Murder 42 - A Thriller (Sarah King Mysteries Book 2) by Victor Methos Page B

he had made. Farkas had been here before, twice. He had watched the home for over a month, finally sneaking in through a back window one night and stealing a key. He came back the same night after he’d made a copy and returned the original.
    Hacking the couple’s email proved not to be difficult either: two Post-it notes clung to the computer on the side of the monitor and had all the couple’s passwords. From there, he learned about the couple’s trip to Europe. He could have the house to himself for over three weeks.
    Once inside the home, he shut the door slowly. The house smelled like Farkas thought old people’s homes should: menthol and strong perfume. The inside of the refrigerator was packed with medicine as were the cabinets. The couple, as far as he could tell, survived on medication, both herbal and prescribed.
    Farkas searched the home to ensure no one was there. When he felt comfortable, he retrieved his gym bag from the car. The basement bedroom was the most insulated. It was underground and had walls so thick someone could scream and another person upstairs wouldn’t be able to hear them.
    Farkas stepped inside the bedroom and opened the gym bag.
    First, he took out the plastic sheets—transparent coverings that he duct-taped to the walls. Next, he removed all the furniture and laid the plastic sheets down on the floor. He retrieved only the bed and placed it in the center of the room. Like a shrine . A shrine to what, he didn’t know, but he still liked thinking of it that way.
    The room was ready. He took a tripod out of his bag and set it up next to the bed. He then attached a smartphone to the tripod. Everything was set. He smiled to himself as he looked over the room. Then he hit the shower.
    He stared at himself nude in the mirrors. He had lost weight and not in a good way. It looked unhealthy, as though he wasn’t eating enough. And in fact, as hard as he tried, he couldn’t remember if he’d eaten that day.
    Afterward, he would have to replenish himself.
    The only other noticeable thing about him was the deformity: a caved-in orbital socket. His right eye looked as if it had collapsed in on itself. In reality, his father had thrown him as a child. The story told in the Farkas home was that his father had come home drunk and was unaware that he had been born and brought home. His mother handed Farkas to his father, who promptly tossed him against the wall.
    The next day, his father had no memory of it, though his mother had once told him his father had wished to kill him. One less mouth to feed, he had allegedly said.
    Farkas took the stairs and went out to the garage. Opening the trunk, he saw the boy lying there, unconscious. He would be unconscious for another couple of hours. And when he awoke, Farkas would begin.
    He lifted the body and went back inside.

18
     
     
     
     
    Destin was the nicest restaurant Sarah had ever been to. It sat on the beach not fifty feet from the water, and the patio looked out over the ocean. Farther down the beach were other restaurants and businesses, and it looked as though teenagers were out looking for something to do. Sitting on the hoods of their cars, hanging out on the sand, or slowly driving down the road and honking at friends, it looked like a scene from the 1950s rather than modern America.
    They were seated on the patio, and Stefan ordered a beer. A cold beer sounded as divine as anything right now, but Sarah resisted. Instead she got a cranberry juice and decided on ordering something light.
    “So you have to tell me,” Stefan said, “what exactly you’re consulting on. You said you’re not a profiler, but Gio won’t make a move without you. It’s like you’re his good luck charm or something.”
    She chuckled. “That’s probably as accurate a description as there is.”
    He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. “What are you doing here, Sarah? Really.”
    She hesitated. The word “psychic” wasn’t one she liked using;