I Will Come for You Read Free

life.”
    “I know, Sir. She knows it, too.”
    “You’ll tell her I didn’t want to go?”
    Isaac tries not to make promises he won’t keep. He knows, also, that time is more about perception than absolute value. It isn’t linear, but radiant.
    “It won’t be long.”
    The old man nods, but another moment passes before his hand loosens around Isaac’s and he surrenders his last breath.
     

 
     
     
    Chapter Two
    Sunday, 5:55 am
     
    Graham steps onto the back porch and closes the door behind him. If he smoked he’d light up right now. And not because he knew the victim who lay bled on the floor in the living room, or because the murder was vicious or grisly. It was, in fact, a clean kill. The murder weapon, probably a twelve inch hunting knife, was used with more force this time, rendering a longer, deeper wound than they’ve seen from the King’s Ferry Killer. Still, there’s no evidence of a struggle, or that the victim had the warning or will to fight back. There never is such evidence. The killer moved silently through the house, approached the victim from behind, and slashed her throat. It was an act of rage. Anytime a knife is used, placing the perpetrator up close and personal to his victim, passion, dark and destructive, is the motivator.
    The killer touched the victim. Maybe he whispered a final word in her ear. But forensics never picks up viable DNA. Not a trace of spittle. Not a foreign epithelial. Nothing--until now--a single strand of brown hair recovered from the body of the victim and a set of footprints in her blood. And all Graham can think is, Why? What happened to compromise the killer’s careful removal of evidence?
    Graham shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket and steps into the drizzle. Dawn is breaking to the east, a bleary eye behind the low fog swirls. Such is life on Vancouver Island, two months of sunshine, ten of rain. This island was both a sanctuary and a prison for him when he was a teenager. And its hold on him has everything to do with the death of his brother and his current position: Chief Constable and head of the King’s Ferry Killer task force. He asked for the job. He lobbied for it, after serving nine years in the department. He took the promotion seven months ago, nearly four years after the KFK’s last attack and sixteen years since Graham’s brother, Lance, became the first victim.
    He hears the door behind him open and the raspy thud of Carter’s shoes as he approaches. Impractical shoes. The guy wears wing tips and then wonders why he has to buy a new pair every three months. Carter was assigned to the task force three years ago, transferring from the Ontario branch of the RCMP, and still hasn’t acclimated to island living.
    “He didn’t die,” Carter says.
    “No,” Graham agrees. “And he isn’t rotting in a prison cell somewhere.”
    “So much for theory.”
    “Wishful thinking,” Graham corrects. They hoped the King’s Ferry Killer died in a car crash or was serving time for an unrelated crime. It happens often enough.
    The longest stretch of time between victims is seven years. That was after the first set of victims--his brother, Lance, and his summer friend, Steven Forrester. This time, there are forty-four months between kills and they began to wonder if the KFK was silenced. No such luck. No luck at all when it comes to this case. The guy strikes according to his own timetable and no amount of technology and combined intellect can figure out what becomes of the killer between murders.
    “Number nine,” Carter says. “And now more women than men.”
    Five female victims, four male.
    All victims living in or otherwise connected to King’s County.
    A murderer venting his rage, according to the behavioral profile.
    A mind twisted beyond human reason. Incapable of compassion.
    And it all star ted with Graham’s brother, sixteen years ago August tenth, and brought the island to a shrieking standstill. 
    Graham was fifteen years