Stirred

JD, HE DEVOURED THIS BOOK IN ONE SITTING, LK

Luther Kite had again bent over a corner to bookmark a section from chapter one, page 151, and another letter p had been circled—this time, the one in the word pleasure.

The Killer and His Weapon ~ Andrew Z. Thomas

He saw it at once—a revelation.

Walls coming down all around him.

Restraints unlocking.

Chains falling away.

Good and evil, these contrived lenses through which humanity viewed itself, was a fraud. There was no law. No law but that to which he chose to hold himself. Anything less was weakness. Adherence to illusion. He was above all, above everything, the God of his own world, and in that moment he knew how he would live henceforth. To which code of ethics he would subscribe and none other.

The world was wide and life was short and there was so much beauty to be had.

He would honor his will.

Seek the means to his pleasure.

He rose up from the rock where he’d been sitting, lost in thought for the last seven hours, and roared from the top of the twelve-thousand-foot mountain, the sun blinding in his eyes, awash in pure mountain light, his voice reverberating off the surrounding peaks, racing down into the vast green forest. He had never in all his life felt so strong, so filled with joy, so invincible.

Tonight, he thought, as he started down the mountain, so light on his feet he half-believed he could take flight, glide down over the valley like some terrible bird.

Yes.

He would begin his new life tonight.

Remember tonight…for it is the begi

Start by embracing that impulse he’d shu

Start by killing that young couple in the tent across the stream.

151

I read the page again and again, and then went back and reread the excerpt from The Scorcher, trying to understand why these pages had been marked. What was Luther telling me? Were these clues? Or was he just playing mind games?

There had been witnesses at the aquarium who saw Luther drop off the cardboard box. He’d been wearing a blue work uniform and driving a white van, though no one could recall the make, model, or license plate number.

Herb had already interviewed both of the families of the victims, and at first blush, there didn’t appear to be any co

It puzzled me in a needling sort of way, like I was missing something as it stared right in my face.

Fingerprints found on the box belonged to Luther Kite.

Fingerprints found on the book belonged to Andrew Z. Thomas.

I mulled that over. Had Luther somehow gotten one of Andrew’s personal copies in an attempt to make it seem like Thomas was involved? Or perhaps Thomas wasn’t locked up in Violet’s basement, as the literary agent had suggested, but in Kite’s.

The thought of being the captive of a psychopath since 2004 made me shiver.

I had another thought. I’d forgotten to take a picture of the plastic bag that read JACK D—THIS ONE WAS A REAL SWINGER—LK in black marker. Since I had a sample of Thomas’s handwriting from the letter he’d sent his agent, it was possible to compare the two and determine if they matched. If they did, that was pretty solid evidence that Andrew Z. Thomas was still alive.

I texted Herb, asking for pics of both bags.

Then I reread the Scorcher excerpt, my eyes lingering on the last line of the page.

“A little spark is followed by a great flame.”

That sounded like a quote I’d heard before.

I Googled it.

Hmm.

It was from Dante Alighieri, writer of The Divine Comedy. Curious, I went through the remainder of the text, feeding each sentence into Google, but the remaining hits were all bootleg e-book excerpts from The Scorcher. I repeated the process with the second book and came up with similar results until I searched on the line: Remember tonight…for it is the begi