Free The Lost Girls of Rome by Donato Carrisi

corner. He didn’t know spring in Paris could be so beautiful.
    Then he felt a shudder. He had just seen his prey in the middle of the crowds emerging from the Metro. The man was wearing a blue anorak, grey velvet trousers, trainers and a small peaked cap. The hunter’s eyes tracked him as he walked along the pavement on the other side of the street. The man was looking down, hands in his pockets; it hadn’t occurred to him that there was someone pursuing him, so he wasn’t taking any precautions. Excellent, the hunter said to himself as the prey walked calmly towards a green door in the Rue Lamarck.
    The waitress approached with his bill. ‘How was the pastis?’
    ‘Very good,’ he replied with a smile.
    And as the hunter put his hand in his pocket to find his wallet, Jean Duez, unaware of his presence, entered the building.
    The age of the victims is increasing, he kept telling himself. The hunter had cottoned on to his prey almost by chance: linking these faceless bodies spread around the world, he had realised that over the course of the years someone had taken over their lives. As the killer grew older, the age of the victims changed accordingly, as if he was changing his outfit.
    His prey was a transformist.
    He still did not know the reason why the man acted as he did, but he would soon – very soon – find out. The hunter took up a position a few yards from the green door, holding the paper shopping bag, waiting to take advantage of someone coming out in order to get inside the building.
    At last he was rewarded. An elderly man in a heavy overcoat, awide-brimmed hat and thick glasses appeared in the doorway. He had a brown cocker spaniel with him, and the dog was tugging at its leash, anxious to get to the little park nearby. The hunter put his hand out to stop the door from closing without the old man even noticing him.
    The stairwell was dark and narrow. He stood there listening. The voices and other noises coming from the apartments mingled together in a single echo. He looked at the letter boxes: Jean Duez lived in Apartment 3Q.
    He put the shopping bag down on the first step, took out the baguette and the clump of parsley, and recovered from the bottom of the bag the Barretta M92F, adapted as a tranquilliser gun by the American army, which he had bought from a mercenary in Jerusalem. In order for the tranquilliser to work immediately, you had to aim at the head, heart or groin. It took five seconds to expel the cartridge and recharge. It wasn’t a long time, which meant that the first shot had to be accurate. It was quite likely that his prey also had a weapon, but with real bullets. The hunter did not care: the tranquilliser gun would be enough for him.
    He wanted him alive.
    He had not had time to study his prey’s habits. But over the years, he had realised that his guiding principle was continuity. He would not stray far from the life he had assigned himself. If you scrupulously repeat your actions in a pre-established order, it’s easier to remain inconspicuous and to control the situation: that, too, was something the hunter had learned from him. When you came down to it, his prey had become a kind of example to him. He had taught him the value of discipline and self-denial. He adapted to circumstances, even the most hostile. Like those organisms that live in the depths of the ocean, where no light penetrates and the cold and pressure would kill a man instantly. That was what the prey reminded him of. It was the only way of life he knew. The hunter actually admired him a little. Basically, his was a struggle for survival.
    Clutching the tranquilliser gun, he ascended the stairs to the third floor. He came to a halt outside the door of Jean Duez’s apartmentand easily picked the lock. There was no sound but the ticking of a grandfather clock. The apartment was not very large, no more than eight hundred and fifty square feet, divided into three rooms plus bathroom. In front of him was a short