CHAPTER TWELVE
The man shuddered as his computer screen filled up with photos of the grisly murder scene.
The body, bound by tape to the railroad tracks, looked like some sort of decapitated mannequin—at least until he brought up the hideous close-up photos of the victim’s neck. Then he was looking at images of an almost clinically clean cross-section of her trachea, esophagus, and spine, like something out of an anatomy textbook.
And here was the head, lying where it had rolled down the stony embankment. The woman’s expression of horror looked much too wild, too exaggerated, to be real, as if it had been painted onto a mannequin’s head.
But the man knew that it was all too real.
This was all his doing.
He had bound this woman in place, where she couldn’t escape her fate. And he had
