downtown, the Coffee Cup was the center of her life. She went to impossible lengths to keep the Kona fresh-brewed hourly, the apricot
scones warm and soft, and the porcelain teapots arranged just so. It was that kind of perfectionism, according to
The Denver Post
, that had earned her the reputation of having the best coffee in town.

Addison spent countless hours blending unusual combinations of beans, experimenting with temperatures and grinds, striving for a more perfect cup of coffee. It was a career she cherished in a town she loved passionately
.
She adored her customers, with their quirky demands and tastes
,
and knew it was her attention to detail that had them coming back again and again.

After sinking her life savings into buying the previous owner
'
s failing coffee shop
,
she
'
d spent two months redesigning the interior herself
,
combining antiques with the avant-garde, and old
-
world tradition with modem
-
day high-tech
.
The old-fashioned soda fountain inspired an aura of yesteryear while the scientific brewing techniques maintained the sophist
i
cated tastes her customers demanded.

''They also expect you to open on time
,
" she said aloud
,
shoving the box aside and attacking the next
.

The bell mounted on the rear door jingled merrily
.
Addison looked up to see Gretchen Wentworth lugging a cardboard box onto the bar
. "
Don't ask," the woman said crossly, taking her bifocals from the tip of her nose to wipe away the condensation
.

Addison lowered her eyes to hide the smile lurking behind them, knowing Gretchen didn't have a cross bone in her body
.
"I
'
ll forgive you for being late if you make coffee, Gretch."

"You're easy when you're desperate." The older woman
shoved the glasses back onto her nose and scowled at the clock.

"Would you make it Sumatra?" Addison added. "I need the extra caffeine this morning."

"It's going to take more than a little caffeine to get all these decorations up before the rush." Gretchen pulled off her coat and picked up Addison's, taking both to the small storage room at the rear of the store. "It's been twenty years since I overslept," she grumbled, sliding behind the counter.

"I didn't ask." Addison said. unconcerned. She opened the box her friend had hauled in, pulled out a string of tiny, colorful lights, and felt a flutter of childlike. excitement. "Do they blink?"

Gretchen scooped coffee beans from the glass display case and poured them into the grinder. Neither woman spoke as the grinder worked its magic. "Yes, they blink," she said when the grinding was finished. "At least they did last year."

Addison succumbed to a smile as she pulled the bundle of tangled lights from the box and carried them to the window at the front of the store. "Perfect," she said and went to work.

Two hours later, she stood behind the bar, watching the lights at the front window blink in an electrical rainbow of color that had her smiling again. Christmas was her favorite holiday, one she went all out to enjoy. She knew, however, this year would be different. It was her second Christmas at the Coffee Cup; her first without her parents.