Page 20 of The Grave Artist
Standing within a line of boxwood and topiary in Hollywood’s expansive Cedar Hills Cemetery, Damon Garr noticed a teenage girl. Damn if she didn’t look like his very first kill.
Eerie.
A sign, he would have thought, if Damon had believed in signs.
Which he did not.
Still, it was too curious a coincidence to pass by.
And, more important, the sight had ignited the urge to create a Tableau, his word for his masterpieces—scenarios that were horrific to ordinary people, but brilliant works of art to him. They were visual feasts designed to evoke powerful emotions, as all truly great things did.
He leaned forward, watching her closely as she stood beside a young man who appeared to be her brother due to the resemblance. They were not particularly upset to be at the funeral and, judging by the ages of those present, Damon guessed it was a grandfather or great-uncle or the like who was no longer among the living.
She looked just like Sarah Anne Taylor.
ThelateSarah Anne Taylor.
Damon glanced at his watch.
The Brock funeral party would soon arrive for Anthony’s memorial but until then he had some time to kill ... Yes, he actually thoughtthe terrible play on words (Miss Spalding always said he had a wicked sense of humor).
He had parked a safe distance away from the cemetery, a half mile north on the far side of a city park, and had walked here via a camera-free jogging path, to the grounds’ utility entrance, where the staff came and went, as well as the heavy equipment and the occasional coffins that did not arrive via hearse through the front gate.
No cameras there either.
He studied the girl again. About thirteen, wearing a black short-hemmed dress and black tights, younger than Sarah, but the facial structure and hair and figure were similar.
Eerie . . .
From time to time she would step away from her brother and send a text or two, read the reply.
Each time she seemed to step farther away from the milling mourners, who were waiting for the others to assemble and a ringleader—priest or minister—to arrive.
She’d be completely isolated soon if she kept up her pattern.
Please ... just walk alittlefarther.
His heart thudded harder with anticipation.
A Tableau was in the offing.
This was, of course, Magic Day Four, and though he’d made specific plans for later, they did not preclude a little aperitivo.
With a lovely little thing like her.
Sometimes you just couldn’t pass up a chance opportunity.
What direction should it take? he wondered.
There was always the old standby.
Murder.
Damon Garr had known for a long time that he was born to kill. Brilliant even in early teen years, he researched thisproclivity(the very word he used, at thirteen, no less) to kill. He learned of the Macdonald triad. This was a psychological profile used to identify potential serialkillers, who often exhibited a cluster of three childhood behaviors: bed-wetting, committing arson and hurting animals.
The famed triad was not conclusive, of course, but Damon refrained from acting out on the latter two, concerned about drawing a counselor’s or doctor’s attention. As for the wet sheets, Miss Spalding took care of those and never told a soul.
There was also medical proof of his pathology. This came out as a result of his extracurricular activities at school. He was arrogant and impatient and tended to bait bullies. He held back when fighting—his lust to kill might carry him away—but his size and ferocity resulted in some severely injured students.
