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from his mouth, too loud in the sudden, death-shrouded stillness. |
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Dickey stared into Chris's eyes, and Chris held his breath, waiting for death. He squinted, trying to decipher the identity of the murderer, but the night and the baseball hat on Dickey's head showered the youth's face with shifting shadows. Chris could see nothing beyond the glint of eyes, then the flash of a smile. "Close your eyes, little boy. Listen to the tiger's roar and dream of better things." |
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Chris frowned. What was he talking about? |
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"Dickey, if you're gonna do it, do it. Quit yappin'." |
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"Shut up. Killing someone like this calls for a little ceremony. I think I'll use that line with all my victims. A little ritual. I like rituals." |
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Nausea threatened Chris. The guy was insanea cold-blooded killer who talked about ceremonies and rituals over the dead bodies of his victims. |
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A siren wailed in the distance. The gunman's gaze flicked in the direction of the sound, then focused once more on Chris. The threat in his eyes strengthened. Chris focused his gaze on the hand holding the gun. The finger on the trigger tightened. Chris bit his lip and closed his eyes as he'd been told. The fear that had choked his throat left him. He would go to his parents now. Everything would be all right once more. |
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"What the hell's goin' on out here?" |
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The voice came from the pizza parlor at the end of the street. The gun exploded. Chris flinched, but no pain followed. A small sob escaped his throat. |
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"Listen for the tiger, little man. He always comes back." |
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