As he sat inside of his car, with his breath billowing around him, Jackson had an epiphany. He would not kill her, as he had been intent on doing for the last month. He would hurt her to the point of death, like she did to him, and then he would flee and perhaps allow himself to be arrested. It wouldn't matter, because, after his goal, there wasn't much more he had.
It was probably going to be one of his last jobs. He would have retired and move to a tiny apartment and work someplace quiet, like a grocery store, and relax. After a year of that, he would probably move on to bigger and better things - a keen mind is a terrible thing to waste. But the rest and relaxation would have rejuvenated him, and he missed this opportunity terribly.
Wasn't it funny how now he could relax, actually? He could kick back and abandon this personal mission and go work in a grocery store and read magazines and watch television. He could complete crossword puzzles, his personal vice. Screams and the bitter smells of weaponry and charts of statistics and plans would evaporate from his skin's memories.
That would be giving up, he thought to himself sharply, and I do not surrender.
He lurked around her neighborhood, instead. Risks were taken and eventually paid off. His little tape recorder confidently played back to him her daily routines. It was almost like old times. Sort of like flipping through a scrapbook, staring at photographs lovers might take. Memorize her little habits, like he had done last year. "Lisa, I'm home."
Delusions, every one of them.
Jackson fingered his scalp. His hair smoothed down like baby chicken feathers, but stood up again once his hand moved away. He still kept it short - the longer hair had made him appear nicer, almost chivalrous. This new look made him appear to be a half-crazed wild animal, and this is the look he wanted to confront Lisa with.
It was January, and the sidewalks were nearly frozen. She had moved to another apartment, more or less the same quality as before. His binoculars let him look right into her room, and once, as he rooted through garbage, he found a bag of hers - a veritable treasure trove of Lisa clues. He took it home with him and analyzed it for a week.
Thankfully, he still had his notes from the first time. Her routine had not changed very much - one of the few differences was that she no longer went to bars or cafes at night. She did not drink alcohol anymore, either, and, on the twenty-seventh of each month, she went to the library instead of hanging around over a drink and wallowing.
Good for her, he thought. Get yourself out of a rut. Just like he was doing, only less crafted. Less thought-out and planned, and without the violence. He almost admired her for that.