Shafted (16 page)

He came to the most recent clippings
last--Calgary newspapers documenting the newest victim.

Tommy.

Sam caressed the boy's picture, as if he
could tousle the brown locks one more time. Of course, the black
and white photo didn't show the color of Tommy's hair. It didn't
reveal the freckles on his nose, or the multi-colored braces he
wore to straighten a crooked incisor.

It didn't capture Tommy's screams, either. Or
show how he suffered before his death.

Sam rested his head against the high seatback
and closed his eyes, waiting for the queasiness to pass. He tried
to remember the last time he'd eaten. And couldn't. Not that it
mattered. He had more important things to do.

He pulled the lapels of his suit jacket
around his neck and grabbed the scotch he'd purchased that
afternoon. He ripped off the cap, keeping the bottle in its brown
paper bag. No sense in drawing more attention to himself.

The heady scent of scotch filled his car,
oaky and rich. He took a swig, gritting his teeth as the amber
liquid burned its way down his gullet. Sam hated the taste. But
after a few more gulps, he wouldn't notice. The scotch would have
done its job.

He shivered. The nights were getting cooler.
At least the alcohol would keep him warm. Until he could convince
Amy Tesher to open her house to him.

The first step in his plan.