Anahera’s breath came in shallow pants. “The murders,” she said. “The hikers.”

“Clap, clap.” His voice was smooth, warm. “I didn’t feel the urge to indulge while I was with my Miriama. But with her gone, I need to find happiness in life again.”

“What about all those years after the three hikers?” Anahera scrambled to keep him talking. “You and Miriama only got together after she turned eighteen.”

“Yes, I differ from my father -there—-I don’t like children.” A shrug. “I travel a lot. New Zealand is an inconveniently small country for a man with my needs.” He sighed. “People here miss women.”

A knot formed in the pit of Anahera’s stomach. If he was openly telling her of his murderous history, there was no way she’d be able to talk her way out of this. But the longer she kept him talking, the longer she gave herself to think.

Her one advantage was that he seemed to want to talk, want to boast about his exploits. “You killed Miriama because she walked away from you?”

Patches of red on his face, his eyes blazing. “I would’ve won her back! That pissant doctor has nothing on what I could’ve given her.” Cold words that trembled. “I didn’t put a finger on my Miriama. All I did was love her.”

Anahera ran rapidly through her options. She could go right, toward the bush, or she could go left, toward the cliffs. She had no idea of a Taser’s range, but she knew Vincent was a fast runner. He’d been a sprinter in high school. He was also dressed in running shoes while she wore her normal everyday boots.

Out in the open, he’d catch her in a heartbeat. Her only chance was to go into the bush and lose herself amid the dense dark green.

Sweat trickled down her back. “Since it’s just the two of us,” she said, slowly putting down her hands while making sure to keep them in open view, “can I ask you some questions before you kill me?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you hoping your washed--up cop will come rescue you?”

“I don’t expect any man to rescue me.”

Expression nearly tender, Vincent said, “Your father’s a cowardly shit. If you want me to get rid of him, I’ll do it as a special favor.”

“No, I want him to stew in regret.” She flexed her muscles as much as she could to prepare for her break toward the trees. “As for the questions, call it curiosity. It’s not every day I find out my friend is a serial killer.”

His laugh was golden sunshine. “I always loved the -smart--aleck things you’d say.” Such affection in his voice and yet he planned to brutalize then murder her. “It’s all for the greater good, Ana. You should be proud to be one of my women.”

“Strange, but pride’s not my topmost emotion right now.”

More laughter, utter delight in every inch of him. “All right, ask your questions,” he said after wiping the tears from his eyes. “We’ve got plenty of time and I’ll hear anyone coming down the drive. If the cop does get suspicious, the pathetic creature I married will say exactly what I tell her to say.”

Anahera knew Vincent was feeding off her fear, but she couldn’t stop her heart from beating faster, her blood from pumping harder and harder. “When did you find out you liked murder?”

“It was by accident,” he said in a conversational tone. “I was walking in the bush one day, pissed off at my spineless excuse for a mother, when I ran into a -dark--eyed Italian hiker who reminded me of my father’s whore and how much fun I’d had slapping her around.”

His smile reached his eyes. “All that repressed anger, you know? God, it was fun to have an outlet. Best gift the bastard ever gave me.” Affection in his voice, so real she might’ve believed it if she hadn’t already realized that Vincent put on emotions like other people put on clothes. “The hiker was really cute and she was all smiley and she said hello with that accent, and I had a rock in my hand and I just smashed her head in with it.”

59

Anahera flinched.

But Vincent wasn’t finished. “She didn’t die, not straightaway. She kept on trying to talk even though I’d smashed one of her eyes almost out, and only half her mouth was moving. I sat beside her for a long time, stroking her hair, and telling her it would be all right. My mother used to stroke my hair and tell me it would be all right.” A dreamy look to him. “After.”

“After what?”

A sly smile. “After my father tucked me in at bedtime like a good dad. A -picture--perfect dad.”

Nauseated, Anahera said, “Did -he—-”

“Talking about them is boring.” Plastic smile, unwavering aim. “My hobby’s the interesting thing. After the hiker started gurgling blood, I picked up my rock and smashed her and smashed her and smashed her until her face was pulp.” He shrugged. “I know, not very sophisticated, but in my defense, I was only fourteen.”

“Why were you so angry at your mother that day?” Anahera whispered, realizing that though he chose victims who reminded him of his horrific first sexual experience with a woman, his rage came from a far different source. “What did she do?” Or not do.

“I don’t remember. And I told you”—-he looked straight down his arm at her with eyes that held -nothing—-“talking about the bastard and his bitch is boring.”