He’d been strolling the main street, savoring his options, when he’d seen the young man. He wasn’t the first actor to walk past. He wasn’t the biggest. But the young man tweaked a memory of sitting in a dentist’s office, flipping through an entertainment magazine. He’d been in there, this pretty-boy actor with the ridiculously spelled name. A chill of delicious déjà vu ran through him. Jaxson, model turned forgettable actor. Sharon Tate, model turned forgettable actress. Perfect.

He’d watched the young man, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, clean-shaven and polite, stepping aside for others, apologizing when he bumped a passerby, never disappointed when the object of his courtesy didn’t leap up and ask for an autograph.

Better and better. The portrait of Sharon Tate painted in Helter Skelter was of a good, sweet-natured girl, the antithesis of the spoiled starlet. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn’t, but it mattered little how someone really behaved, only how she was remembered.

He thought about the page in his pocket. A court scene. No mention of Tate. Too bad…or maybe not. Think of all the overeducated experts he’d rob of a paycheck if he was too obvious. He could see them now, pale-faced professors scrabbling over their stacks of books. A jolt of excitement in flatlined lives. Who was he to take that from them?

Tagging along behind a group of chattering retirees, he followed Jaxson to the edge of a conservation area. As the seniors stopped to snap photos, Jaxson’s light gray sweatshirt disappeared down a wooded path and he had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing out loud. If he believed in ESP, he’d almost think that somehow he’d sent out signals, directing Jaxson to the best possible spot for a kill. The strong mind dominating the weak.

He allowed himself a brief smile, broke away from the tour group and headed into the woods.

In the beginning, there was a plan. And it was a good plan. But it wasn’t very interesting. It wasn’t supposed to be interesting. But, to his surprise, after all these years, the act of killing came with a rush of power, a charge of adrenaline, an excitement that bordered on the sexual. It was as astonishing as waking one morning and getting a hard-on from brushing your teeth.

Jaxson’s pale shirt flashed between trees, appearing and disappearing like a lighthouse beacon in a storm. He kept his eyes trained on his target, ears mapping its path when that shirt slipped from view. Undergrowth crunched steadily under the young man’s footfalls, and the birds quieted as he approached.

Time to get closer.