I made sure that she was home safely. Whatever impulse that had prompted me to follow her in the first place was now placated, and I was allowed to continue on to my own home. God was in the way again, for my home, which I had bought to be purposely on the furthest edge of this wilderness town, was only three miles down from her own. The knowledge that she was that close to me both excited and repulsed me. The emotions that I felt around her were too violent for me to even make a pretense for her safety. Most times, I could hold myself under control. But the things that I did when released made me both tremble with fear and anticipation. My grip on the wheel was painfully tense before I reached my home. While the crime of rape had yet been out of my reach, I knew that it was not beyond me. Nothing was beyond Erik. Humanity had set no boundaries that could come close to encompassing him, and as far as I was concerned, humanity's laws had no hold on me.

My home probably had once been the center of town. It was a fine old Victorian mansion, probably constructed by some up and coming family in the early 1900s. The house was still in excellent repair, and had the distinction of being the oldest building around. Tours were, unfortunately, a regular part of weekend life, but I made sure that I was out of the house when any group came around. The house also had the dubious honor of being the obligatory 'haunted' house in the neighborhood. Well, if there are ghosts cohabitating with me, I have long since made myself known and affable to them. The spirits of the dead are nothing to frighten me. I have been familiar with them for the whole of my existence.

But for all the formidable beauty of the home, it was still too large for my limited needs, and in the times of my loneliness, it was painfully empty. Knowing now that the object of my obsession was only three miles away from me, and that the both of us were practically isolated in this relative wilderness, would make that loneliness even more difficult to bear. Still, I had to be patient. The seedling of a terrible plan was hatching in my head, and I was doing my best to nurture it, but I still needed more time to understand my unwitting prey. Kidnapping I had committed before, albeit not for any personal gain except my substantial fee, but this time I stood to gain—and lose—much more. I had to be cautious; a girl was always a touchy target, and I had only been responsible for the kidnapping. The imprisonment would be so much more difficult.

I moved silently into the darkness of my home, hanging my coat meticulously in the hallway and continuing through to the library, an overshadowed, pitch dark room. Though no one could see me from the road, I was still careful. Years of looking over my shoulder and playing games of intrigue with nations made habits that were too difficult to repress. I even found myself smelling for any changes when I came into my now familiar environment. The Turkish and Iranian governments hated me even as they feared me. I knew myself to be untraceable. But I had nearly been killed twice. As much as I loathed life, I still refused to give it up. I still amaze myself with that perversity.

The electric light bathed the room in a harsh, sudden glow. I turned down the lamp, swept the room once with my eyes, and then relaxed into one of the comfortable armchairs that bordered the floor to ceiling bookshelves. I closed my eyes for one moment, unconsciously reprimanding myself for that moment of carelessness, and removed my mask. My fingers were skilled at eluding my remnants of face, and I massaged the normal skin that framed my eyes. I felt, suddenly, an icy tiredness permeate my very being, but I fought it away. I had more important things to do than see to the state of my body. I opened my eyes, having replaced my mask, and stared across the room to the little altar that had sprung up around the center of my universe.

The little purple journal reclined in all state, resting majestically on a little end table's runner of red brocade. Beside it I had added several newspaper clippings in which Miss Day's face was prominent, and I worshipped at this altar each and every time I was home, which was, I felt, too much time altogether. My knowledge of this girl had grown by leaps and bounds each time I dipped into her thoughts, but I was addicted. Normally, in planning a kidnapping, I would first learn the person's daily habits and timetable, as well as those who were familiar with them, that I could plan a smooth operation. Now, I was too far into her to put the book down when I felt I knew enough. Christine spoke to me from every page, every line, and even though I knew she was only addressing herself, I felt as though it was I she was speaking to.

Reading through her journal, it amazed me how much the two of us were alike. Christine, a logically ordered mind, even as she had flights of fancy into worlds more incredible than even I could have dreamed, arranged her testament in sections that made decoding each portion of her mind into a child's game. I sensed that there were things that still lingered unsaid—perhaps things that she was not even aware of yet—but these were the intangibles that would be made clear on a personal acquaintance.

What I had felt for Christine before I discovered her journal (curiosity and admiration) were nothing compared to the wild storm of enthusiasm that rocked me every time I even thought about her now. She loved reading. She loved writing. She loved to dance and sing and think and dream. She often quoted from either Shakespeare or, even better, her favorite poet Yeats. And the crowning achievement, the thing that attached me to her far more than her grace or her intellect, was her ambition.

She wanted to tour Europe. She wanted to construct the lands that provided the backdrops for her dreams, and animate the characters that brought her so much personal joy. And she wanted to do all this by combining all her loves, and writing operas. I had never met a girl like her.

In the last few sections of her book, before she had stopped writing, she had only then begun to study opera. She had originally planned on designing musical theatre, but something vague, that she never really addressed directly, stopped her from doing that. She decided on opera, she said, because it would stand through the ages, perhaps even longer than musicals would, and because hopefully more educated people would view operas, and understand what she was trying to communicate. I was beyond glad that she had made this choice. I had come to the same conclusion, albeit not going through the road of musical theatre, but with much the same thought processes. My dreams had not come to fruition. But the night that I read of her ambition I swore to any and all gods that were out there that hers would!

