The Turin Shroud Secret Read Free Page B

dinner. That’s
     his entire diet.
    He feels somewhat strange as he moves through the house drinking straight from the carton. Edgy. Off balance. Nervous. Not
     that any of that surprises him. The day after is always like this – contradictory and confusing. It’s a period of anxiety
     and elation.
    The mood swings used to throw him but not any more. He’s experienced now – understands that with every kill comes an aftershock.
     Like the physical recoil of a firearm. The bruising kick of a rifle against a shoulder muscle. Take a life and your psychological
     muscles take a pounding. Thepurple bruise of guilt surfaces first, then the yellow fear of capture and finally the ruddy red flush of conquest.
    He’s spent the day like he normally does, holding down a job that’s beneath him, working for people who don’t appreciate or
     understand him. Not that anyone does. Still, routine is important. A change of habit attracts attention if the police go nosing
     around. Besides, he’s learned that right after a kill it’s good to be with people, to stay in the stream of mindless fish
     flowing to and from homes and jobs. He likes the distraction, the filling of time. And he appreciates the camouflage of commonality,
     the necessary disguise that dreary everyday life gives him.
    But now it’s the night time. And the night is different. He feels different. Is different. It is a time of energy and power.
     A time when kills can be savoured. Darkness brings with it a justification, a validation of what he does and who he is. Throughout
     the day he longs for the dipping sun and the rising of the raw energy within him.
    The rented house where he lives is plunged in blackness. It always is. The thick curtains are forever drawn. There are no
     bulbs in any of the light sockets. No electricity or gas. Instead, he uses an open fire for both warmth and what little cooking
     he does.
    Pale light flickers from candles in his bedroom, as he strips naked and prepares for sleep. There is no bed. No quilt. No
     pillow. In the corner of the room are the few things he treasures. He opens up the folded handkerchief and removes the sacred
     wafer of honed steel and crosses his chest with it, thenhe criss-crosses the tops of his thighs and arms. Before the blood can really show, he wipes the blade. He kisses it and holds
     it aloft, like a priest showing the blessed host to his congregation. As his chest fills with red, he returns it to the handkerchief
     and refolds it in precise squares.
    Flat out on his back, he presses his feet against one skirting board, his left shoulder and arm square to the other. Carefully,
     he tucks a single bed sheet under his heels and wraps it tight around himself until he’s completely covered from the head
     to toe.
    Snug. Tight. Secure.
    Like he’s wrapped in a shroud.

7
    FRIDAY MORNING
77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES
    The squad room stinks of late-night burritos and looks like a summer-long frat party’s just finshished. Mitzi Fallon’s government-issue
     metal desk is an OCD island in the endless sea of male debris.
    ‘More
coffee.’ Nic puts down the lieutenant’s ‘World’s Best Mom’ mug, bought for her two Mother’s Days ago by her twins. ‘What’s
     with the hand?’ He nods to the strapping around two fingers.
    ‘Fat oaf of a husband fell on me when we were fooling around.’ She tries to wriggle it. ‘Celibacy might be a good idea after
     all.’
    ‘Too much detail.’
    She manoeuvres the mug to her lips. ‘This has to be my last caffeine of the morning, don’t let me have any more.’ Her eyes
     swing back to the surveillance footage running on a flatscreen monitor at thirty-two times normal speed.
    ‘You seen anything yet?’ he asks.
    ‘Yeah, my will to live – it went psycho and threw itself off that pier about three hours ago.’
    Nic settles into a chair next to her. ‘I just checked with the uniforms. They came up with diddly squat.’
    ‘And that’s news?’
    ‘Guess