Free Shade of Pale by Greg; Kihn Page B

in and out of his pockets nervously, unable to settle in one position.
    Something dislodged from his pocket and fluttered to the floor. He stopped to pick it up. His hands were numb and unresponsive, and he couldn’t get the tiny scrap of paper off the rug. He tried twice, grunting the second time, unable to see exactly what it was he had dropped.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Dolly asked. “Come on. Let’s keep it movin’, OK?”
    Dolly turned but continued to watch him out of the corner of her eye.
    Red stopped fumbling for the scrap of paper, gave up, and followed her. Fuck the scrap; it’s nothing .
    Dolly led him down a hall and produced a key from her handbag. She stopped in front of a metal door and busied herself with a series of locks. Working from top to bottom, she expertly unlocked each one, swung the door open, and pulled him inside.
    He kept close.
    As soon as she closed the door behind him, he turned on her.
    Dolly’s muffled cry was short and terrible.
    Red had large, strong, fast hands. They found her windpipe and crushed it easily. Red danced a macabre two-step with her as she twitched and spasmed in death’s throes, jerking her back and forth as a shark would shake its prey.
    He pulled up a chair, wiped some spittle off his forearm, and sat facing her. She hadn’t been easy to kill, and his hands sweated inside the gloves—a problem he’d had before. But as his leather fingertips dug into her tender windpipe and the last frantic gasps came home, he got the killer’s rush.
    He held her long after she stopped struggling, savoring the passion of the moment. Then he walked her into a chair and stood back, studying the scene.
    It was a nice composition—Dolly’s arms splayed out and legs akimbo. He liked the attitude. The room was also very good, as if it had been created from carefully collected props just for this shot.
    Red sat on the floor and studied it.
    His heart beat at an animal’s pace. He shuddered violently, locked his knees, hugged himself, then shuddered again. He began to shiver as if naked in the snow.
    The killer’s rush part two: the shakes.
    And as he shook, from far away, he heard it.
    A sound rose above the police sirens in the dense urban night, held its pitch for a few seconds, then, unlike the sirens, modulated higher. It was a ghostly wail, standing out against the ambient backdrop of the Gotham night like a neon turd.
    Not a machine, not human, not animal, not anything identifiable. It kept building in intensity, invading his head, making him anxious.
    He sat upright, ears piqued, and listened until it faded back into the sound of traffic.
    When the terrible frost passed and his breathing returned to normal, he removed a pocket-size digital camera and began to photograph Dolly. As he meticulously lined up her close-ups he began to whisper intimately, to tell her things. His voice was low and nearly inaudible, but he kept on talking to her as if she were still alive and really listening to his encouragements.
    â€œThat’s it. Beautiful. Once more. Oh, yes. Keep it up. Very nice.” The camera clicked discreetly.
    He enjoyed the challenge of working with the existing light. The room was wonderfully seedy, in careless disarray, scattered with a whore’s collection of junk.
    â€œOh, that’s good … no smile please … a little pout perhaps.” He stepped forward and pinched her lips fuller.
    â€œGood. Now let’s try it with the rope.”
    He took a length of smooth black rope from his coat pocket and looped it around her neck. He twisted it and pulled until it cut into her skin. When it was partially embedded, he stopped and admired his work.
    â€œLooks downright nasty,” he said. “I love it.”
    He posed Dolly in various positions for another ten minutes, taking dozens of exposures. She looked great in the viewfinder, with the vacant eyes and slack expression only death can