not stroke his hair or touch his face with her warm soft hands, and she
would not let him cuddle against her or put his weary head upon her
breast, and at night he had to find his way into a troubled sleep
without being guided there by either her bedtime stories or sweet
lullabies. In that total banishment he learned moor Hell than he ever
hoped to know.
But she would understand why Candy could not help himself tonight, and
she’d forgive him. Sooner or later she always forgave him because her
love for him was like the love of God for all His children: perfect,
rich with forbearance mercy. When she deemed that Candy had suffered
enough, she always had looked at him again, smiled for him, opened arms
wide. In her new acceptance of him, he had experienced as much of
Heaven as he needed to know.
She was in Heaven now, herself. Seven long years! God, how he missed
her. But she was watching him even now. She would know he had lost
control tonight, and she would be disappointed in him.
He climbed the stairs, rushing up two risers at a time, staying close to
the wall, where the steps were less likely to squeak. He was a big man
but graceful and light on his feet, and if some of the stair treads were
loose or tired with age, they did not creak under him.
In the upstairs hall he paused, listening.
Nothing.
A dim night-light was part of the overhead smoke alarm. The glow was
just bright enough for Candy to see two doors on the right of the hall,
two on the left, and one at the far end.
He crept to the first door on the right, eased it open, and slipped into
the room beyond. He closed the door again and stood with his back to
it.
Although his need was great, he forced himself to wait for his eyes to
adjust to the gloom.
Ashen light, from a street lamp at least half a block away, glimmered
faintly at the two windows. He noticed the mirror, first, a frosty
rectangle in which the meager radiance was murkily reflected; then he
began to make out the shape of the dresser beneath it. A moment later
he was also able to see the bed and, dimly, the huddled form of someone
lying under a light-colored blanket that was vaguely phosphorescent.
Candy stepped cautiously to the bed, took hold of the blanket and sheets
and hesitated, listening to the soft rhythmic breathing of the sleeper.
He detected a trace of perfume mingled with a pleasant scent of warm
skin and recently shampooed hair. A girl. He could always tell
girl-smell from boy smell. He also sensed that this one was young,
perhaps a teenager. If his need had not been so intense, he would have
hesitated much longer than he did, for the moments preceding a kill were
exciting, almost better than the act itself.
With a dramatic flick of his arm, as if he were a magician throwing back
the cloth that had covered an empty cage to reveal a captive dove of
sorcerous origins, he uncovered the sleeper. He fell upon her, crushing
her into the mattress with his body.
She woke instantly and tried to scream, even though he surely knocked
the wind out of her. Fortunately, he had unhumanly large and powerful
hands, and he had found her face as she began to raise her voice, so he
was able to thrust palm under her chin and hook his fingers in her
cheeks clamp her mouth shut.
“Be quiet, or I’ll kill you,” he whispered, his lips brushing against
her delicate ear.
Making a muffled, panicky sound, she squirmed under him to no avail.
Judging by the feel of her, she was not yet a woman, perhaps no younger
than twelve, certainly not older than fifteen.
She was no match for him.
“I don’t want to hurt you. I just want you, and when i’m done with you,
I’ll leave.” That was a lie, for he had no desire to rape her. Sex was
no interest to him. Indeed, sex disgusted him; involving unmentionable
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