Free Killing Spree by Kevin O'Brien

of her trench coat as she stopped to check the mailbox. Though less than twenty feet away, he wanted a better look at her. He took another step forward.
    The automatic light over the cellar door went on.
    Gillian must have seen it too, because she glanced over her shoulder.
    He turned and ran into her backyard—and along the ravine’s edge. Then he zigzagged through some bushes into the neighbor’s yard. All the while, he clutched the plastic bag under his arm.
    And all the while, he was grinning.
     
     
    Gillian slammed the door shut behind her. Fumbling for the dead-bolt lock, she accidentally dropped her purse and keys. The contents of her bag spilled across the living room floor. Gillian almost tripped over the mess as she ran for the phone in the kitchen. Snatching the cordless off its cradle, she switched it on and anxiously listened for a dial tone. At least he hadn’t cut the phone lines.
    She glanced out the kitchen window, and spotted a figure darting through the bushes into the neighbor’s yard. Gillian didn’t get a look at his face or what he was wearing. Dark clothes, Caucasian, medium build, dark hair —that was all she could tell the police. Even when she’d spotted him from the front porch moments before, she’d merely caught a glimpse of some man hovering near the cellar steps. If the automatic light hadn’t gone on, she might not have noticed him at all. His face and everything else about him had been a blur. All she’d thought about was getting away, ducking into the apartment and locking him out.
    Now she watched him scurry across the neighbor’s lawn. Then he disappeared behind a clump of trees at the ravine’s edge. Staring out the kitchen window, Gillian noticed one of the garbage can lids on the lawn. She leaned closer to the glass, and stood on the tips of her toes. Right below the window, a Hefty bag full of trash was leaning against the garbage can.
    In her hand, the cordless phone’s dial tone continued to hum. Gillian plopped down at the breakfast table. Numbly, she stared at the phone. She’d been through this before. For a few weeks following Barry’s disappearance, she’d often come home to find somebody had gone through her garbage. They’d leave the trash cans tipped over, with torn bags and debris strewn across the back lawn. Gillian sometimes dug into her mailbox to discover personal letters that had been ripped open. The notes would be out of their envelopes, some even crumpled up and discarded on the porch floor.
    The people looking for Barry weren’t very subtle about it.
    Gillian remembered one spring afternoon, driving home from the supermarket. She still had the Saturn back then. She was chiding herself for having just bought a six-pack of Heineken, Barry’s beer of choice. He’d been missing for two weeks, and hadn’t contacted her. Buying his favorite beer wouldn’t bring him home any quicker.
    Gillian stepped inside the apartment with two grocery bags. She started toward the kitchen, then stopped abruptly. In the mirror over the living room sofa, she saw someone’s reflection. A stranger stood in her kitchen, studying the photographs on her refrigerator door. Gillian’s heart seemed to stop for a moment. She backed toward the front door, which was still slightly ajar. All the while, her eyes stayed riveted on the mirror—and the short, black-haired man with a goatee reflected in it. Suddenly, he turned and his dark eyes locked with hers. Gillian dropped the grocery bags, and reached for the door.
    The image in the mirror vanished. All at once, he was on her.
    Gillian started to scream, but he slapped his hand over her mouth. She felt the door slam against her back. “Where is he, Mrs. Tanner?” he asked, his face an inch away from hers. She could smell cigarettes on his breath. “Where’s your husband?”
    He kept her pinned against the door. Gillian felt the weight of his body crushing her. He slowly moved his hand down from her mouth to her neck. He