Backtracker

Chapter 7

Chapter 7Steve Kimmel had no idea that he was being watched. He was too preoccupied to look around the back yard, and even if he'd looked, it was so dark that he probably wouldn't have seen anyone out there.

It was shortly after midnight, and Steve was on the back porch of his family's huge home. It really was a giant of a house, a monstrous, opulent place built with money from the Kimmel fortune. Thanks to the fortune, which had been won in the space of a mere two generations, Steve's family had been able to erect their mansion on a beautiful and secluded spot, atop a mountain in the countryside midway between Confluence and Gorman. The Kimmels, who were in the mall-developing business, owned most of the mountain upon which their palace perched.

Steve was preoccupied because he was working on a girl. She was sixteen, only three years younger than he, and her name was Beth Ann Varner. Beth Ann was a knockout, a real looker, and Steve desperately wanted to screw her.

He'd just screwed his steady girlfriend that afternoon, in the Jacuzzi upstairs, but that didn't matter. Steve was itching to do it again, to do it as many times as possible, to do it with as many different girls as he could.

As far as he was concerned, Steve was in the catbird seat of life. His family was loaded, so he knew that he would never have to worry about money. His career was guaranteed; his father was grooming him for an upper-level management position at the Kimmel Corporation, a job into which he could slide as soon as he graduated from Penn State University in two years. His girlfriend, Suzanne, was putting out regularly, and he could get as much s*x on the side as he could handle. He had no worries whatsoever.

Rarely was Steve unhappy; never was he denied his heart's desires. He could do no wrong in his parents' eyes; he was handsome, intelligent, charming, athletic, and fun-loving.

Though he would never admit it, Steve was also selfish, conceited, abusive, irresponsible, and manipulative. He didn't care about anyone or anything but himself, and he let his p***s do most of his thinking for him. Instant gratification was the name of his game, and he played that game with consummate skill.

As always, the game consumed all of his attention tonight. He was wholly focused on removing Beth Ann's slacks and then screwing her furiously.

Maybe, if he'd known that he was being watched, Steve wouldn't have been so concerned about Beth Ann's slacks. Chances are, if he could have seen the man lurking in the tree line around the vast back yard, Steve would have been thinking about something other than screwing.

If Steve could have read the man's mind, he would have completely forgotten about s*x. He would have bolted from the long, cushioned lounge, run into the house, and locked every door. Most likely, he wouldn't even have bothered to make sure that Beth Ann was safely inside with him.

If only he could have peeked at the man's thoughts, Steve would never again have set foot outside the house.

As it was, though, he not only couldn't read the man's mind, he didn't even know he was there. Steve felt absolutely secure, completely unworried, and extremely horny.

Already, he'd managed to open Beth Ann's blouse and unlatch the clasp at the front of her bra. As he went to work on her breasts, he knew that it wouldn't be long until he hit paydirt. Though some girls offered a token resistance, Beth Ann had been responding enthusiastically to his every advance. Unlike other girls, she'd been eager from the very beginning, brazenly petting him and even talking dirty to him. He could tell that she'd screwed before, and that he would have no trouble at all in getting her to do it again. She would be easy, as easy as pie.

Other than the man hiding in the trees, no one was observing Steve's hungry maneuvers. His sister, Jeannie, who was about the same age as Beth Ann, was out running around somewhere; his parents were asleep upstairs.

If Steve's mom and dad had known about the man in the woods, they would have raced downstairs in their nightclothes and dragged their son indoors.

The man in the woods watched as Steve got Beth Ann out of her slacks. He had a tough decision to make.

He had to decide what would be the most satisfying method of killing Steve Kimmel.

At the moment, strangulation was the front-runner, with stabbing a close second; shooting was out of the question, for bullets would be unjustly quick and merciful. Whenever the man finally got around to killing Steve, he wanted to do it slowly, to prolong the victim's agony. He wanted to do it in an intimate fashion, with his own two hands, in order to feel the gratifying suffering in all of its fullness. He wanted to experience the miracle of Steve's death, marvel at its beauty, revel in each nuance.

He wanted Steve Kimmel to die horribly, because Steve had helped to ruin him. In a way, Steve would be responsible for his own death: he'd hastened the run of a tragic fate and now the final product of that fate would hasten his end.

But not tonight. Tonight, the man in the woods was only observing, wetting his whistle for the main event. He was working up an appetite, stoking the flames of his already considerable hatred. He was reconnoitering, taking the measure of the Kimmel estate, memorizing details, preparing a plan of attack. When execution time arrived, he had to be ready, had to know the best way to reach his quarry and work his magic.

Execution time would arrive very soon...not tonight, not soon enough, but very soon. The man in the woods wanted to do it immediately, of course, wanted to just rush over and wring Steve's neck like a sponge. He would like nothing better than to murder Kimmel now, but he had to hold back, forcibly restrain himself. The killing would have to take place when Steve's parents weren't home, when Steve was alone and defenseless. The deed couldn't be hurried; it had to be savored and performed with exquisite care. It was the chance of a lifetime, and he couldn't afford to botch it because of mistakes bred from haste.

Though he yearned to do it tonight, he forced himself to wait. He contented himself with imagining the murder, and remembering the glory of the first killing. Debby Miller had died so beautifully, and the very thought of her death filled him with delight and reverence.

The man watched as Steve mounted his latest conquest on the porch. He watched as the bodies flexed and jostled, but he took no voyeuristic pleasure from the sight. Hatred was the only emotion which rose in his mind, a hatred which intensified with every passing moment.

By the time Steve stopped humping, the man was gone. Steve had never even known that he was there.