Like Father, Like Son - 1

Declan Hill watched silently from the edge of the trees, his lips curling up in slight amusement when he saw a squirrel doing the same thing. It sat on its hind legs, head swiveling, nose twitching, ready to vanish at the least sign it had been noticed.

I’m with you on that one squirrel, only I can’t streak up a tree to safety.

Not that he really intended to turn tail and run. His hand stroked the knife sheathed at his waist. He had an agenda and he planned to complete it.

Finally.

The woman came out onto the back veranda of the large house, turning to say something to whoever was inside. She closed the door a moment later and walked on fashionably high heels down the stone path to the garage. Tight jeans sheathed her long legs. A shimmering, long-sleeved, low-cut blouse accented her full, high breasts.

He made his move, reaching the back entrance to the garage just as she stepped inside. He inched the door open to watch her cross to her car, one of the three housed there. She didn’t make it that far. He was beside her, the knife’s blade pressed to her throat, his arm around her waist.

“One sound and I slit your throat where we stand. Now we’re going to leave, out the back. Understand?”

She mewled in fear, barely nodding her head.

He walked backwards to the door, keeping a firm grip on her. When they were outside, shielded from the faint moonlight by the dark shadows behind the garage, he quickly sheathed the knife, choked her into unconsciousness and then took a black hood from his pocket and pulled it down over her head. Seconds later he was tying her hands behind her back before he hefted her over his shoulder and returned to the trees, amused to hear a slight scuffling above them. The squirrel was now perched on a high tree branch, beady eyes glittering for a second as it turned its head to follow his movement deep into the woods.

* * * *

Father would have approved.

Declan looked at his victim, hanging lifeless by her ankles from the rafters. Her long blonde hair, now caked with blood, acted as a conduit for the dark red liquid dripping onto the dirt floor. She had screamed often in agonized terror as he’d played with her. Not that anyone could have heard her. He’d chosen the site of her death with care, a deserted, mineshaft that had once led into a now abandoned mine deep in the mountains, miles from the nearest habitation.

He turned and smiled. The light from the LED lantern standing in the center of the space cast eerie shadows on the walls; shadows of the other bodies which hung from the rafters in varying stages of decay.

Yes, his father would have approved, if he knew. Unfortunately that wasn’t an option and hadn’t been for twenty years. His father lived deep in the recesses of his own, insane, mind now. Well cared for in a private asylum.

Grandfather would approve too.

Of course his grandfather probably didn’t recall he existed. The old man who had trained his own sons in the art of murder now lived out the last of his life in rest home, a victim of Alzheimer’s. Probably reliving his kills, wishing he had the strength to continue his reign of death, if he even remembers.  

Declan stretched then bent to touch his palms to the dirt floor, easing the tense muscles in his shoulders and back. Feeling better, he glanced at his clothes which lay neatly folded on one of the two old crates against the wall, then walked the hundred yards or so to the entrance and stepped outside. The early morning sun cast long shadows across the small patch of rock-strewn ground in front of the opening to the shaft, giving him just enough light to make his way to the stream a few hundred yards away. Taking a deep breath he stepped into it. Quickly he made his way to the middle and squatted down until he was immersed in the swiftly running icy water which washed the blood from his body. Teeth chattering, he dunked his head under and ran his hands through his dark hair, a legacy from his father. His mother was a natural blonde with blue-green eyes. The same color as his eyes.

He was shivering from the cold as he stepped back onto the ground at the edge of the stream. Racing back into the shaft, he quickly donned his clothes, all but his boots and socks and the dark jumpsuit he’d worn when he captured his latest victim. Then he retrieved the tools he’d left by the woman’s body and went back to the stream to let it clean them. Most would remain at the mineshaft, only the knife staying with him, but he hated working on a new victim if the tools still carried the blood of a previous one.

After rinsing his feet again he went back inside, laying the tools neatly out on the second crate. Putting on his boots and socks, he returned his knife in its sheath, packed the jumpsuit into a small backpack along with the hood he’d worn and the one he’d used on the woman, and after turning off the lantern he left.