Rickard dumped his kit in the boat, the dart gun stripped down now and having finished with the delivery driver’s uniform. Both would be sunk to the bottom of the bay when he traveled to Trenton. His sidearm was holstered in his shoulder rig because he wouldn’t need it for what he now planned. From a holder on his belt, he pulled out a small ceramic object with a switch on the side. He slid the switch, baring three inches of razor-sharp ceramic blade. When security measures would detect a gun or other metal weapon, Rickard counted on the undetectable ceramic knife to keep him armed.

“It’s not a machete, but it will do,” he said to the unresponsive woman.

When mutilating the others, he’d employed various tools on them: guns, knives, a machete, even a meat cleaver to decapitate one of his victims, but the intimacy that the small ceramic knife brought gave him the most satisfaction. He’d last used the knife on Jessica Case and her father. If he checked he was pretty sure that he would find traces of their blood caught in the mechanism.

He jabbed a hypodermic syringe in Imogen’s arm and depressed the plunger. Then he held the knife ready because her return to wakefulness would be almost instantaneous.

He watched her eyelids flicker, then her head snapped up and she was staring directly at the blade of the knife. A siren song began to rise in her throat. Prepared for this, Rickard jammed a wadded rag into her mouth.

“Spit it out and I’ll have to gag you in a different way. I’ll cut out your tongue.”

She shuddered, pulling against the cuffs. Her right shoulder was twisted painfully toward him. It wasn’t for her comfort that he reached out and stood her upright again. He wanted a good view of her. Taking hold of the neckline of her top, he sliced down with the knife. The ceramic blade was sharper than any steel and it parted the material like he was slicing a sheet of paper.

“Nice-looking body,” he noted. “You keep yourself fit and toned. That’s good.”

Behind the gag, Imogen yelled something, but her words were just a garbled shriek.

“That was supposed to be a compliment,” Rickard said.

He slid the knife under the front of her bra, snicked through the elastic band and exposed her breasts. Imogen yelled again and kicked out at him with both feet, one at a time like she was climbing a steep flight of stairs. One foot caught him sharply on his shin, but the other missed entirely as he skipped out of the way. Imogen twisted her head to follow him and he could see the veins thrumming in her throat like harp strings.