Highland Resort, Lee County, Florida, 1993
At the welcoming cocktail party he had chosen his victim. To follow the prescribed m.o. she had to be in her 60's. She was. And now, she was waiting for him, unaware of what he was bringing.
His lidded eyes swept the exteriors of the villas as he drove beneath the bearded live oaks. Every window, every doorway, stared vacantly. Nothing moved. No one to witness his pilgrimage. He parked, turned off the engine, and listened. The only sound was the whirring of overworked air conditioners. As if by his command, no bird sang.
He opened the car door and breathed deep the sweet smell of freshly watered zoysia grass. Their moist tangled strands glistened in the Florida sunshine. Like blinking eyes, they were his only witnesses. Humidity pressed heavily, and sweat blistered his brow. He removed a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. One by one, his mind ticked off the method of the kill. A re-enactment of someone else's nightmare. His scene would be perfect--in Godly perfection. It could not be otherwise. His weapon--a common red and white bandana.
He climbed the steps of the villa, rang the doorbell, and crammed his plastic-gloved hands into his pockets. His muscles, tight like a compressed spring, waited for release.
The door opened and he saw her wide welcoming smile. “Hi, it was so nice of you to offer to take me.” The lines around her eyes deepened with her smile.
The tall muscular man stepped quickly into the foyer and, using his shoulder, closed the door, cutting off her view of the street.
“No trouble. My pleasure.
He postured, hands still in his pockets, and breathed in the smell of the place. Like his, her villa had the odor of neglected dust. Resort maid service lacked integrity. The units were never thoroughly cleaned. On this he counted heavily. His eyes took in the sameness from the framed pictures on the walls, the tables and lamps to the upholstery on the couch. In his imagination he could have been walking into his own timeshare villa.
She spun on her heel. “Won't be but a minute. Just want to get my purse.”
She started up the stairs to where he knew was a master bedroom suite and a guest bedroom and bath. All Highland Resort timeshares were exactly alike, right down to the kitchen utensils.
He pulled his gloved hands from his pockets. One clutched the knotted bandana. With panther-like swiftness, he came up behind her. She turned and faced him. Her eyes questioning.
Grabbing the bandana ends he snapped the cloth taut before her face. Her eyes darted from the colorful scarf to the blackness of his eyes. Her lips curled away from her teeth and her face became a contorted mask of fright.
Instantly he knew if she clawed his face or hurled herself against him to knock him off balance, he would have a problem. She did not. Instead, she turned and tried to run up the steps. He leapt to her stair level and, in one swift maneuver, flung the garotte over her head and about her neck.
Her mouth flew open but her scream was cut off by the knotted bandana. He pulled the ends tight, crossing his wrists in a locked position, then flung her body downward. Her full weight suspended from the cloth and he heard a crunching sound. Either her neck broke or her larynx crushed. The woman's shoes fell from her feet and toppled down the stairs. He waited, held his position a full two minutes without releasing the bandana, then he dragged the woman's body up the remaining steps and into the master bedroom.
Satisfied she was dead, he picked up the limp form and arranged her in a relaxed position upon the bed. From the hall closet he retrieved the spare blanket he knew would be there and partially covered her. She looked as if she were sleeping.
His hands began to shake from the exertion of the kill. He backed out of the bedroom, took the scene fully into mind, then turned and hurried down the stairs to retrieve her shoes He placed them beside the bed, and mentally re-examined his movements. He left no fingerprints.
Downstairs, he cautiously opened the front door. Seeing no one, he stepped out and closed the door behind him and hurried to his car. He removed the plastic gloves and stuffed them into his pocket.
Minutes later, in his own villa, he flopped upon the couch and released a hiss from between his teeth, sounding like a deflating tire. Euphoria swept him and he chuckled, then laugh aloud. He was ecstatic. He jumped to his feet, went to the wet bar and poured himself a large shot of bourbon. His skin tingle from cold sweat. A nervous spasm shook his hand. He took a long pull from his drink and settled deeper into the sofa cushions.
He did it! His first gift to his goddess. His mind swirled with thoughts of how he had prepared for the kill. Then, setting his drink aside, he took the two soft surgical gloves from his pocket and pressed them to his face. He held up a glove in each hand and reasoned those were the hands that killed. Not his. His were clean.
Incredibly, it had taken only twenty-five minutes. A flawless performance. Twenty-five minutes ago she was alive, breathing, doing things old ladies do. Now, by his ordain, she was dead. Like a long-lasting candy, he savored the taste of his accomplishment and knew he was ready to kill again.
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