“No. Not long at all.” I walked up behind her and put one hand in my pocket. Pressing the button on my homemade stun gun, I gave it a few seconds to charge before pulling it out. The wires hit her skin with the soft blue pop of electricity. Her body jolted and collapsed to the floor, stiff-legged. I grabbed her ankles and dragged her down the stairwell into the basement, her body thudding on the old wooden steps. I dragged her into place and rolled her onto her side. Zip ties secured her hands behind her back. Another set bound her ankles. I connected both with a fat nylon rope to the water pipe that ran through the wall and down into the basement. Its foundation was solid. I’d already checked. She wouldn’t be able to pull it loose.

As her body stopped twitching, I slapped a long piece of duct tape over her mouth. Even on this bombed-out block, a woman screaming was bound to attract attention. I couldn’t have that.

I’d been watching this building for weeks and felt reasonably certain no one would be tempted to use it for anything. Even the crack addicts recognized the structural risks. But to be on the safe side, I rigged a trip wire and an explosive surprise on the basement stairwell. If anyone went down into the cellar—kaboom—no witnesses.

“I’ll be back.” I went outside. I’d let her marinate in fear for a few days, like an alligator stuffs large prey under a submerged log to soften underwater. Consistency was important, as was sticking as closely as possible to my plan. Plus, I’d prefer the effects of the stun gun to wear off before I killed her. This time, I wanted the culmination of my plan to be less of a disappointment and more of a proper climax.

CHAPTER 5

5

It was eleven o’clock before Conor ducked his head under the shower spray. Lathering up, he examined his black-and-blue fingers. A hard hour on the heavy bag this morning hadn’t helped his bruised knuckles, even in heavy boxing gloves.

But the gym had been exactly what his soul had needed. There were no TVs at his gym. No fancy cardio machines. Just the thump of mitts on pads, the yelling of trainers, the grunts of physical exertion, broken up with the occasional metallic clang of weights stacked on a barbell. Conor’s gym was full of hard-core fighters, and it was perfect for working out his frustrations—or punishing himself. No more fighting for him though. It was a young man’s sport, and Conor had seen too many boxers with permanent brain damage. A human skull could only take so much abuse.