approach the Weasel. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but he’s got the I’m-just-an-awkward-nerd routine down a little too well. And the woman is falling for it, big time—just like all the other women did. She’s probably ten years younger than him and too stupid to realize he really isn’t drunk.
Pity lays are what they give him. Or at least what they think they’re going to give him.
The thing about the Weasel is that he doesn’t have a type. The women in the courtroom had been tall/short, chunky/skinny, blonde/brunette.
This one wears her black hair short and displays big boobs that definitely don’t look fake.
“Miss?” The hostess waves at me. “Table?”
I snap out of my staring. “I’m waiting for someone.” I check my watch to make it look true.
“It’s going to be an hour wait at this point. Want to go ahead and put your name in?”
“No, thank you.”
She gives me a polite smile and goes back to hostessing. I go back to staring.
The Weasel and Big Boobs progress in the get-to-know-you-drunk thing, and sometime later they stumble from the restaurant—her really wasted and him faking it. I see her pass him a car key. They’re going somewhere not on foot.
It didn’t occur to me they would drive, and so as normal as I can make it seem, I head from the restaurant, jog the couple blocks back to my Jeep, and hope they are still there when I return.
They are, leaning up against her car out front, making out. I watch, a little disgusted at their sloppy display, waiting for them to make the next move.
He pulls away from their groping and climbs into her car to drive. Twenty minutes later they arrive at a Cape Cod. They go inside and I know, based on what I heard in the courtroom, how it goes from here. She wants it, the Weasel refuses (as he did with all the other women), choosing instead talking. The talking I’m sure convinces the women he’s harmless.
An hour later he finally emerges. He walks the perimeter of her house before heading from the neighborhood, getting into a cab, and pulling away. Miss Big Boobs will be his next victim—this I’m sure. I hope I’ll be there to take him down.
Chapter Four
I SPEND THE NEXT UNEVENTFUL couple of days going to school, doing my normal routine, and eagerly thinking about the Weasel. Each night I spy on him as he does his naked routine in his third-floor condo, and I fantasize about how I’m going to make him suffer.
On the third night I park in my usual spot, get out my binoculars, and see him naked, standing in his bathroom, meticulously shaving his face, arms, chest, legs, and pubes.
No evidence.
Tonight will be the night. My whole body vibrates in expectation.
While he continues his ritual, I start my own with the supplies I bought from the surplus store and the one I stole. . . .
I stuff my springy red hair into a full-face ski mask, slip my leather gloves on, and tuck my long-sleeve dark tee into my black cargo pants.
No evidence.
Into those cargo pockets I put a Taser, the stolen tranquilizer gun, zip ties, and my lock pick. This is my first time and my personal kit will likely change as I fine-tune my methods. I recognize this and am looking forward to that evolution.
The Weasel drives from the underground garage in his perfectly normal Corolla and pulls right past me.
I don’t immediately follow. I know where he’s headed—the Cape Cod and Miss Big Boobs.
About twenty minutes later I pull onto her street and right past the Weasel’s Corolla. He’s already gone inside.
I park in the darkness under a tree and cut my engine. I lower the face portion of my mask and take a second to calm my anticipatory nerves. This is it. The night I become me. The start of everything. In my mind it goes two ways: Either I kill him. Or I don’t kill him.
If I kill him, he deserves it for how he raped all those women. If I don’t kill him, I’ll make him suffer, and I’ll enjoy every minute of it. It’ll curb the urges I have lived
Pity lays are what they give him. Or at least what they think they’re going to give him.
The thing about the Weasel is that he doesn’t have a type. The women in the courtroom had been tall/short, chunky/skinny, blonde/brunette.
This one wears her black hair short and displays big boobs that definitely don’t look fake.
“Miss?” The hostess waves at me. “Table?”
I snap out of my staring. “I’m waiting for someone.” I check my watch to make it look true.
“It’s going to be an hour wait at this point. Want to go ahead and put your name in?”
“No, thank you.”
She gives me a polite smile and goes back to hostessing. I go back to staring.
The Weasel and Big Boobs progress in the get-to-know-you-drunk thing, and sometime later they stumble from the restaurant—her really wasted and him faking it. I see her pass him a car key. They’re going somewhere not on foot.
It didn’t occur to me they would drive, and so as normal as I can make it seem, I head from the restaurant, jog the couple blocks back to my Jeep, and hope they are still there when I return.
They are, leaning up against her car out front, making out. I watch, a little disgusted at their sloppy display, waiting for them to make the next move.
He pulls away from their groping and climbs into her car to drive. Twenty minutes later they arrive at a Cape Cod. They go inside and I know, based on what I heard in the courtroom, how it goes from here. She wants it, the Weasel refuses (as he did with all the other women), choosing instead talking. The talking I’m sure convinces the women he’s harmless.
An hour later he finally emerges. He walks the perimeter of her house before heading from the neighborhood, getting into a cab, and pulling away. Miss Big Boobs will be his next victim—this I’m sure. I hope I’ll be there to take him down.
Chapter Four
I SPEND THE NEXT UNEVENTFUL couple of days going to school, doing my normal routine, and eagerly thinking about the Weasel. Each night I spy on him as he does his naked routine in his third-floor condo, and I fantasize about how I’m going to make him suffer.
On the third night I park in my usual spot, get out my binoculars, and see him naked, standing in his bathroom, meticulously shaving his face, arms, chest, legs, and pubes.
No evidence.
Tonight will be the night. My whole body vibrates in expectation.
While he continues his ritual, I start my own with the supplies I bought from the surplus store and the one I stole. . . .
I stuff my springy red hair into a full-face ski mask, slip my leather gloves on, and tuck my long-sleeve dark tee into my black cargo pants.
No evidence.
Into those cargo pockets I put a Taser, the stolen tranquilizer gun, zip ties, and my lock pick. This is my first time and my personal kit will likely change as I fine-tune my methods. I recognize this and am looking forward to that evolution.
The Weasel drives from the underground garage in his perfectly normal Corolla and pulls right past me.
I don’t immediately follow. I know where he’s headed—the Cape Cod and Miss Big Boobs.
About twenty minutes later I pull onto her street and right past the Weasel’s Corolla. He’s already gone inside.
I park in the darkness under a tree and cut my engine. I lower the face portion of my mask and take a second to calm my anticipatory nerves. This is it. The night I become me. The start of everything. In my mind it goes two ways: Either I kill him. Or I don’t kill him.
If I kill him, he deserves it for how he raped all those women. If I don’t kill him, I’ll make him suffer, and I’ll enjoy every minute of it. It’ll curb the urges I have lived
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