Christine Day was the answer to all my fervid hopes and dreams. I no longer cared, or even considered, her age or her family. She would be mine, and in time, she would understand why. Woe to those, I had decided, who would come in my way. I would brook no opposition, even hers. Not that I was a fool. I understood what risks I ran, what a terrible thing, according to this world, that I was going to attempt. But I did not care. In the dark, in the night, she was speaking to me. She was calling to someone to understand her. And I did. She did not know me, but I understood her.

What was even more unbelievable was the fact that she needed me. A lover of music she might be, but she had said in her own words that she was no composer, and certainly no singer. While I was not certain about that last, I understood her fear of composition. I however, had none of that timidity around music. What music we could make together, the two of us! We could bring operas to the world such as had never before been dreamed by anyone before. Our dreams could live together, and we could help each other make them real.

I did not read from her book tonight. I allowed my hand to caress the cover, softly, lovingly, but I did not read. I had the image of her home to feast upon. I knew where my angel lived. That would be enough to sustain me through the night. I turned off the light in my library and found my way upstairs in the dark.

The next morning (noon, rather. I am a late sleeper) found me more than ready to investigate my target. Professional terminology demanded that I refer to her as a target, even though by now I was thinking of her in a much different light. I had started to understand her motivations, her desires and her loves, but the journal was dry of other personal reflections. She had never said whether or not she had had any boyfriends. Her family was also a taboo subject. She referred to her father several times, but only in passing. "My father always said," and "my father taught me," but nothing more than that.

I also sensed some tension in her mind as she wrote, and I believed that it stemmed from this obvious omission. This book was a testament to her life so far. Her family should have been a major subject. The fact that she chose to leave it unspoken was what also drew my attention to the fact that she did not mention her mother even once. My cynical mind told me that there was either some serious, embarrassing problem with her mother—such as insanity or alcoholism—or that she was dead.

This latter seemed to be the most likely. This would explain why her mother was never mentioned at all; with an alcoholic mother, or an insane one, she would have mentioned it with either bitterness or resignation.

Of her father, I knew a little. Charles Day was a slightly famous violinist, having performed in several orchestras in both Europe and America. He might have been more popular had he been free to join the larger, more demanding ensembles, but obviously a family would prevent him from doing so. The only reason I even knew of him was that once, he was a featured soloist in a concert that I attended. I had been impressed, but not overly so. I did not look to see him in other ensembles and I did not watch for his concerts, and after he moved to America (after his marriage, I now recalled) he dropped out of the classical performance scene for good.

I wondered about her mother. She must have been another music lover, perhaps even a singer, since Christine seemed to hold a high respect for singers, and a great regret that she was not one herself. But I had never heard of a singer named Day before.

I had been pacing the library as I thought of these things, and now I turned to her book and flipped through the pages, hoping that a word somewhere would come to me and show me what her mother was, and therefore show me in greater depth who she was. But I had read the entire thing by now, and I knew what was there and what was not. I needed another source of information.

She said that she kept journals. Surely her reflections on more personal subjects would be contained in those. Obviously I could not steal them from her, as she probably never took them out, but since I knew where she lived now, it might be a simple matter for me to let myself into her home for further investigation. Her father, presumably, worked all day, and since it was Friday, I knew she would be at school. She would not be home until three in the afternoon, most likely, since she walked to school, and it was not yet noon.

I did not drive to her home. It might have looked too suspicious to any neighbors, however far, to see a car where there should be none. Three miles passed easily enough, and, as I had suspected, there were no cars in the driveway as I arrived. The little house was completely overshadowed by trees, allowing me the freedom to pick the lock of the front door.

I wonder how uneasy it would make people to discover how little locks can do to keep out an even marginally skilled burglar. As it was, I intended to steal nothing, but still…I could easily, if I wished.

The house was neatly ordered and scrupulously clean. A living room stretched out to my left as I entered, while the kitchen was on my right. A little hallway led, probably, to a bathroom and laundry room off the kitchen. Straight ahead of me was a staircase.

Two bedrooms and a bathroom were to be found on the second floor, and the floorboards were warped, though covered with brightly knotted rugs. It was nearly impossible to move without noise, as the poor old floor complained bitterly each time it had to bear the weight of another human foot. I took careful note of that fact. But if I walked towards the edges of the hall, the ungodly screeches subsided into petulant whispers.

Her bedroom was on the left, the bathroom was in the center, and the master bedroom was on the right. I peered into her tiny room.

The rug on the ground was a faded blue and white mosaic of a sun, moon and stars. The paint on her walls was a fresh, clean, sky blue. Her bed was pushed into a corner, hastily made, but the rest of the room was clean as well. It was obvious, though, that the family was not well off. She held a part-time job at the local supermarket, I saw. Her uniform was thrown over the back of her chair. Her furniture was antiquated and heavy, European in design and included a four poster bed that looked entirely out of place in the tiny chamber, a solid, heavy desk and chair, and an enormous dresser with a three paned mirror on top.

