Let Me In - Adam Nicholls (e book reader pdf .TXT) 📗

The killer stood beside his victim, facing the water. It was the coldest night of the year, and he felt it in the wind; it brushed across the surface of the Potomac River and assaulted his cheeks. He closed his eyes against the freezing air, breathing slowly through blocked sinuses. It soothed him, easing his nerves while he prepared to take a life.

When the breeze lowered and the wind’s whistle dimmed into nothingness, the killer turned his attention back to his victim. He crouched down, resting his hands on his knees as he stared into the driver’s side window. Even at this time of night, he could see the paralyzing fear in his victim’s eyes. He would probably have heard it too, had he not taken the time to apply duct tape to the guy’s mouth. That same roll of duct tape had already served its other purpose: to bind his hands to the steering wheel, securing him in place.

“It’s getting kind of cold, huh?” The killer knew he couldn’t answer. In fact, he depended on it. His burning desire for this moment had been haunting him for a while now, and he’d gone to great lengths to create the opportunity. “But I bet it’s even colder in that water.”

Pushing up from his knees, he stood and stalked around the vehicle, the cold wind picking back up and assaulting his already dry skin. He felt it in his hair, brushing it back toward its natural direction of growth. A younger version of himself would’ve caught a glimpse of it in his reflection and stopped to tidy it, but such things didn’t bother him anymore. Not as the person he’d become. The only thing he gave a damn about now was getting the job done, and that would never happen if vanity had anything to say about it.

Wasting no more time, he opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, leaning on his side to study his victim. Those cold, pleading eyes begged forgiveness. His hands—although securely fastened to the wheel—trembled under the thin light that shone from the dockside lamps on the corner of the faraway building. The man before him was completely helpless, which was everything he deserved and more.

“See,” the killer said, the air whispering through the open door and up the back of his shirt, “being young and reckless isn’t always as fun as you think it is. Sure, it is at the time, but the problem with you guys is that you don’t understand consequence. When I was young—and that probably seems like a long time ago to you, but I’m only forty—we were punished for all sorts of things: stealing milk from front porches, trashing tree houses the other kids had made. No matter how small it seemed, consequence was waiting for us. It helped keep us straight. It made us behave. But you don’t have that problem, do you? Personally, I blame the internet. It’s given you some misguided claim to immunity. I mean, you’re safe behind your computer screen, right?”

His victim nodded, but he wasn’t really the victim in this situation, and the killer knew it. Watching him now, tears seeping from his dark little eyes, only reminded him of why they were there. The memory was accompanied by anger. That anger grew and grew until it was ready to explode inside his head. It was all he could do not to strangle the life out of him right there and then, putting an end to this once and for all.

But that would be too quick.

Too merciless.

And there was a plan to stick to.

“Well, guess what?” the killer continued. He turned to face the rippling waves at the end of the boat slip. “Today you’re going to accept the consequences of your actions, and it’s not going to be pleasant. Tell me, do you think about them late at night, in your most personal moments? Do they even cross your mind? I was watching you long before I made contact, and if I had to guess, I’d say you didn’t pay a single thought toward them.”

The killer knew the man couldn’t reply, and that was exactly what he’d longed for. He’d dreamed of this moment over and over, preparing what he’d say when he finally got everything in order. But now that he was here, that rehearsed speech felt stale and meaningless. Now, there was nothing but the true words that fell seamlessly from his lips, straight from the heart. It was the most honest he’d ever been.

“You can’t answer, but I wouldn’t be interested even if you could.” The killer reached back toward the door, kicked it open, and climbed out, feeling the fight of his age and recent diet: fast food and alcohol, when and where he could find it. He shut the door behind him and wondered why he’d bothered as he returned to the driver’s side, leaning far into the window and gripping the handbrake. With his hand wrapped around it, he tilted his head at a slight angle and stared deep into the desperate eyes of the man he was about to murder. “I…”

What was it he’d wanted to say? The killer felt a pressing urge to further his speech, to try to make him understand. A selection of words circled in front of his eyes—revenge, deserve, comeuppance—but what was the point? What could he really say to make this man understand what he’d done wrong? Even if he could, what would be the point? It wouldn’t bring them back, and he wasn’t about to try. Instead, there was only revenge.

“Ah, forget it. You’re not worth it.”

The killer said no more. He thumbed the button and lowered the lever, releasing the emergency brakes. As the man inside sobbed into the duct tape and uttered a muffled howl, the killer quickly stepped back. He watched with morbid satisfaction as the car rolled down the slip toward the water, smoothly floating onto it like a boat. Water rushed inside, and with every drop, the killer felt justice ease his headache. He watched as the river consumed the car, the man inside finally claimed by his watery grave.

It was over.

There was only silence.

Enjoying one last moment, the killer took a deep breath of the cold night air and enjoyed the tranquility. He pictured his victim’s face, water filling his lungs as he desperately tried to wiggle free, his lungs collapsing under the pressure. Under the hopelessness.

It was perfect.

Turning now, the killer hurried away from the boat slip, exiting the yard with a surprising lack of satisfaction. The hole he’d expected to fill was still nothing more than a painful vacant lot, but that was fine. If he could turn back time, he’d have done it all over again. Why? Because it was right. Just like it would be right when he got to his next victims, during which he was certain he’d feel the same way.

After all, each and every one of them deserved it.