Page 19 of The Collector
They laughed, joked, telling stories of the night, no doubt. He caught words—pieces of conversations, but not enough to understand them. A sudden gust of wind carried the faint, mingled scents of their perfume, sweat, and cigarette smoke towards his waiting car. It made his stomach sour.
The Collector straightened in his seat. His fingers now rested lightly on the steering wheel, but his body was taut with focus, his senses sharp, eyes locked onto the group.
Come on, come on, let's do this.
The dancers lingered, their laughter rising and falling in waves. One of them, a woman with confident strides and hair that shimmered in the low light, turned slightly, her back to the others. Sugar. Her shadow stretched out toward him on the asphalt, long and distorted. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he watched her movement. The low hum of his idling engine thrummed under his fingertips, anchoring him in the moment.
Another woman threw her head back, releasing a sharp, melodious laugh that punctured the air. Shortly after, the group began to dissipate, heading toward separate cars. He exhaledslowly, every detail of his plan sharpening in his mind like pieces of a puzzle falling into place. Paying attention to detail was part of the plan when precision mattered most.
He'd chosen Sugar because she insisted on flirting with him—rubbing her cleavage in his face, leaning too close, laughing too loud, and making him the center of attention—a place he never wanted to be, outside of his kill room.
She'd offered herself like a gift to him. He'd played her game and let her believe he was interested, luring her in. Little did she know he didn't want what she offered. The kind of pleasure she provided bored him. But she did have something he wanted.
Her pain. Pain thrilled him. Slicing, peeling, pulling skin from flesh. That brought him ecstasy. Shivers of delight coursed through him as he waited for her to situate herself in her car and drive out of the parking lot.
Her taillights flared at the end of the driveway—waiting for a car to pass before pulling onto the road.
He put his car in drive and inched behind her, keeping his distance.
No need don't rush. Don't follow to closely.The Collector already knew where she was going.
She'd turn right onto Mulholland Drive. Two miles down, she'd stop at Mom-and-Pop D's Grocery.
The road was scenic and secluded—perfect for what he had in mind.
The motel she lived in was a shithole. The amenities barely functioned, the small refrigerators and prehistoric microwaves in the rooms were unpredictable, to say the least. Food never kept for more than a few hours, he knew. Because, while he was in the room beside hers, installing surveillance equipment, his own refrigerator cut off and on intermittently. She'd stop for food because her refrigerator was empty. She was predictable.
Watching her for the last two weeks, he'd learned no one ever came to visit her, other than her dealer, of course. She worked six days a week and slept all day on her day off; her phone never rang with family members calling or a best friend checking in. Everything the woman did was work or drug-related. No one would miss her.
A quick text to her job bought him time—precisely what he needed. With her absence explained, he no longer feared anyone would report her missing. He preferred it that way. Always did. He liked to dispose of the bodies before anyone noticed they were gone, before questions started. The usual dumping ground waited, quiet and familiar.
The incident on the freeway last week had already provided the FBI with more than he preferred. He needed to be careful, cover his tracks, and maybe get his victims from other cities for a while after her. Even if the profile they were constructing on him now resembled pure fiction, he needed to remain vigilant at staying hidden— if he wanted to get what he truly desired. The only problem he faced now was the degree of difficulty the FBI's involvement added to his real mission, ending the Kings. It was beginning to piss him off.
His smile widened as he watched her turn off the main road and into the store parking lot. He didn't follow but eased onto a side road he'd scouted weeks earlier, less than a block from the store, tucked neatly along the backside of a state park. The overgrown trees lining the dirt path offered ideal cover for the transfer of her body later between cars.
Tightening the Velcro on his driving gloves, he grabbed his go-bag, zipped up his black hoodie, and raised the hood over his head. The pace of a brisk walk would get him to the store in under two minutes—plenty of time to reach her car while she shopped.
The store was the perfect place for an abduction. Quiet. Dark. Out of the way.
The DMSO cream he'd created worked as a catalyst for the Ketamine he used. It absorbed quickly through the skin and rendered his target unconscious within minutes. No need for needles. No need for panic.
Erica's dosage had been too weak, a miscalculation on his part. She'd driven away before he could intercept her. He wouldn't make the same mistake again. This batch was refined—double the potency.
If he had to guess, it would take one minute, maybe less, for complete unconsciousness to overtake her.
He preferred the fight to come later, behind the soundproofed walls of the mausoleum. The cream was silent, invisible, and effective. By the time they realized something was wrong, it was already too late.
Keeping his back to the security camera above the entrance, he opened his bag and retrieved the container and popsicle stick from within easily. With practiced care, he unscrewed the lid and smeared a thick layer of the substance beneath her door handle. Then he returned to the side of the building to wait.
Moments later, Sugar emerged with a brown paper bag tucked under her arm. She opened the car door without hesitation, slid inside, and placed the bag on the passenger seat. From somewhere in the car, she grabbed a towel and wiped her hands.
He smiled.Too late. Wiping it off won't help you.
Sugar reached into the bag beside her and pulled out an apple, taking a bite. Before she could chew and swallow the bite, her head slumped slowly back, then tilted to the side, landing against the window of her door. The soft thump it made was enough to signal him. It was time to move in.
Without pause, the Collector turned the corner, opened the car door, and pushed her slumped figure aside. She folded easily, like a doll, her weight no obstacle to his momentum.
Putting the car into reverse, he backed out of the parking lot. A glance in the rearview mirror confirmed it was empty.Perfect.His actions would go unnoticed.