Free Perfect Nightmare by John Saul

here and into the city and you can be home every night to take care of your wife and daughter.” She snuggled against Steve, and a short while later his regular breathing turned into a light snore.
    But there was no sleep for Kara; though Lindsay only had a nightmare, she wasn’t prone to dramatics or hysterics. If her daughter said someone had been in her underwear drawer, she believed that someone had.

Chapter Twelve
    I believe I dreamed of this morning every moment that I slept. I’ve slept a lot since Wednesday—after being in her house—being in her room—feeling her presence—filling my nostrils with her sweet aroma—being awake without her seemed too painful to bear.
    So I slept. Hours? Days? I really don’t remember.
    But I remember dreaming of Sunday morning, and when this morning finally came, I think I knew it even before I awoke.
    I felt it—a thrill surging through every vein and every nerve of my body. I savored the feeling, delaying the moment when I finally rose. I donned my favorite robe—a black one with a bloodred lining—and my outside slippers before going down to retrieve the paper from the spot the boy always leaves it. It was quiet—I saw no one else, nor even heard a car.
    I liked that.
    Not that I was the least bit concerned, let alone actually worried—I believe I looked as casual as anyone could look, bringing in a Sunday newspaper. But once I was back inside, I had the paper torn open before it reached the table.
    And there on the front page—the front page!—of the Real Estate section was the open house ad. It was a good-sized ad, too; this agent had spent some money to attract a good group of prospects.
    And all of this—the placement, as well as the size of the ad—works in my favor.
    Not that it was perfect. The photograph of the house was taken from an awkward angle, so it didn’t look its best, but there was an intriguing description, the kind that would attract a lot of curious people.
    The more the better.
    I circled the ad with my red felt-tip pen and felt the excitement and anticipation building inside me.
    It is a feeling of which I never tire.
    Still, I need to rein it in. I need to be patient.
    I need to keep control.
    I sipped a cup of coffee while I planned my day. The open house begins at 1:00 p.m.; I would arrive about two hours later, just when the most people would be there. Earlier, people will still be digesting their lunch, and later it will be nothing but the last minute stragglers with an agent trying to shoo them all out.
    But not right at 3:00 p.m., either. People tend to be aware when it is an even hour, and remember things more clearly. Perhaps thirteen or fourteen minutes before three would be appropriate.
    Yes, I believe that will be perfect.
    I’ve already charted out what time to bathe, what time to dress, and the route I shall take to get there, of course.
    And the place to park. I know the garages of the neighbors. I know the alleys that the service people use, and I also know that those alleys are blissfully deserted on Sundays. I can idle quietly down the alley, park, walk around the block, and enter the house as invisibly as pollen on the breeze.
    I did all that on Wednesday, and I think I’ve done it dozens of times since in my dreams.
    It is all imprinted in my memory, and nothing will go wrong.
    My clothes have been laid out since yesterday morning. I shall wear brown corduroy slacks with a brown and blue plaid shirt. In those colors, I will blend right in with the look of the house—and all the other lookers.
    I think of it as camouflage. No one will even notice me.
    And with luck, it will rain! Rain means more activity at an open house. Rain means that the agent hosting the open house will spend more time looking at the carpeting to make certain that people are wiping their feet or wearing those stupid little booties than who is coming and going. (Perhaps I should add a brown sweater vest to my costume—it may be spring, but there