Stalking is an art form, he thought. And I am its master.
He had planned this, in his hunger, in his blood lust, for days; calculated the angles, the distances, the approach paths; monitored his victim’s every move and habit; waited patiently in the shadows as the victim moved into position. And now it was time to act.
A few steps forward, stop, move slowly forward again, stop, each move wasting valuable minutes as the moon arced across the sky toward midnight, casting a jaundiced light across the room. The victim lay there, still.
Ah, he thought, the smell of flesh. So near, my sweet, so near.
He descended, mouth slowly opening, the victim’s neck a wide, growing plane for his bite. And then a rush of wind, a brief clap of thunder, a flash of light, brightening, brightening, tumbling in upon itself to a single point, fading to black.
McDormand reached for a tissue from his bedside table and wiped the spider bits from both palms.
From SKELETON: A Bare Bones Mystery