Page 67 of The Grave Artist

“I’m not in any danger.” Grange and another tactical operator had a speedboat hidden at the far dock and would be on HK as soon as he showed.

She countered with: “Patterns, Heron.”

“You mean, his MO?”

“Right. What if he doesn’t stick to it? Bludgeoning and drowning. What if he gets cautious and decides he’s too vulnerable on the floating island, so he simply pulls out a sniper rifle and shoots you in the head?”

Heron shrugged. “You’re the profiler. What’re the odds of that?”

“Not likely. But . . .”

“Anyway, Sanchez, what other options do we have?”

He was correct there.

Her shoulders slumped. “All right. We go forward. Well, it’s your plan. What’s next on your agenda?”

Heron said, “We have to convince him that his scheme is working. We’ve had some of the funky champagne and chocolate he delivered earlier and we’re getting drowsy. We make him think we fell asleep.”

He opened the bottle—the one he’d brought, not the likely spiked one in the fridge—and poured two flutes. “Now, let’s go sit on the deck and let him see us.”

“And what do we do out there?”

He answered quickly as if it was obvious. “Act like newlyweds.”

Chapter 32

Quite the place, Damon Garr was thinking, as he hunkered down in the bushes and watched the couple on the shadowy deck of the honeymoon suite, standing close, sipping the nighty-night champagne.

Floating islands . . .

Amazing.

It was like the place Felicia had chosen for their wedding venue. Lush, secluded.

Unique.

The thought came to him without sorrow or regret. He’d mourned her death and emerged a better man for it. Truer to himself. Had they gotten married, Serial Killing 2.0 might never have been born.

Funny how fate took over sometimes.

He eyed the villa and the honeymooners once more, recalling his earlier assessment: convenient yet challenging.

Convenient because the room was surrounded by water and would not require any stretch of effort for one of the two to fall in and drown.

Challenging for exactly the same reason: the villa was surrounded by water.

How would he get there, how would he engineer the death? He had spent some hours speculating.

The solution he’d come up with was tricky, but he believed it would work. After the couple had retired to their room and the shuttle boat had returned to the lodge, he had taken one of the small utility vessels—from the dock right in front of him now—and glided over the water to the suite. There he’d left a basket containing a bottle of champagne and box of chocolates, both of which were spiked with propofol, enough to put an adult asleep in ten minutes after a single glass or several bites of candy.

He’d then headed back to where he now crouched on the secluded grounds.

The couple would indulge, then pass out. He then would return and use the maintenance key he’d stolen earlier to get inside. After that, he’d remove the candy and wine and leave an envelope of propofol caps on the bed—recreational drugs brought by the happy couple themselves for the happy night.

And he would then drag the bride outside and ease her into the water—the coin toss had decided that she would be the victim.

He’d remain long enough to make sure she was dead before boating back to the dock.