Free The Kill by Allison Brennan Page B

a neighborhood off the island, and was looking for the right truck when the angel ran along the beach and her soul sang to him.
    He brought her to his cottage. Another mistake.
    There was nowhere else to take her—he couldn’t remove her from the island because of surveillance cameras on the docks. And the authorities had started the search immediately, even before he’d secured her inside his house.
    He kept her safe, hidden, until the search was called off well after sundown.
    Everyone thought she’d drowned.
    Then he freed her, and his sweet little angel became a spirit, pure and brilliant.
    But it had been a mistake, an impulsive decision that he now regretted. The police were swarming the island. Would they talk to him? Perhaps. They had nothing on him, couldn’t come into the cottage, had no reason to suspect him. He’d been on the island long enough to divert suspicion, and the fact that he was still here helped his case.
    No one had seen him with her; otherwise they’d never have assumed she drowned when they couldn’t find her. Days later, he’d put her empty shell in the middle of the island, where the woods were dense and people would be less likely to find it. He quickly dismissed the idea of burying it. That wouldn’t do. Her shell was nothing; her spirit was free. To bury it would imply there was some value in emptiness, something to preserve.
    He’d planned to be gone by now, but one of his little angels eluded him. It didn’t happen often. He watched, waited, planned. He followed the patterns. There were always patterns. But sometimes it happens that a schedule suddenly changed, and last month he’d been waiting and she never came. So he was behind.
    Not for long.
    Even mishaps like changing schedules were planned for. He had more than one contingency plan.
    With the angel’s shell discovered and the police on the island, he’d considered leaving. But disappearing now might cast suspicion on him. A waiter not showing up at the restaurant right after the police find a dead body on the island? No, that wouldn’t do. He needed to report to work. Answer questions if they were asked. Express a moderate amount of surprise. Expected sadness. Go about his business.
    He would leave after freeing the next spirit. Then he would be at peace for a time. He didn’t quite understand why the peace ended and he needed to find more angels, but he always knew when to act and when to hold back. His internal clock protected him.
    He believed it always would.
    Walking into the small cottage bedroom, he closed the door. Locked it. Crossed to the closet and retrieved his special case. It had a combination lock on it. He spun the numbers and took a deep breath.
    Open.
    His hands shook as he reached for a lock of hair. Long, beautiful golden curls. Reverently, he brought it to his lips. “Be free, angel. Be free.”
    He touched each of the thirty-two locks in turn. He saved the oldest for last. The curls had lost their luster, turned frizzy and dry. He didn’t notice.
    “Angel, until we meet again.”
    Tenderly, he put all the hair back into the case, but he didn’t close it. No, he relived each death and rebirth. Remembered every one of his angels.
    Especially the first.
    The memories made him ache, his rigid penis straining against his shorts. He reached down, grasped himself. He stared at his collection until relief finally came.
    Calmer, he locked his special case and returned it to the shelf in the closet. Unlocked his door, and stared out the kitchen window into the blackness of the island.
    He had never failed in an operation.
    He wouldn’t fail freeing his last Seattle angel.
    Then he would leave.
     
CHAPTER 8
     
    Wednesday night, the ferry to Vashon Island was less than half full. Zack flashed his badge and backed his car onto the ferry only minutes before its scheduled departure. Last on, first off. He shut off the engine.
    “Let’s get out and stretch,” Zack said. The police-issue sedan felt tight,