I roll down the window and let the chilly breeze of a slow Miami night flow into the car.
The steering-wheel is a bit wet, because of my sweaty hands.
On a similar note, I really need to change my shirt.
I drive into this starless, dark blue night, stalling, today's blood splatter on my mind.
Guy bludgeons his wife to death with a baseball bat.
His rage only calmed me down.
Something the guy behind me should do to.
His headlights have been blinding me for the past five blocks.
I hope he's not following me.
I tap the break and slow down, letting the guy pass me by.
I try not to smile at him. Sometimes it might send out the wrong message, so I give him half a nod.
He didn't see me, so I stop.
The clock on the satnav is telling me it's half past eight, but I told Rita I might be running late, so I still have some time.
Lots of potential victims in the area, always, but I'm just not in the mood.
I'm sort of...
Slow.
There's little time left before I have to put up the mask again.
Personal time is hard to come by these days, and here, in this car, I don't have to pretend to anyone.
Except maybe the traffic cop who catches me speed through this next bend.
I catch up with the guy again at the next traffic lights. I recognise the same car and license plate.
I should return the favor and start aiming my headlights for his rear-view mirror, but I don't.
I neatly settle my wheels half a metre or so away from his and watch the traffic lights dwindle in red.
I'm not in a hurry, but I've caught his scent.
The man in the smart Sedan is moving. I can see him in the dark, beyond his red brake lights.
I know he can see me in his rear view mirror. I always see them when I look in mine, although there's no-one behind me now.
It's a sort of quiet night.
I wonder if there's some kind of ball game or other social ritual people are out to see, or staying at home to watch on TV.
I know Rita's been watching celebrities spinning on ice in fancy shoes.
I really don't understand why that is a ratings hit.
I've always been a sucker for National Geographic myself, watching the hunter stalk its prey.
And it's turning left.
The engine hums when I put my foot down, then I slam the clutch and switch gears, so I can match his speed.
He's not a particular good driver, not at all in fact.
While I'm driving perfectly dead centre of the lane, he's murdering the white line with his tires.
Is it so hard just to stay in the middle?
He annoys me.
The Dark Passenger purs.
No.
I should be going home, and besides, the Code objects.
I finish the curve, then purposely take a different exit than the smart Sedan.
The Dark Passenger watches him disappear in the corner of my eye, then returns to its natural slumber, dreaming of severed limbs wrapped in plastic.
The thought of blood sets me on edge, making me grip the steering wheel, but I discipline myself, and I hate myself for it.
At the next traffic lights I stand alone, the red light teases me.
It's probably for the best.
Not every man in Miami is a killer, worthy of being my prey, although Stan Carter might disagree.
Star athlete who murders his wife with his favourite base ball bat, nothing original.
The police found him and he confessed straight away, but I didn't care.
He's just a little fish in an ocean of killers.
And I'm a really, really big fish.
That reminds me.
I've got to buy some tinned salmon before the stores close.
Rita will kill me if I forget.