Books. Books were everywhere. Several makeshift shelves had been hammered into the walls, unpainted, unstained pieces of spare board, and these groaned under the combined weight of hundreds of books. Books on music, books on dance, fantasy, history, literature…it was all covered. This was a very well-educated, motivated girl. Most of the books were falling to pieces after too much use, but she held them together with contact paper and packing tape. Each book was labeled, and I began to notice her shelving system after examining the shelves after a while.

There were several books that gained special status. These were stacked on one corner of her desk, next to her laptop computer. That was significantly out of place, but I was certain that there was some reasonable explanation. She probably bought it out of the money she made with her job. It was reasonable.

The books that apparently she needed to keep with her included a dictionary, a French-English dictionary, a thesaurus, a book on the history of dance, a volume that described theatre production, and my newly added book on opera. I noticed that she was still in the process of reading it, for a little slip of paper was stuck between the pages.

Possessed with a curiosity by now that was entirely insatiable, I opened her computer and turned it on. While the machine warmed up, I opened and examined the drawers of her dresser. The top three held her clothes, but the last one had folders and notebooks of various styles and colors. This was it. All of the information that I could ever need to find out exactly how Christine Day worked.

The computer chimed softly, letting me know that it was ready to work, and I examined the documents that she deemed necessary to save.

The file that looked most promising was the one entitled 'Operas'. I clicked on that and feasted on the titles that spilled out to me.

The Wicked Life

La Joie de la Vie

The One Unforgivable Crime

Each one of these was marked with either a 'C' or a 'I'. I took those to mean 'complete' or 'incomplete'. Only the first was marked 'C'. Besides these, there was also a document entitled 'Production Notes'.

A quick check of my watch told me that I had several hours to spare. I could probably read one of these operas and still have the time to make it out safely. But I was, for the most part, disinclined to take risks. Trespassing was not well looked upon here, and I did not want to be forced to move yet again. I had to be cautious this time.

As much as I wanted to read her work, more important now was for me to look through her journals and discover the information I needed. I turned off the computer, making sure to wipe the machine down first, and turned to her dresser.

She dated each entry the same way, and the earliest journal seemed to have been written when she must have been only ten years old. The handwriting was a childish attempt at her later bold cursive, but the style was the same; large and square.

Skimming each entry quickly, I found that her mother was still alive at this point. She was very lovingly referred to in many entries, and I quickly discovered that the lady was a singer. A Broadway musician, as a matter of fact. The only thing that I stopped to really consider was the entry dated August 3rd, 1998.

I'm 11 today. At last. Mom gave me the book on dance that I've wanted for months. She also said that she would be my personal music teacher, now that her run in 'Cats' has ended. She says that she wants to spend more time with me. I'm glad that Mommy is going to be home. When she's on the stage, she doesn't come home until late. I never see her anymore. Daddy gave me the video I wanted too. And they've promised that I can keep taking dance lessons! But mom says that we might have to move sometime soon. They don't like New York anymore. I don't know why, it's so great for me. I hope we move somewhere where there's a stage. Mommy will still want to perform I know.

I filed the date of her birthday in my mind and wondered if there wasn't something else that might have contributed to her parents' decision to leave the city. A successful Broadway star and musician would probably be loathe to quit her career, especially when she was involved in one of the most popular musicals of all time. I found the next journal, that continued in January of 1999, and started to skim again. Very soon it became apparent to me that there was something wrong with Christine's mother. Each entry displayed the worried thoughts of a girl who knew what death was, but who was still confused as to how it could happen in her family.

There was one entry where she finally confronts her fears and her confusion. February 4th of 1999.

We've moved! Of course, this place is a lot different from where we used to live. New York is a lot bigger, even though there are less trees. I hope people will be nice to me here. Mom is sick. Dad says that there's something wrong with her throat. They say it'll be fine, but Mommy's spending an awful lot of time in the hospital. I don't think…

Here she trailed off. She seemed almost incapable of continuing her thought. The entry broke off without another word. I knew what she was thinking. She did not think that her mother would survive whatever was wrong with her. What a fate, I thought, for a Broadway singer to loose her instrument!

Suddenly, I heard a car crunch up the gravel driveway. Looking up in shock, I dashed to the window. A gray-haired man, toting a worn out violin case, was staggering unsteadily up to the door. Cursing under my breath, I replaced her journals in her drawer and quickly assessed my escape routes. I was furious that I had not thought of this problem before—I had never been this careless, ever!

The front door beneath me squeaked open. Heavy footfalls echoed up the hallway, and I realized that there was no way I could escape being seen. Thankfully, I reflected, this was an old house. There were no screens on the windows, and they were wide enough for me to fit through. A drop of thirty feet to the ground was not appealing, but the alternative was far worse. I could not be caught.

Unfortunately, I couldn't close the window after me, but I was safely concealed in the woods before I saw old Day's grizzled head peering anxiously through the open window. He shook his head and closed it, turning away. I let out an unconscious breath. That had been close.