The mad enjoyment that shook the man gave way to a great calm.
He had thought about it and lived this moment in advance so much, his body moved on its own.
But he had not expected the sound of despair in the consulting detective's voice, nor the tingling at the end of the fingers whenever they'd brushed against the clothes of the woman.
Oh, this operation proved itself a thousand times better that if he had imagined all these years…
He had a happy gasp.
And this feeling of freedom, like an ecstasy…
He still saw himself, sweating, terrified, stinking of fear and desire, when he had woken in a startle, twenty years ago, with this obsession.
He was young and attractive enough at the time for the barmaids to call him "baby".
He giggled.
No doubt the detective's wife probably thought herself very clever.
O-L-D.
He had contemplated the clue with a small ironic smile, before deciding not to wipe it off.
If Sherlock Holmes proved himself rusty, maybe the inscription would speed things up. Two weeks were quite enough time spent in this crazy, modern, far too modern for him now. Everything had to be completed at the latest on Sunday.
He loved the menu on Sunday.
He checked the chairs, the objects. Perfect. All left was to stick to the plan.
The little girl stirred on the cardboards. The ribbon in her hair caught the moonlight.
He frowned.
The little girl had brought an additional interest to the hunting, but she weighed at the bottom of his throat, like an unpleasant aftertaste.
Was it better to kill her now? To take her out of the equation?
He took a step in her direction.
The little girl woke up.