There are no more flowers.
The beautiful blooms have been a frequent expression of his emotions, another language of love. She was learning to interpret the subtle meanings in petals and perfume, had the translations bookmarked on her browser so she would not misunderstand.
Their heady scent was now absent, had been gradually replaced by more disturbing messages; the stench of cigarette smoke following him around like a dark cloud, his stubble thickening to a full beard. They are awful reminders of times past and she knows something is very wrong. She broaches the subject with him; her gentle probings met with deflection. Unsatisfied, she is more direct and he withdraws. Fear now replacing worry, she tackles him head on and for the first time, he turns his rage on her; his vicious, spiteful attack making her think of a wounded animal, trapped, lashing out at its would- be saviour.
Later there is contrition, a measure of comfort but no explanation. Later still, she tries to use her body where her words had failed, hoping the tenderness of her touch could reach him. But he is in no mood for gentleness; he is rough, demanding, he takes but does not give. There is no joy in their union, just his relentless pounding, his desperate need that, for once, she cannot seem to fulfil. She looks into his cold, flat eyes, the disturbing deja vu of that first time, and she lets out a small sob at the memory. Excitement flares in his chestnut eyes, the distinctive groan of his release slips from his lips and in that moment her fear turns to dread.
The walls are not strong enough.
The bodies do not stay buried, breaking through the cracks. Filling his nights with tortured visions as they relentlessly march through his mind; their fingers pointing in accusation, trailing a hoard of the bereaved, the grieving in their wake. He is glad of the nights spent alone, nights he doesn't have to feign sleep, nights he doesn't have to protect her from the knowledge of his nightmares.
But the day times are not much better. Each time he looks at a corpse, interviews a grief- stricken witness, the guilt cramps in his belly. The word "victim" feels like ashes on his tongue, purged only by the acrid smoke from a cigarette. The pressure is building, the urge to blurt out the truth gets stronger each time the knife of guilt twists in his gut.
There is another pressure. The Cold Case squad has new software, a programme designed to pick up similarities in massive amounts of variables. He is slowly becoming caught in the web as they join the dots of his victims, trapped by patterns he was unaware he was making, just like Wally Stevens. He cancels his appointments with Gyson, wary that her persistent probing may inadvertantly trigger the internal time bomb that is beginning to tick away. He is fearful that it has already been detonated, the explosion building inside of him. He begins to look at his razor with longing.
And Alex. Oh, Alex!
The reason he keeps silent, does not turn himself in. Self preservation no longer a driving instinct but to see the love die in her eyes... He has been many things in his life; a student, a soldier, a cop, a killer, a lover but he now recognises something new – the coward. He is selfish, greedy for this precious gift of love, something he has fought so hard for, has endured so much to gain and now cannot let it go.
He knows he is neglecting her as he becomes more caught up in the internal struggle to contain the conflicting emotions, knows she is worried about him. He tries to divert her attention, but forgets that she knows his ways, knows him. Forgets, too, her persistence in matters close to her heart. Trapped, cornered, caught between internal and external pressures, he turns on her.
And in that instant, there is the reawakening of what he fears most.
The beast uncoils, savouring the hurt in her eyes, and for one terrible, wonderful moment, he welcomes its return.
No, no, no! That is not who he is anymore. He clings with desperation to the war torn remnants of the good man, and tries to make his peace with her, with himself. Buried deep inside her, the beast consumes his love, howls out for more. Her love is not enough; it, he, needs pain, needs humiliation, needs destruction, needs violence, needs death, needs... Her quiet sob is enough to trigger his climax, to break the spell.
He flees.
He sits in his darkened living room; a stark silhouette against the moonlit window. He is utterly still, coldly calculating, considering his options. He is thinking of surrender.
He could surrender to the need, don his camouflage once again, stalk the streets at night. But Alex... she was too close, was in danger. He didn't think he could take her life, but he could hurt her, had already hurt her and it could get so much worse. There were the last dying gasps of the good man calling forth the memories of her compassion, her love, all that she had inspired in him, all that she had given him... no, this was not the way forward.
He could surrender to the authorities but his confession would remove the need for a trial, deny the families their day in court. He could be sloppy, or plant evidence. Lead the detectives to his door. To what end? Death at the hands of another inmate, at the hands of the executioner? And there's Alex...the cowardly, fearful remains of the good man still cherishing the light in her eyes.
Why not cut to the chase, eliminate all the middlemen, the palaver?
He had judged himself, knew he was guilty, needed no jury of his peers to validate that decision. As for the executioner...
He would surrender... to the aching void at the very heart of him, its emptiness he had once thought vanquished. He would surrender to oblivion; it's soft seductive melody singing words of blessed release, of freedom, of peace, just as he had whispered once in the ears of his prey.
There was just one more life to take.
But not here, where she would be the one to find him; the ghost of the good man speaking out in the final defense of his love. Not silently, the ghost pleads, she will need more...
So be it. Carefully, he makes his preparations, removes the letter and the gun from his safe. His mind filled with visions of her, his heart mourning the future that could never be, he takes his Mustang for one last sweet ride.
Flowers!
Her heart leaps in anticipation as she accepts the box from the delivery man. Her heart sinks with despair as she opens the lid. She doesn't need an interpreter, the message is clear. Her breath comes hard and fast as panic swells, as the room spins, as darkness engulfs her.
The card lies nestled in the petals of the black roses; his final message, as yet, unread:
"You will hear of bodies and blood, the terrible things I have done.
Will feel anger and betrayal, thoughts of me you will shun.
Of your heart, your compassion, I ask one thing only, just one.
Remember our love; my glorious moment in the sun."